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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/295-0.txt b/295-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3403e3a --- /dev/null +++ b/295-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5330 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, +Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, Part 1 (of 10) + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Posting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #295] +Release Date: July, 1995 +[Last Updated: August 22, 2017] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss + + + + + + + + + +THE EARLY SHORT FICTION OF EDITH WHARTON + +By Edith Wharton + +A Ten-Volume Collection + +Volume One + + + +Contents of Volume One + + Stories + KERFOL.........................March 1916 + MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW............July 1891 + THE BOLTED DOOR................March 1909 + THE DILETTANTE.................December 1903 + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND.....August 1904 + + +The following works not included in the present eBook: + + Verse + THE PARTING DAY................February 1880 + AEROPAGUS......................March 1880 + A FAILURE......................April 1880 + PATIENCE.......................April 1880 + WANTS..........................May 1880 + THE LAST GIUSTIANINI...........October 1889 + EURYALUS.......................December 1889 + HAPPINESS......................December 1889 + + + Bibliography + + EDITH WHARTON BIBLIOGRAPHY: + SHORT STORIES AND POEMS........Judy Boss + + + + + +KERFOL + +As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, March 1916 + + + + +I + + +“You ought to buy it,” said my host; “it’s just the place for a +solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to +own the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are dead +broke, and it’s going for a song--you ought to buy it.” + +It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friend +Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociable +exterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I took +his hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoring +over to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road +on a heath, and said: “First turn to the right and second to the left. +Then straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, +don’t ask your way. They don’t understand French, and they would pretend +they did and mix you up. I’ll be back for you here by sunset--and don’t +forget the tombs in the chapel.” + +I followed Lanrivain’s directions with the hesitation occasioned by the +usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn +to the right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met a +peasant I should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray; +but I had the desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the right +turn and walked on across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so +unlike any other avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must +be THE avenue. The grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great +height and then interwove their pale-grey branches in a long tunnel +through which the autumn light fell faintly. I know most trees by name, +but I haven’t to this day been able to decide what those trees were. +They had the tall curve of elms, the tenuity of poplars, the ashen +colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they stretched ahead of me for +half a mile or more without a break in their arch. If ever I saw an +avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was the avenue at Kerfol. +My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it. + +Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall. +Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other grey +avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossed +with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with +wild shrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had been +replaced by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood +for a long time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and +letting the influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: “If I wait +long enough, the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs--” and I +rather hoped he wouldn’t turn up too soon. + +I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, it +struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blind +house looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. It +may have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of my +gesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a +brake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto +the grass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, +of littleness, of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my +cigarette-smoke into the face of such a past. + +I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol--I was new to Brittany, and +Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before--but +one couldn’t as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a +long accumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared to +guess: perhaps only the sheer weight of many associated lives and deaths +which gives a kind of majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of +Kerfol suggested something more--a perspective of stern and cruel +memories stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of +darkness. + +Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with the +present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to the +sky, it might have been its own funeral monument. “Tombs in the chapel? +The whole place is a tomb!” I reflected. I hoped more and more that the +guardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking, +would seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and I +wanted only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + +“It’s the very place for you!” Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by +the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that +Kerfol was the place for him. “Is it possible that any one could NOT +see--?” I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was +undefinable. I stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning +to want to know more; not to SEE more--I was by now so sure it was not +a question of seeing--but to feel more: feel all the place had to +communicate. “But to get in one will have to rout out the keeper,” I +thought reluctantly, and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and +tried the iron gate. It yielded, and I walked under the tunnel formed +by the thickness of the chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a wooden +barricade had been laid across the entrance, and beyond it I saw a court +enclosed in noble architecture. The main building faced me; and I now +discovered that one half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows +through which the wild growths of the moat and the trees of the park +were visible. The rest of the house was still in its robust beauty. One +end abutted on the round tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, +and in an angle of the building stood a graceful well-head adorned +with mossy urns. A few roses grew against the walls, and on an upper +window-sill I remember noticing a pot of fuchsias. + +My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my +architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire +to explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering in +which corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier +and went in. As I did so, a little dog barred my way. He was such a +remarkably beautiful little dog that for a moment he made me forget +the splendid place he was defending. I was not sure of his breed at the +time, but have since learned that it was Chinese, and that he was of +a rare variety called the “Sleeve-dog.” He was very small and golden +brown, with large brown eyes and a ruffled throat: he looked rather +like a large tawny chrysanthemum. I said to myself: “These little beasts +always snap and scream, and somebody will be out in a minute.” + +The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: there +was anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came no +nearer. Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticed +that another dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up. “There’ll +be a hubbub now,” I thought; for at the same moment a third dog, a +long-haired white mongrel, slipped out of a doorway and joined the +others. All three stood looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound +came from them. As I advanced they continued to fall back on muffled +paws, still watching me. “At a given point, they’ll all charge at my +ankles: it’s one of the dodges that dogs who live together put up on +one,” I thought. I was not much alarmed, for they were neither large +nor formidable. But they let me wander about the court as I pleased, +following me at a little distance--always the same distance--and always +keeping their eyes on me. Presently I looked across at the ruined +facade, and saw that in one of its window-frames another dog stood: a +large white pointer with one brown ear. He was an old grave dog, much +more experienced than the others; and he seemed to be observing me with +a deeper intentness. + +“I’ll hear from HIM,” I said to myself; but he stood in the empty +window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch me +without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense +that he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the +court lay between us, and we stared at each other silently across it. +But he did not stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the +rest of the pack, with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with +pale agate-coloured eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression +was more timid than that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little +behind them. And still there was not a sound. + +I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me--waiting, as +they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown +dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The +little dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me--he simply +slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me. +“Oh, hang it!” I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the +well. + +As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners +of the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or +two, and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the +chapel. When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared +except the old pointer, who still watched me from the empty +window-frame. It was rather a relief to be rid of that cloud of +witnesses; and I began to look about me for a way to the back of the +house. “Perhaps there’ll be somebody in the garden,” I thought. I found +a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall smothered in brambles, and +got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and geraniums pined in the +flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on them indifferently. +Its garden side was plainer and severer than the other: the long +granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked like +a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some +disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and +incredibly old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to +slip through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a +box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the +avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and +springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy +top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking +down into the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was +in sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in the +thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged again into +the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden-brown one a little +ahead of the others, the black greyhound shivering in the rear. + +“Oh, hang it--you uncomfortable beasts, you!” I exclaimed, my voice +startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me. +I knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approaching +the house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had a +feeling that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet +they did not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and +they were not thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if +they had lived a long time with people who never spoke to them or looked +at them: as though the silence of the place had gradually benumbed their +busy inquisitive natures. And this strange passivity, this almost human +lassitude, seemed to me sadder than the misery of starved and beaten +animals. I should have liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax them +into a game or a scamper; but the longer I looked into their fixed and +weary eyes the more preposterous the idea became. With the windows of +that house looking down on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? +The dogs knew better: THEY knew what the house would tolerate and what +it would not. I even fancied that they knew what was passing through +my mind, and pitied me for my frivolity. But even that feeling probably +reached them through a thick fog of listlessness. I had an idea that +their distance from me was as nothing to my remoteness from them. In the +last analysis, the impression they produced was that of having in common +one memory so deep and dark that nothing that had happened since was +worth either a growl or a wag. + +“I say,” I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, “do +you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if you’d +seen a ghost--that’s how you look! I wonder if there IS a ghost here, +and nobody but you left for it to appear to?” The dogs continued to gaze +at me without moving... + + +It was dark when I saw Lanrivain’s motor lamps at the cross-roads--and I +wasn’t exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped from +the loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness--to +that degree--as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had brought +his solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a fat +and affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol... + +But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in the +study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room. + +“Well--are you going to buy Kerfol?” she asked, tilting up her gay chin +from her embroidery. + +“I haven’t decided yet. The fact is, I couldn’t get into the house,” I +said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back for +another look. + +“You couldn’t get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell the +place, and the old guardian has orders--” + +“Very likely. But the old guardian wasn’t there.” + +“What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter--?” + +“There was nobody about. At least I saw no one.” + +“How extraordinary! Literally nobody?” + +“Nobody but a lot of dogs--a whole pack of them--who seemed to have the +place to themselves.” + +Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and folded her +hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully. + +“A pack of dogs--you SAW them?” + +“Saw them? I saw nothing else!” + +“How many?” She dropped her voice a little. “I’ve always wondered--” + +I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar +to her. “Have you never been to Kerfol?” I asked. + +“Oh, yes: often. But never on that day.” + +“What day?” + +“I’d quite forgotten--and so had Herve, I’m sure. If we’d remembered, we +never should have sent you today--but then, after all, one doesn’t half +believe that sort of thing, does one?” + +“What sort of thing?” I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the +level of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: “I KNEW there was something...” + +Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. +“Didn’t Herve tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixed +up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of +them are rather unpleasant.” + +“Yes--but those dogs?” I insisted. + +“Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say +there’s one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that +day the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. The +women in Brittany drink dreadfully.” She stooped to match a silk; then +she lifted her charming inquisitive Parisian face: “Did you REALLY see a +lot of dogs? There isn’t one at Kerfol,” she said. + + + + +II + + +Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the back +of an upper shelf of his library. + +“Yes--here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes +of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about a +hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account +is transcribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, it’s +queer reading. And there’s a Herve de Lanrivain mixed up in it--not +exactly MY style, as you’ll see. But then he’s only a collateral. Here, +take the book up to bed with you. I don’t exactly remember the details; +but after you’ve read it I’ll bet anything you’ll leave your light +burning all night!” + +I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it was +chiefly because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. The +account of the trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol, +was long and closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably an +almost literal transcription of what took place in the court-room; +and the trial lasted nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was +detestable... + +At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But it +is full of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are +forever straying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle +it, and give it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have +reverted to the text because no other words could have conveyed so +exactly the sense of what I felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added +anything of my own. + + + + +III + + +It was in the year 16-- that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain of +Kerfol, went to the pardon of Locronan to perform his religious duties. +He was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year, but +hale and sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So all +his neighbours attested. In appearance he seems to have been short +and broad, with a swarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a +hanging nose and broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married +young and lost his wife and son soon after, and since then had lived +alone at Kerfol. Twice a year he went to Morlaix, where he had a +handsome house by the river, and spent a week or ten days there; and +occasionally he rode to Rennes on business. Witnesses were found to +declare that during these absences he led a life different from the one +he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he busied himself with his estate, +attended mass daily, and found his only amusement in hunting the wild +boar and water-fowl. But these rumours are not particularly +relevant, and it is certain that among people of his own class in the +neighbourhood he passed for a stern and even austere man, observant of +his religious obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. There was +no talk of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though at that +time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some people said +he had never looked at a woman since his wife’s death; but such things +are hard to prove, and the evidence on this point was not worth much. + +Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the pardon at +Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden over +pillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Anne +de Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less +great and powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father had +squandered his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in his +little granite manor on the moors... I have said I would add nothing of +my own to this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt +myself here to describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate +of Locronan at the very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also +dismounting there. I take my description from a rather rare thing: a +faded drawing in red crayon, sober and truthful enough to be by a late +pupil of the Clouets, which hangs in Lanrivain’s study, and is said to +be a portrait of Anne de Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of +identity but the initials A. B., and the date 16--, the year after her +marriage. It represents a young woman with a small oval face, almost +pointed, yet wide enough for a full mouth with a tender depression at +the corners. The nose is small, and the eyebrows are set rather high, +far apart, and as lightly pencilled as the eyebrows in a Chinese +painting. The forehead is high and serious, and the hair, which one +feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and lying close like +a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel probably, with a look +at once shy and steady. A pair of beautiful long hands are crossed below +the lady’s breast... + +The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baron +came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to be +instantly saddled, called to a young page come with him, and rode away +that same evening to the south. His steward followed the next morning +with coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following week Yves de +Cornault rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and +told them he was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of +Douarnenez. And on All Saints’ Day the marriage took place. + +As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that +they passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves +de Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that +he was content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplain +and other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had a +softening influence on her husband, and that he became less exacting +with his tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and less +subject to the fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. +As to his wife, the only grievance her champions could call up in her +behalf was that Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband was +away on business at Rennes or Morlaix--whither she was never taken--she +was not allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no +one asserted that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she +had surprised her crying, and had heard her say that she was a woman +accursed to have no child, and nothing in life to call her own. But +that was a natural enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and +certainly it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that +she gave him no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as a +reproach--she herself admits this in her evidence--but seemed to try to +make her forget it by showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though +he was, he had never been open-handed; but nothing was too fine for +his wife, in the way of silks or gems or linen, or whatever else she +fancied. Every wandering merchant was welcome at Kerfol, and when the +master was called away he never came back without bringing his wife +a handsome present--something curious and particular--from Morlaix or +Rennes or Quimper. One of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, +an interesting list of one year’s gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a +carved ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had +brought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarte, above +Ploumanac’h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of +the Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that opened and showed an +amber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length +of Damascus velvet shot with gold, bought of a Jew from Syria; and for +Michaelmas that same year, from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round +stones--emeralds and pearls and rubies--strung like beads on a gold +wire. This was the present that pleased the lady best, the woman said. +Later on, as it happened, it was produced at the trial, and appears to +have struck the Judges and the public as a curious and valuable jewel. + +The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far +as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder +and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up +to Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by +the fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a +velvet box in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the +lid and let out a little golden-brown dog. + +Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded +toward her. “Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!” she cried as she +picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at +her with eyes “like a Christian’s.” After that she would never have +it out of her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been a +child--as indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know. +Yves de Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been +brought to him by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the +sailor had bought it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen +it from a nobleman’s wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do, +since the pilgrim was a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed to +hellfire. Yves de Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for they +were beginning to be in demand at the French court, and the sailor knew +he had got hold of a good thing; but Anne’s pleasure was so great that, +to see her laugh and play with the little animal, her husband would +doubtless have given twice the sum. + + +So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; +but now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly as +possible to Anne’s own statements; though toward the end, poor thing... + +Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was brought +to Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the +head of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife’s rooms to +a door opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave the +alarm, so distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror--for his blood +was all over her--that at first the roused household could not make out +what she was saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, +sure enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and +head foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the steps +below him. He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face +and throat, as if with a dull weapon; and one of his legs had a deep +tear in it which had cut an artery, and probably caused his death. But +how did he come there, and who had murdered him? + +His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing +his cry had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this was +immediately questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from her +room she could not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to the +thickness of the walls and the length of the intervening passage; then +it was evident that she had not been in bed and asleep, since she was +dressed when she roused the house, and her bed had not been slept in. +Moreover, the door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in +the lock; and it was noticed by the chaplain (an observant man) that the +dress she wore was stained with blood about the knees, and that there +were traces of small blood-stained hands low down on the staircase +walls, so that it was conjectured that she had really been at the +postern-door when her husband fell and, feeling her way up to him in the +darkness on her hands and knees, had been stained by his blood dripping +down on her. Of course it was argued on the other side that the +blood-marks on her dress might have been caused by her kneeling down by +her husband when she rushed out of her room; but there was the open door +below, and the fact that the fingermarks in the staircase all pointed +upward. + +The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite of +its improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her that +Herve de Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had been +arrested for complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereupon +came forward to say that it was known throughout the country that +Lanrivain had formerly been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; but +that he had been absent from Brittany for over a year, and people had +ceased to associate their names. The witnesses who made this statement +were not of a very reputable sort. One was an old herb-gatherer +suspected of witch-craft, another a drunken clerk from a neighbouring +parish, the third a half-witted shepherd who could be made to say +anything; and it was clear that the prosecution was not satisfied +with its case, and would have liked to find more definite proof of +Lanrivain’s complicity than the statement of the herb-gatherer, who +swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the park on the night of +the murder. One way of patching out incomplete proofs in those days was +to put some sort of pressure, moral or physical, on the accused person. +It is not clear what pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; but on the +third day, when she was brought into court, she “appeared weak and +wandering,” and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak +the truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she +confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with Herve +de Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been surprised there by +the sound of her husband’s fall. That was better; and the prosecution +rubbed its hands with satisfaction. The satisfaction increased when +various dependents living at Kerfol were induced to say--with apparent +sincerity--that during the year or two preceding his death their master +had once more grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the fits +of brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before his +second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not been going well +at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say that there had been any +signs of open disagreement between husband and wife. + +Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down at +night to open the door to Herve de Lanrivain, made an answer which must +have sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she was +lonely and wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason? +she was asked; and replied: “Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships’ +heads.” “But why at midnight?” the court asked. “Because I could see him +in no other way.” I can see the exchange of glances across the ermine +collars under the Crucifix. + +Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life had +been extremely lonely: “desolate” was the word she used. It was true +that her husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days +when he did not speak at all. It was true that he had never struck or +threatened her; but he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when he +rode away to Morlaix or Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on +her that she could not pick a flower in the garden without having a +waiting-woman at her heels. “I am no Queen, to need such honours,” she +once said to him; and he had answered that a man who has a treasure does +not leave the key in the lock when he goes out. “Then take me with you,” + she urged; but to this he said that towns were pernicious places, and +young wives better off at their own firesides. + +“But what did you want to say to Herve de Lanrivain?” the court asked; +and she answered: “To ask him to take me away.” + +“Ah--you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts?” + +“No.” + +“Then why did you want him to take you away?” + +“Because I was afraid for my life.” + +“Of whom were you afraid?” + +“Of my husband.” + +“Why were you afraid of your husband?” + +“Because he had strangled my little dog.” + +Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days when any +nobleman had a right to hang his peasants--and most of them exercised +it--pinching a pet animal’s wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss about. + +At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certain +sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed to +explain herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the following +statement. + +The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had +not been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have been +unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much. + +It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, +brought her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make up +for the loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the little +brown dog from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Her +husband seemed pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave her +leave to put her jewelled bracelet around its neck, and to keep it +always with her. + +One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, as +his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly she +was waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly. + +“You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in the +chapel with her feet on a little dog,” he said. + +The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered: +“Well, when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, with +my dog at my feet.” + +“Oho--we’ll wait and see,” he said, laughing also, but with his black +brows close together. “The dog is the emblem of fidelity.” + +“And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?” + +“When I’m in doubt I find out,” he answered. “I am an old man,” he +added, “and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear you +shall have your monument if you earn it.” + +“And I swear to be faithful,” she returned, “if only for the sake of +having my little dog at my feet.” + +Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and while +he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, came +to spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the pardon of Ste. Barbe. She +was a woman of great piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves +de Cornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe +no one could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of +the pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the first +time she talked with Herve de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice to +Kerfol with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen words +with him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was under +the chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: +“I pity you,” and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any +one thought her an object of pity. He added: “Call for me when you need +me,” and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought often +of the meeting. + +She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How +or where she would not say--one had the impression that she feared to +implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at the +last he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreign +country, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him for +many months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none +to give him but the collar about the little dog’s neck. She was sorry +afterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she +had not had the courage to refuse. + +Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later +he picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its collar was +missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth +of the park, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. +It was true, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids +search for the necklet--they all believed the dog had lost it in the +park... + +Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in his +usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talked +a good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now +and then he stopped and looked hard at her; and when she went to bed she +found her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was +dead, but still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned to +horror when she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twice +round its throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + +The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid the +necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later, +and he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged for +stealing a faggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to death +a young horse he was breaking. + +Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one by +one; and she heard nothing of Herve de Lanrivain. It might be that +her husband had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of the +necklet. Day after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, night +after night alone on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes at +table her husband looked across at her and smiled; and then she felt +sure that Lanrivain was dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for +she was sure her husband would find out if she did: she had an idea +that he could find out anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted +seer, and could show you the whole world in her crystal, came to the +castle for a night’s shelter, and the maids flocked to her, Anne held +back. The winter was long and black and rainy. One day, in Yves +de Cornault’s absence, some gypsies came to Kerfol with a troop of +performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and cleverest, a white dog +with a feathery coat and one blue and one brown eye. It seemed to have +been ill-treated by the gypsies, and clung to her plaintively when she +took it from them. That evening her husband came back, and when she went +to bed she found the dog strangled on her pillow. + +After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog; +but one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining at +the castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak of +him to her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggled +food to him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and petted +him like a child. + +Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhound +strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, and +resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would never +bring him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, a +brindled puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snow +of the park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog +in, warmed and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till +her husband’s return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman +who lived a long way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say +nothing; but that night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, +and when she opened it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped up +on her with little sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the next +morning was about to have him taken back to the peasant woman when she +heard her husband ride into the court. She shut the dog in a chest and +went down to receive him. An hour or two later, when she returned to her +room, the puppy lay strangled on her pillow... + +After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her loneliness +became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of +the castle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the old +pointer at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husband +came out of the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone... + +This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, or +received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain that +the Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help the +accused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; but +what did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that his +wife, to gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. +As for pleading this trivial disagreement as an excuse for her +relations--whatever their nature--with her supposed accomplice, the +argument was so absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having +let her make use of it, and tried several times to cut short her story. +But she went on to the end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, as +though the scenes she evoked were so real to her that she had forgotten +where she was and imagined herself to be re-living them. + +At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to her +said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozing +colleagues): “Then you would have us believe that you murdered your +husband because he would not let you keep a pet dog?” + +“I did not murder my husband.” + +“Who did, then? Herve de Lanrivain?” + +“No.” + +“Who then? Can you tell us?” + +“Yes, I can tell you. The dogs--” At that point she was carried out of +the court in a swoon. + + . . . . . . . . + +It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line +of defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed +convincing when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first +private colloquy; but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of +judicial scrutiny, and the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed +of it, and would have sacrificed her without a scruple to save his +professional reputation. But the obstinate Judge--who perhaps, after +all, was more inquisitive than kindly--evidently wanted to hear +the story out, and she was ordered, the next day, to continue her +deposition. + +She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing +particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: +she did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar +woman came to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had +no heart for trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made +their choice. And then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her +into buying for herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent +in it--she had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had +no desire for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The +pedlar said that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; +but she did not really believe that, or care much either. However, she +bought the thing and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it +about in her hand. Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to +wonder what kind of spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey +bean rolled in a strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she +knew, and a message from Herve de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home +again and would be at the door in the court that night after the moon +had set... + +She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and +her husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and +there was nothing to do but to wait... + +At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even +to the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic +relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message +at night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no +means of sending a warning... + +She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her +cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, +too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to +the traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had +a strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because +he chose to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any +rate--she was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was +no feeling for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed +dishonour. + +At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the +evening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to +his room. His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back +word that he was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, +when Anne lifted the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his +loud regular breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a +long time barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the +breathing went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a +man in a sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in +the window watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky +was misty and starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch +black. She knew the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her +husband’s door--where she stopped again to listen to his breathing--to +the top of the stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself +that no one was following her; then she began to go down the stairs in +the darkness. They were so steep and winding that she had to go very +slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door +unbolted, tell Lanrivain to make his escape, and hasten back to her +room. She had tried the bolt earlier in the evening, and managed to put +a little grease on it; but nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a +squeak... not loud, but it made her heart stop; and the next minute, +overhead, she heard a noise... + +“What noise?” the prosecution interposed. + +“My husband’s voice calling out my name and cursing me.” + +“What did you hear after that?” + +“A terrible scream and a fall.” + +“Where was Herve de Lanrivain at this time?” + +“He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the +darkness. I told him for God’s sake to go, and then I pushed the door +shut.” + +“What did you do next?” + +“I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.” + +“What did you hear?” + +“I heard dogs snarling and panting.” (Visible discouragement of the +bench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the +defense. Dogs again--! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.) + +“What dogs?” + +She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her +answer: “I don’t know.” + +“How do you mean--you don’t know?” + +“I don’t know what dogs...” + +The Judge again intervened: “Try to tell us exactly what happened. How +long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?” + +“Only a few minutes.” + +“And what was going on meanwhile overhead?” + +“The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I +think he moaned once. Then he was quiet.” + +“Then what happened?” + +“Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown +to them--gulping and lapping.” + +(There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and +another attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the +inquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.) + +“And all the while you did not go up?” + +“Yes--I went up then--to drive them off.” + +“The dogs?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well--?” + +“When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband’s flint and +steel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.” + +“And the dogs?” + +“The dogs were gone.” + +“Gone--where to?” + +“I don’t know. There was no way out--and there were no dogs at Kerfol.” + +She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her +head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a +moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard +to say: “This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities”--and +the prisoner’s lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion. + +After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and +squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault’s +statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several +months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was +no denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been +long and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead man’s wounds. +One of the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like +bites. The suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing +lawyers hurled tomes of necromancy at each other. + +At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court--at the instance of +the same Judge--and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of could +have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did not. +Then the Judge put his final question: “If the dogs you think you heard +had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them by +their barking?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you recognize them?” + +“Yes.” + +“What dogs do you take them to have been?” + +“My dead dogs,” she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, +not to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical +investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed +with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de +Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband’s family, +who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died +many years later, a harmless madwoman. + +So ends her story. As for that of Herve de Lanrivain, I had only to +apply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The +evidence against the young man being insufficient, and his family +influence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon +afterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and +he appears to have come almost immediately under the influence of the +famous M. Arnauld d’Andilly and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or +two later he was received into their Order, and without achieving any +particular distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till his +death some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by +a pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a +narrow brow. Poor Herve de Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as +I looked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the dark dress of the +Jansenists, I almost found myself envying his fate. After all, in the +course of his life two great things had happened to him: he had loved +romantically, and he must have talked with Pascal... + +The End + + + + + +MRS. MANSTEY’S VIEW + +As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, July, 1891 + + + +The view from Mrs. Manstey’s window was not a striking one, but to her +at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the +back room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street +where the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the +pavement would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a +clerk in a large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for +her only daughter had married in California, and could not afford the +long journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might +have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many +years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each other’s +society, and their intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of +a few perfunctory letters, written with indifference by the daughter, +and with difficulty by Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing +stiff with gout. Even had she felt a stronger desire for her daughter’s +companionship, Mrs. Manstey’s increasing infirmity, which caused her to +dread the three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would +have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey; and +without perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since accepted +as a matter of course her solitary life in New York. + +She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now +and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. +Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husband’s +lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many +years she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a +hen-house and a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving +only in the breast of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness +for plants and animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her +cling so fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the +most optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover anything +admirable. + +Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting +bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking +bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, +however, she could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in +the topmost boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how +early each year the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with +hearts of pink. + +But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part +attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness +and fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments +and frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to +admire in the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, +indeed, but stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and +no shade in spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the +clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, +the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the +broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed +her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of +the prospect before her. + +In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white +flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little +way down the line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of +wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff +and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite +yard June was sweet with the breath of a neglected syringa, which +persisted in growing in spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its +welfare. + +But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey’s view, there was +much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the +houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored +curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor’s window opposite; but +she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks +washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often +show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in +sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; +she knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly +painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the +stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Manstey’s warmest sympathies were given. +On one occasion her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, +who for two days forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the +third day, Mrs. Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a +letter, beginning: “Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has +been fed,” when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of +seed in her hand. + +But in Mrs. Manstey’s more meditative moods it was the narrowing +perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at +twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the +fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip +to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her mind’s eye to a pale +phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at +heart Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at all events she was sensible of many +changes of color unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the +green of early spring was the black lattice of branches against a cold +sulphur sky at the close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny +thaws of March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like +ink-spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better +still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced the +clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain interest +the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and missed a detail +in the landscape when the factory was closed and the smoke disappeared. + +Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not +idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view +surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her +rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the +contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain +green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn +into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor’s anecdotes +about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey’s real friends were the +denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, +the maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his +mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was +the church-spire floating in the sunset. + +One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside +and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the +door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not +care for her landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike +resignation. To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from +the blue sky and the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampson’s unsuggestive +face, and Mrs. Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + +“The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson,” she +remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the +absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not +likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of +expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she +wished to. + +“The what, Mrs. Manstey?” inquired the landlady, glancing about the room +as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey’s statement. + +“The magnolia in the next yard--in Mrs. Black’s yard,” Mrs. Manstey +repeated. + +“Is it, indeed? I didn’t know there was a magnolia there,” said Mrs. +Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that +there was a magnolia in the next yard! + +“By the way,” Mrs. Sampson continued, “speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me +that the work on the extension is to begin next week.” + +“The what?” it was Mrs. Manstey’s turn to ask. + +“The extension,” said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of +the ignored magnolia. “You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to +build an extension to her house? Yes, ma’am. I hear it is to run right +back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in +these hard times I don’t see; but she always was crazy about building. +She used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly +ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should +have thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess it’s a +disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday.” + +Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady +did not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: +“Do you know how high the extension will be?” + +“That’s the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right +up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?” + +Mrs. Manstey paused again. “Won’t it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. +Sampson?” she asked. + +“I should say it would. But there’s no help for it; if people have got +a mind to build extensions there’s no law to prevent ’em, that I’m aware +of.” Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. “There is no help for it,” + Mrs. Sampson repeated, “but if I AM a church member, I wouldn’t be so +sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I’m glad +to find you so comfortable.” + +So comfortable--so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned +once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky +with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus +had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, +the magnolia flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in +alabaster. Soon the wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but +not for her. Between her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar +would swiftly rise; presently even the spire would disappear, and all +her radiant world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the +dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the window +until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she +lay sleepless all night. + +Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but +even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm--and then +the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that +the ailanthus was growing dusty. + +“Of course I might move,” said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the +window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might +she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. +The room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was +as much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. +She knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the +light fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown +shabby on their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window +and knew which way to lean to the sun. “We are all too old to move,” she +said. + +That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared +through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the +flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the +building of the extension was to begin. + +On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged +in gathering up the fragments of the boarders’ dinner in the basement. +The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey’s name. + +“One of Mrs. Sampson’s boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can +give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah,” said Mrs. Black, +“tell the lady I’ll be upstairs in a minute.” + +Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with +statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down. + +Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, +Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + +“I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please,” the landlady +remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to +build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down. + +“Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?” Mrs. Black continued. “My +house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and--” + +“It is about the extension that I wish to speak,” said Mrs. Manstey, +suddenly. “I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a +happy one. I shall have to talk about myself first to--to make you +understand.” + +Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis. + +“I never had what I wanted,” Mrs. Manstey continued. “It was always one +disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. +I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was +no sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter +married years ago and went away--besides, she never cared for the same +things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen +years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampson’s, and I have been there ever +since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don’t get +out often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can +understand my sitting a great deal in my window--the back window on the +third floor--” + +“Well, Mrs. Manstey,” said Mrs. Black, liberally, “I could give you a +back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex--” + +“But I don’t want to move; I can’t move,” said Mrs. Manstey, almost with +a scream. “And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I +shall have no view from my window--no view! Do you understand?” + +Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had +always heard that lunatics must be humored. + +“Dear me, dear me,” she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, +“that is too bad, isn’t it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, +the extension WILL interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey.” + +“You do understand?” Mrs. Manstey gasped. + +“Of course I do. And I’m real sorry about it, too. But there, don’t you +worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right.” + +Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door. + +“What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to +change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I +have two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could +manage, to give you a thousand if--” Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were +rolling down her cheeks. + +“There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don’t you worry,” repeated Mrs. Black, +soothingly. “I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I can’t stay +and talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with +supper to get--” + +Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized +her wrist. + +“You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you +accept my proposition?” + +“Why, I’ll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldn’t +annoy you for the world--” + +“But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told,” Mrs. Manstey persisted. + +Mrs. Black hesitated. “It shan’t begin, I promise you that; I’ll send +word to the builder this very night.” Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. + +“You are not deceiving me, are you?” she said. + +“No--no,” stammered Mrs. Black. “How can you think such a thing of me, +Mrs. Manstey?” + +Slowly Mrs. Manstey’s clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open +door. “One thousand dollars,” she repeated, pausing in the hall; then +she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting +herself on the cast-iron railing. + +“My goodness,” exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, +“I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and +ladylike, too.” + +Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was +awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what +haste she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black’s yard was full of +workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, +others beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which +adorned each story of Mrs. Black’s house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had +been deceived. At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. +Sampson, but a settled discouragement soon took possession of her and +she went back to bed, not caring to see what was going on. + +Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she +rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were +stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her. + +When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen +had removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had +multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated +face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the +ground; the next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in +passing. + +“Look out, Jim,” called one of the men to another who was smoking a +pipe, “if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper you’ll +have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it.” And Mrs. +Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were several barrels of +paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony. + +At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and +a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the +west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, +in her usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled +and lit it with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a +zinc-covered shelf in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it +assumed its usual peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants +seemed, like their mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet +evening, and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the +table and began to knit. + +That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind +was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey +rose once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing +was discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These +lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their +extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she +merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her +head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the +kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her +pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, +and a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, +led by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the +bottom of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter +darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, +as there was less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she +contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of +cold wind smote her as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the +clothes-lines. + +That morning at three o’clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to +Mrs. Black’s door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson’s startled boarders to +their windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black’s house was +ablaze, and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. +Manstey, leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + +The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the +house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that +little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and +smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. +Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not +unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an +open window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she +was very ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor’s verdict +would be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson’s table +were awestruck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. +Manstey well; she “kept to herself,” as they said, and seemed to fancy +herself too good for them; but then it is always disagreeable to have +anyone dying in the house and, as one lady observed to another: “It +might just as well have been you or me, my dear.” + +But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, +lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. +Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. +Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All +day she said nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter’s address +she shook her head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be +listening attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she +dozed. + +The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. +Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move. + +“Lift me up--out of bed,” she whispered. + +They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to +the window. + +“Oh, the window--she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit there +all day,” Mrs. Sampson explained. “It can do her no harm, I suppose?” + +“Nothing matters now,” said the nurse. + +They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The +dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught +a golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in +shadow. In Mrs. Black’s yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the +balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire +the builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a +few more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + +It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more +difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not +understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating +ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was +there--the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to +blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the +sun. + +Mrs. Manstey’s head fell back and smiling she died. + +That day the building of the extension was resumed. + +The End + + + + + +THE BOLTED DOOR + +As first published in Scribner’s Magazine, March 1909 + + + + +I + + +Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, +paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + +Three minutes to eight. + +In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of +Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of +the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual--the +suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the +door-bell would be the beginning of the end--after that there’d be no +going back, by God--no going back! + +Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room +opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror +above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon--saw +himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but +furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by +a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted +him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + +As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door +opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it +was only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy +surface of the old Turkey rug. + +“Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he’s unexpectedly detained and can’t +be here till eight-thirty.” + +Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and +harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing +to the servant over his shoulder: “Very good. Put off dinner.” + +Down his spine he felt the man’s injured stare. Mr. Granice had always +been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change in his manner +had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very likely +they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table till he +heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, propping +his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + +Another half hour alone with it! + +He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some +professional matter, no doubt--the punctilious lawyer would have allowed +nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more especially +since Granice, in his note, had said: “I shall want a little business +chat afterward.” + +But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional +hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, +after all, Granice’s note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt +Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. +Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice +had been perpetually tinkering with his will. + +Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow +temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks +earlier, at the Century Club. “Yes--my play’s as good as taken. I shall +be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical chaps +are so slippery--I won’t trust anybody but you to tie the knot for me!” + That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice, +at the idea, broke into an audible laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like +the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the +unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his lips +angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + +He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the +writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound +in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been +slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a +moment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from +under the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do +so from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on +that letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + +It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of “The +Diversity Theatre.” + + +“MY DEAR MR. GRANICE: + +“I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, +and it’s no use--the play won’t do. I have talked it over with Miss +Melrose--and you know there isn’t a gamer artist on our stage--and I +regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn’t the poetry +that scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can to help +along the poetic drama--we believe the public’s ready for it, and we’re +willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give +them what they want. BUT WE DON’T BELIEVE THEY COULD BE MADE TO +WANT THIS. The fact is, there isn’t enough drama in your play to the +allowance of poetry--the thing drags all through. You’ve got a big idea, +but it’s not out of swaddling clothes. + +“If this was your first play I’d say: TRY AGAIN. But it has been just +the same with all the others you’ve shown me. And you remember the +result of ‘The Lee Shore,’ where you carried all the expenses of +production yourself, and we couldn’t fill the theatre for a week. Yet +‘The Lee Shore’ was a modern problem play--much easier to swing than +blank verse. It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds--” + +Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. +Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by +heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand +out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + +“IT HAS BEEN JUST THE SAME WITH ALL THE OTHERS YOU’VE SHOWN ME.” + +That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting +work! + +“YOU REMEMBER THE RESULT OF ‘THE LEE SHORE.’” + +Good God--as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now in a +drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve +to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his +inheritance on testing his chance of success--the fever of preparation, +the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, the stupid +press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his +friends! + +“IT ISN’T AS IF YOU HADN’T TRIED ALL KINDS.” + +No--he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light +curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the +lyrical-romantic--finally deciding that he would no longer “prostitute +his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own +theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had +offered them everything--and always with the same result. + +Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The +ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his life! And if +one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, +preparation--then call it half a man’s life-time: half a man’s life-time +thrown away! + +And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled +that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten +minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy +rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for +Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion +as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more +to be alone.... But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn’t +he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole +business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this +nightmare of living? + +He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a +small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give +himself a “hypodermic” with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while +with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, +between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he +had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and +lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand +that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself +to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly +nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of +the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his +forehead and ran down his quivering face... + +He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a +cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and +temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that way. His +attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He +couldn’t make himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life +he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + +The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for +his delay. + +“I didn’t like to say anything while your man was about--but the fact +is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--” + +“Oh, it’s all right,” said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to +feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any +recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal +into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social +gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + +“My dear fellow, it’s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially +the production of an artist like yours.” Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy +luxuriously. “But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.” + +Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment +he was shaken out of his self-absorption. + +“MRS. ASHGROVE?” + +Ascham smiled. “I thought you’d be interested; I know your passion for +causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it’s out of our +line entirely--we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to consult +me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife’s. And, by +Jove, it IS a queer case!” The servant re-entered, and Ascham snapped +his lips shut. + +Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + +“No--serve it in the library,” said Granice, rising. He led the way back +to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what +Ascham had to tell him. + +While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the +library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes and +bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline +caught his eye. + + + “ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO + PLAY POETRY. + “THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER + POET.” + + +He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author he +had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance +before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was +true, then--she WAS “game”--it was not the manner but the matter she +mistrusted! + +Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I +shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.” + +He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, +Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the +way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice +suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + +As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward +to take a light from Ascham’s cigar. + +“Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak +stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + +“Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to TELL.” + +“And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled. + +“Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her +choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our +talk.” + +“And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?” + +“My impression is, very distinctly, THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BE KNOWN.” + +“Ah--?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + +“I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his +business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital +cigar you’ve given me.” + +“You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own +reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals +never ARE caught?” + +“Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen +years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer +ruminated behind his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own +family: I’d forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph +Lenman’s murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?” + +As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about +the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale +unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was +as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat +slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain +the Lenman murder myself.” + +Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases. + +“By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never +mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the +Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a +help.” + +Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in +which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were +to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes +and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless +routine of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another +day--displaced his fleeting vision. + +“I haven’t a theory. I KNOW who murdered Joseph Lenman.” + +Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + +“You KNOW? Well, who did?” he laughed. + +“I did,” said Granice, rising. + +He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then +he broke into another laugh. + +“Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, +I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me +all about it! Confession is good for the soul.” + +Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from +his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.” + +The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham +did not laugh. + +“Granice!” + +“I murdered him--to get his money, as you say.” + +There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of +amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + +“What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.” + +“It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken +painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time +he repeated the words he found they were easier to say. + +Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + +“What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?” + +“I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want +it known that I murdered him.” + +“YOU WANT IT KNOWN?” + +“Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to +kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in +his throat had been untied. + +“Good Lord--good Lord,” the lawyer gasped. + +“But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be +murder in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?” + +Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice. +Let’s talk.” + + + + +II + + +Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + +He began by a quick survey of his early years--the years of drudgery and +privation. His father, a charming man who could never say “no,” had so +signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he +died he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful +kin found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to +support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at +eighteen in a broker’s office. He loathed his work, and he was always +poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother +died, but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his +hands. His own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, +and work harder than ever when he came back. He had no knack for +business, no head for figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of +commerce. He wanted to travel and write--those were his inmost longings. +And as the years dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making +any more money, or acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed +him. He tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired +that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not reach his +dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only “brush up” for dinner, +and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned +through the evening paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; +or he dined out, or, more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or +two in quest of what is known as “pleasure.” And in summer, when he +and Kate went to the sea-side for a month, he dozed through the days in +utter weariness. Once he fell in love with a charming girl--but what had +he to offer her, in God’s name? She seemed to like him, and in common +decency he had to drop out of the running. Apparently no one +replaced him, for she never married, but grew stoutish, grayish, +philanthropic--yet how sweet she had been when he had first kissed her! +One more wasted life, he reflected... + +But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his +soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was IN HIM--he could +not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the +years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession--yet with every +year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt +himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the +process in his sister’s wasted face. At eighteen she had been +pretty, and as full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, +insignificant--she had missed her chance of life. And she had no +resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive +functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It exasperated him +to think of it--and to reflect that even now a little travel, a +little health, a little money, might transform her, make her young and +desirable... The chief fruit of his experience was that there is no such +fixed state as age or youth--there is only health as against sickness, +wealth as against poverty; and age or youth as the outcome of the lot +one draws. + +At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean +against the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from +his seat, or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + +“Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old +Lenman--my mother’s cousin, as you know. Some of the family always +mounted guard over him--generally a niece or so. But that year they were +all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if +we’d relieve her of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of +course, for Wrenfield is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a +slave to family observances, had always been good to the old man, so it +was natural we should be called on--and there was the saving of rent and +the good air for Kate. So we went. + +“You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or +some primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan’s microscope. He was +large, undifferentiated, inert--since I could remember him he had +done nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, +and cultivate melons--that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door +melons--his were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield--his +big kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of +green-houses. And in nearly all of them melons were grown--early melons +and late, French, English, domestic--dwarf melons and monsters: every +shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children--a +staff of trained attendants waited on them. I’m not sure they didn’t +have a doctor to take their temperature--at any rate the place was full +of thermometers. And they didn’t sprawl on the ground like ordinary +melons; they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each +melon hung in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all +sides to the sun and air... + +“It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of +his own melons--the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic +and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated +atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of +his existence was not to let himself be ‘worried.’... I remember his +advising me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate’s +bad health, and her need of a change. ‘I never let myself worry,’ he +said complacently. ‘It’s the worst thing for the liver--and you look to +me as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You’ll make +yourself happier and others too.’ And all he had to do was to write a +cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + +“The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. +The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. +But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate’s--and one could +picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us waiting. +I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to him. + +“Well, I tried to see if I couldn’t reach him through his vanity. I +flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was +taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was +driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, +prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. +When he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of +a hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the +resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn’t eat as much as +a mouthful of his melons--had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. +‘But, after all, it’s my only hobby--why shouldn’t I indulge it?’ he +said sentimentally. As if I’d ever been able to indulge any of mine! On +the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + +“One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag +herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon +with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon--a day to +lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one’s eyes on the sky, and let the +cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested +by the fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph’s hideous black walnut +library, I passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated +Italian, who dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. +I remember thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen +about the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + +“Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his +fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the +Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon--the +fattest melon I’d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy +of contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated +myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask +him a favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm +as an egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without stopping to +greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + +“‘Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such +firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?’ It was +as if he had said ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ and when he put out his senile +hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + +“Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had +been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though it was against +my cousin’s principles to employ a Papist--had been assigned to the care +of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its existence, as +destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest +sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and +celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done +well--seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning +he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at +the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its blonde +virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned scoundrelly Jesuit +done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp spout of a watering-pot, +so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale rotundity, and was +henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + +“The old man’s rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook, spluttered +and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had sacked +him on the spot, without wages or character--had threatened to have him +arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. ‘By God, and +I’ll do it--I’ll write to Washington--I’ll have the pauper scoundrel +deported! I’ll show him what money can do!’ As likely as not there was +some murderous Black-hand business under it--it would be found that the +fellow was a member of a ‘gang.’ Those Italians would murder you for a +quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And then he grew +frightened at his own excitement. ‘But I must calm myself,’ he said. He +took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the Churchman. +He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon was +brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an +hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the +fallen melon. + +“All the while one phrase of the old man’s buzzed in my brain like the +fly about the melon. ‘I’LL SHOW HIM WHAT MONEY CAN DO!’ Good heaven! +If I could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of +giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried +to tell him something about my situation and Kate’s--spoke of my +ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make +myself a name--I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. ‘I can guarantee +to repay you, sir--I’ve a half-written play as security...’ + +“I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as +an egg-shell again--his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels +over a slippery rampart. + +“‘A half-written play--a play of YOURS as security?’ He looked at me +almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. ‘Do +you understand anything of business?’ he enquired mildly. I laughed and +answered: ‘No, not much.’ + +“He leaned back with closed lids. ‘All this excitement has been too much +for me,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for my nap.’ And I +stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.” + +Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray +set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of +soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham’s dead cigar. + +“Better light another,” he suggested. + +The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told +of his mounting obsession--how the murderous impulse had waked in him on +the instant of his cousin’s refusal, and he had muttered to himself: +“By God, if you won’t, I’ll make you.” He spoke more tranquilly as the +narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve +to act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how +the old man was to be “disposed of.” Suddenly he remembered the outcry: +“Those Italians will murder you for a quarter!” But no definite project +presented itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + +Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of +the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of +the old man’s condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, +on getting home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The +Italian had been there again--had somehow slipped into the house, +made his way up to the library, and “used threatening language.” The +house-keeper found cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing +“something awful.” The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; +and the police had ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + +But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had “nerves,” and lost his +taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and +the consultation amused and excited the old man--he became once more +an important figure. The medical men reassured the family--too +completely!--and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: +advised him to take whatever “tempted him.” And so one day, tremulously, +prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up +with ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a +hovering cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + +“But you remember the circumstances,” Granice went on; “how suspicion +turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given +him he had been seen hanging about the house since ‘the scene.’ It was +said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest +seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the +explanation he was gone--gone clean out of sight. He had been ‘warned’ +to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that no one +ever laid eyes on him again.” + +Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer’s, and +he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar +room. Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange +insistent object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + +“It was I who put the stuff in the melon,” he said. “And I don’t want +you to think I’m sorry for it. This isn’t ‘remorse,’ understand. I’m +glad the old skin-flint is dead--I’m glad the others have their money. +But mine’s no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. +And I’ve never had what I wanted.” + +Ascham continued to stare; then he said: “What on earth was your object, +then?” + +“Why, to GET what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I wanted +change, rest, LIFE, for both of us--wanted, above all, for myself, the +chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to +tie myself up to my work. And I’ve slaved at it steadily for ten years +without reward--without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will +look at my stuff. And now I’m fifty, and I’m beaten, and I know it.” + His chin dropped forward on his breast. “I want to chuck the whole +business,” he ended. + + + + +III + + +It was after midnight when Ascham left. + +His hand on Granice’s shoulder, as he turned to go--“District Attorney +be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!” he had cried; and so, with an +exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + +Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that +Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, +elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail--but without +once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer’s eye. + +At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced--but that, as Granice now +perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into +contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly +met and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask +suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: “By Jove, Granice you’ll +write a successful play yet. The way you’ve worked this all out is a +marvel.” + +Granice swung about furiously--that last sneer about the play inflamed +him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + +“I did it, I did it,” he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself +against the impenetrable surface of the other’s mockery; and Ascham +answered with a smile: “Ever read any of those books on hallucination? +I’ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two +if you like...” + + +Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. +He understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + +“Good God--what if they all think me crazy?” + +The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat--he sat there and +shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began +to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how +incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would +believe him. + +“That’s the trouble--Ascham’s not a criminal lawyer. And then he’s a +friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe +me, he’d never let me see it--his instinct would be to cover the whole +thing up... But in that case--if he DID believe me--he might think it +a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...” Granice began to tremble +again. “Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert--one of those +damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything--their word always +goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I’d better be shut up, I’ll be in a +strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he’d do it from the kindest motives--be +quite right to do it if he thinks I’m a murderer!” + +The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting +temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had +not believed his story. + +“But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer eye he +cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I do?” + +He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham +should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with +him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the +morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and +the movement started a new train of association. + +He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his +chair. + +“Give me three-o-ten... yes.” + +The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would +act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself +to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through +the meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like +coming out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One +of the queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced +by these momentary lulls. + +“That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... +Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight +home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? It’s rather +urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate ‘copy.’... All right!” He +hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call +up the editor of the Investigator--Robert Denver was the very man he +needed... + +Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the automatic +gestures persisted!--went into the hall, put on his hat and overcoat, +and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator boy +blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice +passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a +crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare +stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. +But from Denver’s house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as +Granice sprang from his cab the editor’s electric turned the corner. + +The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, +ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + +“Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but +this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old.” + +Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years--watched his rise +through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the +Investigator’s editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling +hair there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, +on his way home in the small hours, used to “bob in” on Granice, while +the latter sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice’s flat +on the way to his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the +window, and Granice’s shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, +and discuss the universe. + +“Well--this is like old times--a good old habit reversed.” The editor +smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the nights +when I used to rout you out... How’s the play, by the way? There IS a +play, I suppose? It’s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: +‘How’s the baby?’” + +Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy +he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice’s tortured nerves, that +the words had not been uttered in malice--and the fact gave him a new +measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been +a failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham’s irony. + +“Come in--come in.” The editor led the way into a small cheerful room, +where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward his +visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + +“Now, then--help yourself. And let’s hear all about it.” + +He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his +cigar, said to himself: “Success makes men comfortable, but it makes +them stupid.” + +Then he turned, and began: “Denver, I want to tell you--” + +The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was +gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them +the editor’s face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once +the hour struck--then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere +grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from +Granice’s forehead. + +“Do you mind if I open the window?” + +“No. It IS stuffy in here. Wait--I’ll do it myself.” Denver pushed +down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. “Well--go on,” he said, +filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + +“There’s no use in my going on if you don’t believe me.” + +The editor remained unmoved. “Who says I don’t believe you? And how can +I tell till you’ve finished?” + +Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. “It was simple enough, as +you’ll see. From the day the old man said to me, ‘Those Italians would +murder you for a quarter,’ I dropped everything and just worked at +my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to +Wrenfield and back in a night--and that led to the idea of a motor. A +motor--that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I +suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I +found what I wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, +and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I +bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those +no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for +family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I +looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a +baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and +back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for I’d done it often with +the same lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is +over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But +my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + +“Well, then came the report about the Italian’s threats, and I saw I +must act at once... I meant to break into the old man’s room, shoot him, +and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. +Then we heard that he was ill--that there’d been a consultation. Perhaps +the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only +be!...” + +Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to +have cooled the room. + +“Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up +from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try +a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her--all Wrenfield +was in a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of +the little French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato--and +the patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + +“In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew +the ways of the house--I was sure the melon would be brought in over +night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the +ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons +didn’t lie around loose in that house--every one was known, numbered, +catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would +eat them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, +I felt pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than +shooting. It would have been the devil and all to get into the old man’s +bedroom without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break +into the pantry without much trouble. + +“It was a cloudy night, too--everything served me. I dined quietly, and +sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to +bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a +sort of disguise--red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them +into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a +half-drunken machinist whom I’d never seen before. That served me, too. +They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn’t even +bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going +place... + +“Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was +out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp +pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard +and ulster. Then away again--it was just eleven-thirty when I got to +Wrenfield. + +“I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped +through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the +dark--I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By +the stable a dog came out growling--but he nosed me out, jumped on me, +and went back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody +went to bed by ten. But there might be a prowling servant--the +kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian. I had to +risk that, of course. I crept around by the back door and hid in the +shrubbery. Then I listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed +over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a +little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I +groped my way to the ice-box, opened it--and there was the little French +melon... only one. + +“I stopped to listen--I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle of +stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. +It was all done inside of three minutes--at ten minutes to twelve I was +back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a +back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was +beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the +beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them +with and they went down plump, like a dead body--and at two o’clock I +was back at my desk.” + +Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his +listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable. + +At length he said: “Why did you want to tell me this?” + +The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had +explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive +had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight +with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand +the subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + +“Why, I--the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...” + +Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + +“Remorse? Bosh!” he said energetically. + +Granice’s heart sank. “You don’t believe in--REMORSE?” + +“Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of +remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put +through such a job.” + +Granice groaned. “Well--I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt +any.” + +Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What +was your motive, then? You must have had one.” + +“I’ll tell you--” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his +failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me this +time... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously as he +ended. + +Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer +things. There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life--the +wonder is that we find so many for staying in!” Granice’s heart grew +light. “Then you DO believe me?” he faltered. + +“Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the +nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes--that’s easy enough, too. But all +that doesn’t make you a murderer--though I don’t say it proves you could +never have been one.” + +“I HAVE been one, Denver--I swear to you.” + +“Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.” + +“Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a +laugh. + +“Well--how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your +sister’s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, +remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn’t the change in your ways +surprise her?” + +“No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in +the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town +for a night or two before--before I did the job.” + +“And that night she went to bed early with a headache?” + +“Yes--blinding. She didn’t know anything when she had that kind. And her +room was at the back of the flat.” + +Denver again meditated. “And when you got back--she didn’t hear you? You +got in without her knowing it?” + +“Yes. I went straight to my work--took it up at the word where I’d left +off--WHY, DENVER, DON’T YOU REMEMBER?” Granice suddenly, passionately +interjected. + +“Remember--?” + +“Yes; how you found me--when you looked in that morning, between two and +three... your usual hour...?” + +“Yes,” the editor nodded. + +Granice gave a short laugh. “In my old coat--with my pipe: looked as if +I’d been working all night, didn’t I? Well, I hadn’t been in my chair +ten minutes!” + +Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I didn’t know +whether YOU remembered that.” + +“What?” + +“My coming in that particular night--or morning.” + +Granice swung round in his chair. “Why, man alive! That’s why I’m here +now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they +looked round to see what all the old man’s heirs had been doing that +night--you who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk +as usual.... I thought THAT would appeal to your journalistic sense if +nothing else would!” + +Denver smiled. “Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible +enough--and the idea’s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who +proved your alibi to establish your guilt.” + +“That’s it--that’s it!” Granice’s laugh had a ring of triumph. + +“Well, but how about the other chap’s testimony--I mean that young +doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don’t you remember my testifying +that I’d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way +to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: ‘All right; you’ll find him +in. I passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the +blind, as usual.’ And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the +way: she corroborated his statement, you remember.” + +“Yes; I remember.” + +“Well, then?” + +“Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old +coats and a cushion--something to cast a shadow on the blind. All +you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours--I +counted on that, and knew you’d take any vague outline as mine.” + +“Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the +shadow move--you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if you’d +fallen asleep.” + +“Yes; and she was right. It DID move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray +must have jolted by the flimsy building--at any rate, something gave my +mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the +table.” + +There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing +heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not +sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than +the law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to +allow for the incalculableness of human impulses. + +“Well?” Granice faltered out. + +Denver stood up with a shrug. “Look here, man--what’s wrong with you? +Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I’d like to take you +to see a chap I know--an ex-prize-fighter--who’s a wonder at pulling +fellows in your state out of their hole--” + +“Oh, oh--” Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed each +other. “You don’t believe me, then?” + +“This yarn--how can I? There wasn’t a flaw in your alibi.” + +“But haven’t I filled it full of them now?” + +Denver shook his head. “I might think so if I hadn’t happened to know +that you WANTED to. There’s the hitch, don’t you see?” + +Granice groaned. “No, I didn’t. You mean my wanting to be found +guilty--?” + +“Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been +worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn’t +do much credit to your ingenuity.” + +Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? +But on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. “Look here, +Denver--I daresay you’re right. But will you do just one thing to prove +it? Put my statement in the Investigator, just as I’ve made it. Ridicule +it as much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it--men +who don’t know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I +don’t care a damn whether YOU believe me--what I want is to convince the +Grand Jury! I oughtn’t to have come to a man who knows me--your cursed +incredulity is infectious. I don’t put my case well, because I know in +advance it’s discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. +That’s why I can’t convince YOU. It’s a vicious circle.” He laid a +hand on Denver’s arm. “Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the +paper.” + +But Denver did not warm to the idea. “My dear fellow, you seem to forget +that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every +possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then +to believe that you murdered old Lenman--you or anybody else. All they +wanted was a murderer--the most improbable would have served. But your +alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you’ve told me has +shaken it.” Denver laid his cool hand over the other’s burning fingers. +“Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case--then come in +and submit it to the Investigator.” + + + + +IV + + +The perspiration was rolling off Granice’s forehead. Every few minutes +he had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his +haggard face. + +For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case +to the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with +Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience +on the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval +between he had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone +forth again at once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the +alienist made it impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it +seemed to him that the only way of averting that hideous peril was by +establishing, in some sane impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even +if he had not been so incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed +now the only alternative to the strait-jacket. + +As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at +his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing +hand. “I don’t expect you to believe me now--but can’t you put me under +arrest, and have the thing looked into?” + +Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy +face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to +keep watch over impulses not strictly professional. + +“Well, I don’t know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I’m +bound to look into your statement--” + +Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn’t +have said that if he hadn’t believed him! + +“That’s all right. Then I needn’t detain you. I can be found at any time +at my apartment.” He gave the address. + +The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. “What do you say to +leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I’m giving a little supper +at Rector’s--quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose--I +think you know her--and a friend or two; and if you’ll join us...” + +Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had +made. + + +He waited for four days--four days of concentrated horror. During the +first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham’s alienist dogged him; and as +that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal +had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had +been going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from +before now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly +enough how little the story had impressed him! + +Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate +himself. He was chained to life--a “prisoner of consciousness.” Where +was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In +the glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited +by a sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable +SELFNESS, keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation +he had ever known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such +intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own +dark windings. Often he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the +feeling that something material was clinging to him, was on his hands +and face, and in his throat--and as his brain cleared he understood that +it was the sense of his own loathed personality that stuck to him like +some thick viscous substance. + +Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of +his window at the awakening activities of the street--at the +street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers +flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of +them--any of them--to take his chance in any of their skins! They were +the toilers--the men whose lot was pitied--the victims wept over and +ranted about by altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have +taken up the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off +his own! But, no--the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each +one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man +rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, +coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled +or poached that morning? + + +On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the +succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He +hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a +moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: +a policeman, a “secret agent,” or some other mysterious emissary of the +law? + +On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! his +master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind an unread +newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + +Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil, “From +the District Attorney’s office.” He started up with a thumping heart, +and signed an assent to the servant. + +Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty--the kind +of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. “Just the +type of the successful detective,” Granice reflected as he shook hands +with his visitor. + +And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. +He had been sent by the District Attorney to have “a quiet talk” with +Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the +Lenman murder. + +His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice’s +self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a man who knew +his business--it would be easy enough to make HIM see through that +ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one +himself--to prove his coolness--began again to tell his story. + +He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever +before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener’s detached, +impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at +least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of +being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time +his words would certainly carry conviction... + + + + +V + + +Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him +stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too +smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man’s nimble glance +followed Granice’s. + +“Sure of the number, are you?” he asked briskly. + +“Oh, yes--it was 104.” + +“Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up--that’s certain.” + +He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick +and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of +tottering tenements and stables. + +“Dead sure?” he repeated. + +“Yes,” said Granice, discouraged. “And even if I hadn’t been, I know the +garage was just opposite Leffler’s over there.” He pointed across the +street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words +“Livery and Boarding” were still faintly discernible. + +The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. “Well, that’s +something--may get a clue there. Leffler’s--same name there, anyhow. You +remember that name?” + +“Yes--distinctly.” + +Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the +interest of the Explorer’s “smartest” reporter. If there were moments +when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it +seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter +McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired +him with an exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the +case at once, “like a leech,” as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled +to it, and settled down to “draw the last drop of fact from it, and +had not let go till he had.” No one else had treated Granice in that +way--even Allonby’s detective had not taken a single note. And though +a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official, +nothing had been heard from the District Attorney’s office: Allonby had +apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasn’t going to drop +it--not he! He positively hung on Granice’s footsteps. They had spent +the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off +again, running down clues. + +But at Leffler’s they got none, after all. Leffler’s was no longer +a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between +sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a +hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a +blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Flood’s garage across +the way--did not even remember what had stood there before the new +flat-house began to rise. + +“Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I’ve seen harder jobs done,” + said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + +As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine +tone: “I’d undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put +me on the track of that cyanide.” + +Granice’s heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt it from +the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was +strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his +rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + +“Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I’m due at the office now. Besides, it’d be +no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up +tomorrow or next day?” + +He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + +Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in +demeanor. + +“Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the +bard says. Can’t get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say +you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?” + +“Yes,” said Granice wearily. + +“Who bought it, do you know?” + +Granice wrinkled his brows. “Why, Flood--yes, Flood himself. I sold it +back to him three months later.” + +“Flood? The devil! And I’ve ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of +business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.” + +Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + +“That brings us back to the poison,” McCarren continued, his note-book +out. “Just go over that again, will you?” + +And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the +time--and he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he +decided on poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured +chemicals; and there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing +business--just the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that +suspicion might turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided +on a more tortuous course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of +medicine whom irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of +his profession, amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the +exercise of which he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the +habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and +the friends generally sat in Venn’s work-shop, at the back of the old +family house in Stuyvesant Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard +of supplies, with its row of deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an +original, a man of restless curious tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, +was often full of visitors: a cheerful crowd of journalists, scribblers, +painters, experimenters in divers forms of expression. Coming and going +among so many, it was easy enough to pass unperceived; and one afternoon +Granice, arriving before Venn had returned home, found himself alone in +the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the cupboard, transferred the +drug to his pocket. + +But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long +since dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the +house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and +the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every +trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren +seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that +direction. + +“And there’s the third door slammed in our faces.” He shut his +note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive +eyes on Granice’s furrowed face. + +“Look here, Mr. Granice--you see the weak spot, don’t you?” + +The other made a despairing motion. “I see so many!” + +“Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want +this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?” + +Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his +quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life +would believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and +Granice racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw +the reporter’s face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + +“Mr. Granice--has the memory of it always haunted you?” + +Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. “That’s it--the +memory of it... always...” + +McCarren nodded vehemently. “Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn’t let you +sleep? The time came when you HAD to make a clean breast of it?” + +“I had to. Can’t you understand?” + +The reporter struck his fist on the table. “God, sir! I don’t suppose +there’s a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can’t +picture the deadly horrors of remorse--” + +The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for +the word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable +motive the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he +said, once one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the +case became so many incentives to effort. + +“Remorse--REMORSE,” he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue with +an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and +Granice, perversely, said to himself: “If I could only have struck that +note I should have been running in six theatres at once.” + +He saw that from that moment McCarren’s professional zeal would be +fanned by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose +that they should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall +or theatre. It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an +object of pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a +kind of gray penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren’s attention on his +case; and to feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately +engrossing game. He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out +the meaningless performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense +of the reporter’s observation. + +Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: +he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every +physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in +his kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren’s +attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing +on his own problem. + +“See that fellow over there--the little dried-up man in the third row, +pulling his moustache? HIS memoirs would be worth publishing,” McCarren +said suddenly in the last entr’acte. + +Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby’s +office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being +shadowed. + +“Caesar, if HE could talk--!” McCarren continued. “Know who he is, of +course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country--” + +Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. +“THAT man--the fourth from the aisle? You’re mistaken. That’s not Dr. +Stell.” + +McCarren laughed. “Well, I guess I’ve been in court enough to know Stell +when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they +plead insanity.” + +A cold shiver ran down Granice’s spine, but he repeated obstinately: +“That’s not Dr. Stell.” + +“Not Stell? Why, man, I KNOW him. Look--here he comes. If it isn’t +Stell, he won’t speak to me.” + +The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared +McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + +“How’do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain’t it?” the reporter +cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of +amicable assent, passed on. + +Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken--the man who +had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: +a physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him +insane, like the others--had regarded his confession as the maundering +of a maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror--he seemed to see +the mad-house gaping for him. + +“Isn’t there a man a good deal like him--a detective named J. B. +Hewson?” + +But he knew in advance what McCarren’s answer would be. “Hewson? J. +B. Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough--I +guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his +name.” + + + + +VI + + +Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District +Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + +But when they were face to face Allonby’s jovial countenance showed +no sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned +across his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + +Granice broke out at once: “That detective you sent me the other day--” + +Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + +“--I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?” + +The other’s face did not lose its composure. “Because I looked up your +story first--and there’s nothing in it.” + +“Nothing in it?” Granice furiously interposed. + +“Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don’t you bring me +proofs? I know you’ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and +to that little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been +able to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?” + +Granice’s lips began to tremble. “Why did you play me that trick?” + +“About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it’s part of my business. Stell +IS a detective, if you come to that--every doctor is.” + +The trembling of Granice’s lips increased, communicating itself in a +long quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry +throat. “Well--and what did he detect?” + +“In you? Oh, he thinks it’s overwork--overwork and too much smoking. If +you look in on him some day at his office he’ll show you the record of +hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. +It’s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the +same.” + +“But, Allonby, I killed that man!” + +The District Attorney’s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an +almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the +call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + +“Sorry, my dear fellow--lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some +morning,” Allonby said, shaking hands. + + +McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the +alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting +time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped +back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to +Allonby he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not +Allonby have deceived him as to the alienist’s diagnosis? What if he +were really being shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? +To have the truth out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + +The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment +to the conditions of their previous meeting. “We have to do that +occasionally, Mr. Granice; it’s one of our methods. And you had given +Allonby a fright.” + +Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to +produce the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last +talk with the physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken +for a symptom of derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell’s +allusion. + +“You think, then, it’s a case of brain-fag--nothing more?” + +“Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a +good deal, don’t you?” + +He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or +any form of diversion that did not--that in short-- + +Granice interrupted him impatiently. “Oh, I loathe all that--and I’m +sick of travelling.” + +“H’m. Then some larger interest--politics, reform, philanthropy? +Something to take you out of yourself.” + +“Yes. I understand,” said Granice wearily. + +“Above all, don’t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,” the +doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + +On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like +his--the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his +guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case +like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a +play: the great alienist who couldn’t read a man’s mind any better than +that! + +Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + +But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness +returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham +he found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been +carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. +Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood +on the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked +himself despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in +the sluggish circle of his consciousness. + +The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh +recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take +it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, +another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire +to establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as +an irresponsible dreamer--even if he had to kill himself in the end, +he would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death +from it. + +He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had +been published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a +brief statement from the District Attorney’s office, and the rest of his +communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged +him to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of +his delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread +the reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the +words he kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. +His inner self became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long +hours reciting and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, +which he constantly retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity +languished under the lack of an audience, the sense of being buried +beneath deepening drifts of indifference. In a passion of resentment he +swore that he would prove himself a murderer, even if he had to commit +another crime to do it; and for a sleepless night or two the thought +flamed red on his darkness. But daylight dispelled it. The determining +impulse was lacking and he hated too promiscuously to choose his +victim... So he was thrown back on the unavailing struggle to impose +the truth of his story. As fast as one channel closed on him he tried to +pierce another through the sliding sands of incredulity. But every issue +seemed blocked, and the whole human race leagued together to cheat one +man of the right to die. + +Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last +shred of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really +the victim of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of +holiday-makers jeering at a poor creature in its blind dashes against +the solid walls of consciousness? But, no--men were not so uniformly +cruel: there were flaws in the close surface of their indifference, +cracks of weakness and pity here and there... + +Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to +persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible +conformities of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce +secret deviation. The general tendency was to take for the whole of life +the slit seen between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that +narrow vista Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to +follow his whole orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would +be easier to convince a chance idler in the street than the trained +intelligence hampered by a sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up +in him with the tropic luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he +began to walk the streets, and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses +and bars in his search for the impartial stranger to whom he should +disclose himself. + +At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he +always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that +his first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, +intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he +sought. He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous +motions of the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence +of the average face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a +beginning--once sitting down at a man’s side in a basement chop-house, +another day approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both +cases the premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His +dread of being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an +unnatural keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and +he had provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, +trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + +He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at +irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, +and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a +world so remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the +mysterious sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one +identity to another--yet the other as unescapably himself! + +One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in +him. Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing +conditions. He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire +which alone attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not +always, of course--he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. +And he could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and +indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull +brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless +millions paused, listened, believed... + +It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side +docks, looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his +eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the +face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and +not till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the +shabby reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that +morning. Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air--certainly he +felt calmer than for many days... + +He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked +up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him--they +were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in +Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + +At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a +votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, +after all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and +he felt tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted +trees, making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a +girl sat alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made +him stop before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a +girl, had hardly looked at the women’s faces as they passed. His case +was man’s work: how could a woman help him? But this girl’s face was +extraordinary--quiet and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a +hundred images of space, distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as +a boy, quietly berthed by a familiar wharf, but with the breath of far +seas and strange harbours in their shrouds... Certainly this girl would +understand. He went up to her quietly, lifting his hat, observing the +forms--wishing her to see at once that he was “a gentleman.” + +“I am a stranger to you,” he began, sitting down beside her, “but your +face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face +I’ve waited for... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you--” + +The girl’s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + +In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by +the arm. + +“Here--wait--listen! Oh, don’t scream, you fool!” he shouted out. + +He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. +Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard +within him was loosened and ran to tears. + +“Ah, you know--you KNOW I’m guilty!” + +He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl’s +frightened face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It +was the policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, +the crowd at his heels... + + + + +VII + + +In the charming place in which he found himself there were so many +sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty +of making himself heard. + +It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested +for murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he +needed rest, and the time to “review” his statements; it appeared that +reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To +this end he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet +establishment, with an open space and trees about it, where he had +found a number of intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged +in preparing or reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to +lend an interested ear to his own recital. + +For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of +this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part +an encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really +brilliant and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his +old doubts. Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had +less power to aid him than they boasted. His interminable conferences +resulted in nothing, and as the benefit of the long rest made itself +felt, it produced an increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction +more and more unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days +visitors from the outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote +out long and logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively +slipped them into the hands of these messengers of hope. + +This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived +only to watch for the visitors’ days, and scan the faces that swept by +him like stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + +Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his +companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, +a kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his “statements” + afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out +into the open seas of life. + +One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, +a pair of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He +sprang up and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + +The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a +startled deprecating, “WHY--?” + +“You didn’t know me? I’m so changed?” Granice faltered, feeling the +rebound of the other’s wonder. + +“Why, no; but you’re looking quieter--smoothed out,” McCarren smiled. + +“Yes: that’s what I’m here for--to rest. And I’ve taken the opportunity +to write out a clearer statement--” + +Granice’s hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from +his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by +a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild +thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + +“Perhaps your friend--he IS your friend?--would glance over it--or I +could put the case in a few words if you have time?” Granice’s voice +shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last +hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the +former glanced at his watch. + +“I’m sorry we can’t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my +friend has an engagement, and we’re rather pressed--” + +Granice continued to proffer the paper. “I’m sorry--I think I could have +explained. But you’ll take this, at any rate?” + +The stranger looked at him gently. “Certainly--I’ll take it.” He had his +hand out. “Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye,” Granice echoed. + +He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light +hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as +they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, +beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement. + + +Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist’s +companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred +windows. + +“So that was Granice?” + +“Yes--that was Granice, poor devil,” said McCarren. + +“Strange case! I suppose there’s never been one just like it? He’s still +absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?” + +“Absolutely. Yes.” + +The stranger reflected. “And there was no conceivable ground for the +idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of +fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you +ever get the least clue to it?” + +McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in +contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze +on his companion. + +“That was the queer part of it. I’ve never spoken of it--but I DID get a +clue.” + +“By Jove! That’s interesting. What was it?” + +McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. “Why--that it wasn’t a +delusion.” + +He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + +“He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest +accident, when I’d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.” + +“He murdered him--murdered his cousin?” + +“Sure as you live. Only don’t split on me. It’s about the queerest +business I ever ran into... DO ABOUT IT? Why, what was I to do? I +couldn’t hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they +collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!” + +The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice’s statement in +his hand. + +“Here--take this; it makes me sick,” he said abruptly, thrusting the +paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to +the gates. + +The End + + + + + +THE DILETTANTE + +As first published in Harper’s Monthly, December 1903 + + +It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself +advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned +as usual into Mrs. Vervain’s street. + +The “as usual” was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way +of bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that lay +between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he +instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from +the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending +it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved +dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over +his call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that +episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the +talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, +he had felt the dilettante’s irresistible craving to take a last look at +a work of art that was passing out of his possession. + +On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpected +than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things for +granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that she +owed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale had +made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, of +telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. +The latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a +picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: +it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered +with the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the +privilege of loving her is one of the least favors that a charming woman +can accord; and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had +developed a science of evasion in which the woman of the moment became +a mere implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment +to the cultivation of this art. The perils from which it had been his +refuge became naively harmless: was it possible that he who now took his +easy way along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights +of emotion? Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the satisfaction +of feeling that he had entered earlier than most into that chiar’oscuro +of sensation where every half-tone has its value. + +As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable +to Mrs. Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray their +feelings, but he had never before had such fine material to work in. She +had been surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of making +the most awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly +undressing her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline +of his reticences and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and +perhaps more remarkable in that it involved keeping time with any tune +he played and reading at sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + +It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but the +result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had been +perfect: her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he had +announced his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed a +difficulty; a deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent, +it was agreed to see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence +in the completeness of his method. It had been his pride never to put +himself in a position which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back +door; but here, as he perceived, the main portals would have opened +for him of their own accord. All this, and much more, he read in the +finished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He +had never seen a better piece of work: there was no over-eagerness, +no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her art the grace of a +natural quality) there were none of those damnable implications whereby +a woman, in welcoming her friend’s betrothed, may keep him on pins +and needles while she laps the lady in complacency. So masterly a +performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset of Miss Gaynor’s door-step +words--“To be so kind to me, how she must have liked you!”--though he +caught himself wishing it lay within the bounds of fitness to transmit +them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who was unfailingly +certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps the one drawback to +his new situation that it might develop good things which it would be +impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. + +The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend’s +powers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his +distrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her +street instead of going on to the club. He would show her that he knew +how to value her; he would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely +rarer and more delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. +Incidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of time before +dinner: ever since he had seen Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her +return journey to Buffalo, he had been wondering how he should put in +the rest of the afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed the girl.... +Yes, that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at the +bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, if you +like--but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could recall the time +when he had been afraid of being obvious: now he felt that this return +to the primitive emotions might be as restorative as a holiday in +the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by the girl’s candor, her +directness, her lack of complications, that he was taken. The sense that +she might say something rash at any moment was positively exhilarating: +if she had thrown her arms about him at the station he would not have +given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It surprised Thursdale to find +what freshness of heart he brought to the adventure; and though his +sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness to any conscious +purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that his sentimental economies +had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. + +Mrs. Vervain was at home--as usual. When one visits the cemetery one +expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as +another proof of his friend’s good taste that she had been in no undue +haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on his +coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though +there had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once +enveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. +Vervain imparted to her very furniture. + +It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. +Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + +“You?” she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. + +It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The +difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale’s balance. + +“Why not?” he said, restoring the book. “Isn’t it my hour?” And as she +made no answer, he added gently, “Unless it’s some one else’s?” + +She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. “Mine, merely,” + she said. + +“I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re unwilling to share it?” + +“With you? By no means. You’re welcome to my last crust.” + +He looked at her reproachfully. “Do you call this the last?” + +She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. “It’s a way of +giving it more flavor!” + +He returned the smile. “A visit to you doesn’t need such condiments.” + +She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. + +“Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste,” she +confessed. + +Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into the +imprudence of saying, “Why should you want it to be different from what +was always so perfectly right?” + +She hesitated. “Doesn’t the fact that it’s the last constitute a +difference?” + +“The last--my last visit to you?” + +“Oh, metaphorically, I mean--there’s a break in the continuity.” + +Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already! + +“I don’t recognize it,” he said. “Unless you make me--” he added, with a +note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. + +She turned to him with grave eyes. “You recognize no difference +whatever?” + +“None--except an added link in the chain.” + +“An added link?” + +“In having one more thing to like you for--your letting Miss Gaynor +see why I had already so many.” He flattered himself that this turn had +taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + +Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. “Was it that you came for?” + she asked, almost gaily. + +“If it is necessary to have a reason--that was one.” + +“To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?” + +“To tell you how she talks about you.” + +“That will be very interesting--especially if you have seen her since +her second visit to me.” + +“Her second visit?” Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and +moved to another. “She came to see you again?” + +“This morning, yes--by appointment.” + +He continued to look at her blankly. “You sent for her?” + +“I didn’t have to--she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt you +have seen her since.” + +Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his +thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. “I saw her off +just now at the station.” + +“And she didn’t tell you that she had been here again?” + +“There was hardly time, I suppose--there were people about--” he +floundered. + +“Ah, she’ll write, then.” + +He regained his composure. “Of course she’ll write: very often, I hope. +You know I’m absurdly in love,” he cried audaciously. + +She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the +chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a +pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. “Oh, my poor Thursdale!” + she murmured. + +“I suppose it’s rather ridiculous,” he owned; and as she remained +silent, he added, with a sudden break--“Or have you another reason for +pitying me?” + +Her answer was another question. “Have you been back to your rooms since +you left her?” + +“Since I left her at the station? I came straight here.” + +“Ah, yes--you COULD: there was no reason--” Her words passed into a +silent musing. + +Thursdale moved nervously nearer. “You said you had something to tell +me?” + +“Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your +rooms.” + +“A letter? What do you mean? A letter from HER? What has happened?” + +His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. “Nothing +has happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always HATED, +you know,” she added incoherently, “to have things happen: you never +would let them.” + +“And now--?” + +“Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To +know if anything had happened.” + +“Had happened?” He gazed at her slowly. “Between you and me?” he said +with a rush of light. + +The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them +that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. + +“You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are +you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?” + +His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. + +Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: “I supposed it might have struck you +that there were times when we presented that appearance.” + +He made an impatient gesture. “A man’s past is his own!” + +“Perhaps--it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. But +one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is naturally +inexperienced.” + +“Of course--but--supposing her act a natural one--” he floundered +lamentably among his innuendoes--“I still don’t see--how there was +anything--” + +“Anything to take hold of? There wasn’t--” + +“Well, then--?” escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did not +complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: “She can hardly +object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!” + +“But she does,” said Mrs. Vervain. + +Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no trace of +jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear the candid +ring of the girl’s praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an abyss of +insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, she must at +least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. +The situation seemed one through which one could no longer move in a +penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the direct query: “Won’t +you explain what you mean?” + +Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong his +distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it +was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was +the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she had +lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted, +that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. + +At last she said slowly: “She came to find out if you were really free.” + +Thursdale colored again. “Free?” he stammered, with a sense of physical +disgust at contact with such crassness. + +“Yes--if I had quite done with you.” She smiled in recovered security. +“It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for definitions.” + +“Yes--well?” he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + +“Well--and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she wanted +me to define MY status--to know exactly where I had stood all along.” + +Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. +“And even when you had told her that--” + +“Even when I had told her that I had HAD no status--that I had +never stood anywhere, in any sense she meant,” said Mrs. Vervain, +slowly--“even then she wasn’t satisfied, it seems.” + +He uttered an uneasy exclamation. “She didn’t believe you, you mean?” + +“I mean that she DID believe me: too thoroughly.” + +“Well, then--in God’s name, what did she want?” + +“Something more--those were the words she used.” + +“Something more? Between--between you and me? Is it a conundrum?” He +laughed awkwardly. + +“Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbidden to +contemplate the relation of the sexes.” + +“So it seems!” he commented. “But since, in this case, there wasn’t +any--” he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. + +“That’s just it. The unpardonable offence has been--in our not +offending.” + +He flung himself down despairingly. “I give it up!--What did you tell +her?” he burst out with sudden crudeness. + +“The exact truth. If I had only known,” she broke off with a beseeching +tenderness, “won’t you believe that I would still have lied for you?” + +“Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?” + +“To save you--to hide you from her to the last! As I’ve hidden you from +myself all these years!” She stood up with a sudden tragic import in +her movement. “You believe me capable of that, don’t you? If I had only +guessed--but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth out +of me with a spring.” + +“The truth that you and I had never--” + +“Had never--never in all these years! Oh, she knew why--she measured us +both in a flash. She didn’t suspect me of having haggled with you--her +words pelted me like hail. ‘He just took what he wanted--sifted and +sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap of +cinders. And you let him--you let yourself be cut in bits’--she mixed +her metaphors a little--‘be cut in bits, and used or discarded, while +all the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he’s +Shylock--and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut out +of you.’ But she despises me the most, you know--far the most--” Mrs. +Vervain ended. + +The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they +seemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind +of intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without +perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand +opera-singer had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. + +Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, +but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils of +reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + +His first words were characteristic. “She DOES despise me, then?” he +exclaimed. + +“She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the +heart.” + +He was excessively pale. “Please tell me exactly what she said of me.” + +“She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that while +she understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been opened to +the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an +unwillingness to be taken with reservations--she thinks you would have +loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The point of view +is original--she insists on a man with a past!” + +“Oh, a past--if she’s serious--I could rake up a past!” he said with a +laugh. + +“So I suggested: but she has her eyes on this particular portion of it. +She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had +done to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling +her.” + +Thursdale drew a difficult breath. “I never supposed--your revenge is +complete,” he said slowly. + +He heard a little gasp in her throat. “My revenge? When I sent for you +to warn you--to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?” + +“You’re very good--but it’s rather late to talk of saving me.” He held +out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + +“How you must care!--for I never saw you so dull,” was her answer. +“Don’t you see that it’s not too late for me to help you?” And as +he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: “Take the rest--in +imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied +to her--she’s too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, I +sha’n’t have been wasted.” + +His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look +back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to +need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept +them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this +contact of naked souls. + +It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but +something in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went +up to his friend and took her hand. + +“You would do it--you would do it!” + +She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + +“Good-by,” he said, kissing it. + +“Good-by? You are going--?” + +“To get my letter.” + +“Your letter? The letter won’t matter, if you will only do what I ask.” + +He returned her gaze. “I might, I suppose, without being out of +character. Only, don’t you see that if your plan helped me it could only +harm her?” + +“Harm HER?” + +“To sacrifice you wouldn’t make me different. I shall go on being what +I have always been--sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want my +punishment to fall on HER?” + +She looked at him long and deeply. “Ah, if I had to choose between +you--!” + +“You would let her take her chance? But I can’t, you see. I must take my +punishment alone.” + +She drew her hand away, sighing. “Oh, there will be no punishment for +either of you.” + +“For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me.” + +She shook her head with a slight laugh. “There will be no letter.” + +Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. +“No letter? You don’t mean--” + +“I mean that she’s been with you since I saw her--she’s seen you and +heard your voice. If there IS a letter, she has recalled it--from the +first station, by telegraph.” + +He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. “But in the +mean while I shall have read it,” he said. + +The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness +of the room. + + +The End + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND + +As first published in Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + + + + +I + + +“Above all,” the letter ended, “don’t leave Siena without seeing Doctor +Lombard’s Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or a +madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of the +Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring its +remotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, which +came to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one of +the missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according +to the most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched +example of the best period. + +“Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; but we +struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Siena three +years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may get a peep +at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for I hear he +refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in my monograph on +the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me, and if you +can’t persuade him to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at +least jot down a detailed description of the picture and get from him +all the facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments +have offered him a large advance on his purchase, but that he refuses +to sell at any price, though he certainly can’t afford such luxuries; in +fact, I don’t see where he got enough money to buy the picture. He lives +in the Via Papa Giulio.” + +Wyant sat at the table d’hote of his hotel, re-reading his friend’s +letter over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena without +having found time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifference +to the opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to +the strange red city and he was still under the spell of its more +conspicuous wonders--the brick palaces flinging out their wrought-iron +torch-holders with a gesture of arrogant suzerainty; the great +council-chamber emblazoned with civic allegories; the pageant of Pope +Julius on the Library walls; the Sodomas smiling balefully through the +dusk of mouldering chapels--and it was only when his first hunger was +appeased that he remembered that one course in the banquet was still +untasted. + +He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a +nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous +eyes and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing +the FANFULLA DI DOMENICA. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned +the nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to +the ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just +restoring the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind +him, and the lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of +the dining-room. + +“Pardon me, sir,” he said in measured English, and with an intonation of +exquisite politeness; “you have let this letter fall.” + +Wyant, recognizing his friend’s note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, +took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he +perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a +gaze of melancholy interrogation. + +“Again pardon me,” the young man at length ventured, “but are you by +chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?” + +“No,” returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of +foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded +politeness: “Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his +house. I see it is not given here.” + +The young man brightened perceptibly. “The number of the house is +thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you--it is well known in Siena. +It is called,” he continued after a moment, “the House of the Dead +Hand.” + +Wyant stared. “What a queer name!” he said. + +“The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred +years has been above the door.” + +Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: +“If you would have the kindness to ring twice.” + +“To ring twice?” + +“At the doctor’s.” The young man smiled. “It is the custom.” + +It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the +mid-blue, and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-colored +hills. For nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching the +shadows race across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in the +west; then he decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The +map in his guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of the +streets which radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course, +pausing at every other step to fill his eye with some fresh image of +weather-beaten beauty. The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the +sunshine and hanging like a funereal baldachin above the projecting +cornices of Doctor Lombard’s street, and Wyant walked for some distance +in the shade of the beetling palace fronts before his eye fell on +a doorway surmounted by a sallow marble hand. He stood for a moment +staring up at the strange emblem. The hand was a woman’s--a dead +drooping hand, which hung there convulsed and helpless, as though it had +been thrust forth in denunciation of some evil mystery within the house, +and had sunk struggling into death. + +A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that the +English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing through +a glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with a +plaster Æsculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing the +Æsculapius was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-rope +he remembered his unknown friend’s injunction, and rang twice. + +His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and small +close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, his card, +and his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, cold +ante-chamber floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click down +an interminable corridor, and after some delay she returned and told him +to follow her. + +They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but loftily +vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph of Scipio or +Alexander--martial figures following Wyant with the filmed melancholy +gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he was admitted +to a smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing +more obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry +which had faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that +the young man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. +Against these hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt feet, and +at a table in the window three persons were seated: an elderly lady +who was warming her hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a strip of +needle-work, and an old man. + +As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious of +staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure, +dressed with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, +lean, vulpine, eagle-beaked as that of some art-loving despot of the +Renaissance: a head combining the venerable hair and large prominent +eyes of the humanist with the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant, +in musing on the Italian portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had +often fancied that only in that period of fierce individualism could +types so paradoxical have been produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who +committed them to the bronze had never drawn a face more strangely +stamped with contradictory passions than that of Doctor Lombard. + +“I am glad to see you,” he said to Wyant, extending a hand which seemed +a mere framework held together by knotted veins. “We lead a quiet life +here and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clyde’s is +welcome.” Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he added +dryly: “My wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde.” + +“Oh yes--he used to make me such nice toast; they don’t understand toast +in Italy,” said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice. + +It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard’s manner and +appearance to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconsciently +and ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed a +protest against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, with +pale cheeks netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portrait +sustained a bogwood watch-chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a +heap of knitting and an old copy of THE QUEEN. + +The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of her +mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her small head +was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she might have +had a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of her round +mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression implied ill-temper or +apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between the fierce vitality +of the doctor’s age and the inanimateness of his daughter’s youth. + +Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young man +tried to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some random +remark on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent, +and Doctor Lombard interposed with a smile: “My dear sir, my wife +considers Siena a most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed by +the cheapness of the marketing; but she deplores the total absence of +muffins and cannel coal, and cannot resign herself to the Italian method +of dusting furniture.” + +“But they don’t, you know--they don’t dust it!” Mrs. Lombard protested, +without showing any resentment of her husband’s manner. + +“Precisely--they don’t dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we have not +once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of the Mangia. Can +you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yet dared to write +it home to her aunts at Bonchurch.” + +Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her +views, and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant’s embarrassment, +planted himself suddenly before the young man. + +“And now,” said he, “do you want to see my Leonardo?” + +“DO I?” cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + +The doctor chuckled. “Ah,” he said, with a kind of crooning +deliberation, “that’s the way they all behave--that’s what they all come +for.” He turned to his daughter with another variation of mockery in his +smile. “Don’t fancy it’s for your BEAUX YEUX, my dear; or for the mature +charms of Mrs. Lombard,” he added, glaring suddenly at his wife, who had +taken up her knitting and was softly murmuring over the number of her +stitches. + +Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued, +addressing himself to Wyant: “They all come--they all come; but many are +called and few are chosen.” His voice sank to solemnity. “While I live,” + he said, “no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But I will +not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would send an +unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the +picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him--if you can.” + +Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment to put +in his appeal for a photograph. + +“Well, sir,” he said, “you know Clyde wants me to take away all I can of +it.” + +Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. “You’re welcome to take away all +you can carry,” he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter: “That +is, if he has your permission, Sybilla.” + +The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a key from +a secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continued in +the same note of grim jocularity: “For you must know that the picture is +not mine--it is my daughter’s.” + +He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyant +turned on the young girl’s impassive figure. + +“Sybilla,” he pursued, “is a votary of the arts; she has inherited her +fond father’s passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, she also +recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and having seen +the Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyond +my reach, she took a step which deserves to go down to history: she +invested her whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus +enabling me to spend my closing years in communion with one of the +world’s masterpieces. My dear sir, could Antigone do more?” + +The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one of the +tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door. + +“Come,” said Doctor Lombard, “let us go before the light fails us.” + +Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + +“No, no,” said his host, “my wife will not come with us. You might +not suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for +art--Italian art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorian +school.” + +“Frith’s Railway Station, you know,” said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. “I like +an animated picture.” + +Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry to let +her father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrow +stone passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred, +and Wyant noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fitted +another key into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a small +room. The dark panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams of +yellow light slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in +the central brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded +velvet. + +“A little too bright, Sybilla,” said Doctor Lombard. His face had grown +solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew a linen +drapery across the upper part of the window. + +“That will do--that will do.” He turned impressively to Wyant. “Do you +see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there--keep your +left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord.” + +Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind the +velvet curtain. + +“Ah,” said the doctor, “one moment: I should like you, while looking at +the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla--” + +Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptness which +proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began to recite, +in a full round voice like her mother’s, St. Bernard’s invocation to the +Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise. + +“Thank you, my dear,” said her father, drawing a deep breath as she +ended. “That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares one +better than anything I know for the contemplation of the picture.” + +As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo appeared +in its frame of tarnished gold: + +From the nature of Miss Lombard’s recitation Wyant had expected a sacred +subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the composition was +gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain. + +In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale calcareous +landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucified Christ +hung livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of the foreground, +however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair of marble with +bas-reliefs of dancing mænads. Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled +with minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled +that of Dosso Dossi’s Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely +fluted lines from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high +forehead the crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; one +hand drooped on the arm of her chair; the other held up an inverted +human skull, into which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown and sidelong as +the St. John of the Louvre, poured a stream of wine from a high-poised +flagon. At the lady’s feet lay the symbols of art and luxury: a flute +and a roll of music, a platter heaped with grapes and roses, the torso +of a Greek statuette, and a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; +behind her, on the chalky hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll +in a corner of the foreground bore the legend: LUX MUNDI. + +Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly +toward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her +hand on the cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his +strange Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in +rapt contemplation of his treasure. + +Wyant addressed the young girl. + +“You are fortunate,” he said, “to be the possessor of anything so +perfect.” + +“It is considered very beautiful,” she said coldly. + +“Beautiful--BEAUTIFUL!” the doctor burst out. “Ah, the poor, worn out, +over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the language fresh enough +to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightness has been worn +off by misuse. Think of the things that have been called beautiful, and +then look at THAT!” + +“It is worthy of a new vocabulary,” Wyant agreed. + +“Yes,” Doctor Lombard continued, “my daughter is indeed fortunate. +She has chosen what Catholics call the higher life--the counsel of +perfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity of +understanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with an +untouched masterpiece of Leonardo’s? Think of the happiness of being +always under the influence of such a creation; of living INTO it; of +partaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; +the sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young +life to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, +point out some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will +appreciate them.” + +The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing away +from him, she pointed to the canvas. + +“Notice the modeling of the left hand,” she began in a monotonous voice; +“it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the naked genius will +remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it is more purely +pagan and is turned a little less to the right. The embroidery on the +cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of this plant have +burst through the vase. This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet’s +character in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and +the serpent, emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have not +yet been able to decipher.” + +Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + +“And the picture itself?” he said. “How do you explain that? LUX MUNDI--what +a curious device to connect with such a subject! What can it +mean?” + +Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not included in +her lesson. + +“What, indeed?” the doctor interposed. “What does life mean? As one +may define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundred +different meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted as +a well-cut diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it she +who is the true LUX MUNDI--the light reflected from jewels and young +eyes, from polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is +that the Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is +this lady the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, +with her back turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? +Something of both these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to +me it symbolizes rather the central truth of existence: that all that +is raised in incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love, +religion; that all our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us by +the mysterious genius of a remote and cruel past.” + +The doctor’s face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten itself +and become taller. + +“Ah,” he cried, growing more dithyrambic, “how lightly you ask what +it means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who have +given my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated its +tomb, laid open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle, +bone, and artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poets +and humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled +and doubted with Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed +to its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in +neolithic caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrils +of the arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I +stand abashed and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It means +nothing--it means all things. It may represent the period which saw its +creation; it may represent all ages past and to come. There are volumes +of meaning in the tiniest emblem on the lady’s cloak; the blossoms of +its border are rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don’t +ask what it means, young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for +having seen it!” + +Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + +“Don’t excite yourself, father,” she said in the detached tone of a +professional nurse. + +He answered with a despairing gesture. “Ah, it’s easy for you to talk. +You have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, and every +moment counts!” + +“It’s bad for you,” she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + +The doctor’s sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He dropped into +a seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drew the +curtain across the picture. + +Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was slipping +from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde’s wish for a photograph. He +now understood the meaning of the laugh with which Doctor Lombard had +given him leave to carry away all the details he could remember. The +picture was so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed with elusive and +contradictory suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed +suddenly before it, must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of +confused wonder. Yet how valuable to Clyde the record of such a work +would be! In some ways it seemed to be the summing up of the master’s +thought, the key to his enigmatic philosophy. + +The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His +daughter unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to the +room in which they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there, +and he could think of no excuse for lingering. + +He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in the +middle of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + +“It is very good of you,” he said, “to allow one even a glimpse of such +a treasure.” + +She looked at him with her odd directness. “You will come again?” + she said quickly; and turning to her father she added: “You know what +Professor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the +picture without seeing it again.” + +Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a +trance. + +“Eh?” he said, rousing himself with an effort. + +“I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to +tell Professor Clyde about it,” Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary +precision of tone. + +Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being +divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. + +“Well, well,” the doctor muttered, “I don’t say no--I don’t say no. I +know what Clyde wants--I don’t refuse to help him.” He turned to Wyant. +“You may come again--you may make notes,” he added with a sudden effort. +“Jot down what occurs to you. I’m willing to concede that.” + +Wyant again caught the girl’s eye, but its emphatic message perplexed +him. + +“You’re very good,” he said tentatively, “but the fact is the picture is +so mysterious--so full of complicated detail--that I’m afraid no notes I +could make would serve Clyde’s purpose as well as--as a photograph, say. +If you would allow me--” + +Miss Lombard’s brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. + +“A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people +have been allowed to set foot in that room! A PHOTOGRAPH?” + +Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. + +“I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having +any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let +me take a photograph for his personal use--not to be reproduced in his +book, but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the +photograph myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you +wished it, only one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde +could return to you when he had done with it.” + +Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. “When he had done with it? +Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, +drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by +every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of +every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I’d as soon give you the picture +itself: why don’t you ask for that?” + +“Well, sir,” said Wyant calmly, “if you will trust me with it, I’ll +engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but +Clyde’s see it while it is out of your keeping.” + +The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst +into a laugh. + +“Upon my soul!” he said with sardonic good humor. + +It was Miss Lombard’s turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words +and her father’s unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her +depth. + +“Well, sir, am I to take the picture?” Wyant smilingly pursued. + +“No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind +that,--nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla,” he cried with sudden +passion, “swear to me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No +photograph, no sketch--now or afterward. Do you hear me?” + +“Yes, father,” said the girl quietly. + +“The vandals,” he muttered, “the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it +would ever get into their hands I’d burn it first, by God!” He turned +to Wyant, speaking more quietly. “I said you might come back--I never +retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde +shall see the notes you make.” + +Wyant was growing warm. + +“If you won’t trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to +show my notes!” he exclaimed. + +The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + +“Humph!” he said; “would they be of much use to anybody?” + +Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience. + +“To Clyde, I hope, at any rate,” he answered, holding out his hand. The +doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: “When +shall I come, sir?” + +“To-morrow--to-morrow morning,” cried Miss Lombard, speaking suddenly. + +She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + +“The picture is hers,” he said to Wyant. + +In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had admitted +him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar the door. As +the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm. + +“You have a letter?” she said in a low tone. + +“A letter?” He stared. “What letter?” + +She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + + + + +II + + +As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at +its scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above +the entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into the +passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning. +But the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about Doctor +Lombard’s house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and her +father? Above all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did not +look like a person capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; and +there had been moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + +The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellow +light, and the young man turned his steps toward the church of San +Domenico, in the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodoma’s +St. Catherine. + +The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he had to +grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation of the +sunset, the saint’s figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk, and +the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to +glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the +accidental collaboration of light and color. + +Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the ground +at his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet of note-paper, +folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearing the +superscription:-- + + +To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + + +Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from? He was +distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air, close +to his feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; then he +turned and looked about the church. There was only one figure in it, +that of a man who knelt near the high altar. + +Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard’s maid-servant. +Was this the letter she had asked for? Had he been unconsciously +carrying it about with him all the afternoon? Who was Count Ottaviano +Celsi, and how came Wyant to have been chosen to act as that nobleman’s +ambulant letter-box? + +Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to explore +his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the +mystery; but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and +he was reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand +to have bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood +motionless before the picture. + +At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and +turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d’hote. + +The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + +“I do not intrude?” he inquired suavely. + +Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, +glancing about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + +“I see,” he remarked with a smile, “that you know the hour at which our +saint should be visited.” + +Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + +The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + +“What grace! What poetry!” he murmured, apostrophizing the St. +Catherine, but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he +spoke. + +Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + +“But it is cold here--mortally cold; you do not find it so?” The +intruder put on his hat. “It is permitted at this hour--when the church +is empty. And you, my dear sir--do you not feel the dampness? You are +an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover the head +when they are engaged in the study of the paintings.” + +He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant’s hat. + +“Permit me--cover yourself!” he said a moment later, holding out the hat +with an ingratiating gesture. + +A light flashed on Wyant. + +“Perhaps,” he said, looking straight at the young man, “you will tell me +your name. My own is Wyant.” + +The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted +card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:-- + + + Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. + + +“I am much obliged to you,” said Wyant; “and I may as well tell you that +the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat +is not there, but in my pocket.” + +He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. + +“And now,” Wyant continued, “you will perhaps be good enough to tell me +what all this means.” + +There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this +request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. + +“I suppose you know,” Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of +the other’s discomfiture, “that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. +I don’t yet understand what part I have been made to play, but it’s +evident that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, +and I propose to know the reason why.” + +Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + +“Sir,” he pleaded, “you permit me to speak?” + +“I expect you to,” cried Wyant. “But not here,” he added, hearing the +clank of the verger’s keys. “It is growing dark, and we shall be turned +out in a few minutes.” + +He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into +the deserted square. + +“Now,” said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + +The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to +speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. + +“My dear sir--my dear Mr. Wyant--you find me in an abominable +position--that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have +taken advantage of you--yes! I have counted on your amiability, your +chivalry--too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was to +oblige a lady”--he laid a hand on his heart--“a lady whom I would die +to serve!” He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate English +swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some +difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case. + +Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Siena some +months previously, on business connected with his mother’s property; the +paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient city his father +was syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Count had met the +incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with +her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor +Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of settlements +arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was possessed of a small +property in her own right, had a short time before invested the +whole amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo. Thereupon Count +Ottaviano’s parents had politely suggested that she should sell the +picture and thus recover her independence; and this proposal being met +by a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent +to their son’s marriage. The young lady’s attitude had hitherto been one +of passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and would +never venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known to Ottaviano +her intention of not giving him up, of waiting patiently till events +should take a more favorable turn. She seemed hardly aware, the Count +said with a sigh, that the means of escape lay in her own hands; that +she was of age, and had a right to sell the picture, and to marry +without asking her father’s consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no +pains to keep himself before her, to remind her that he, too, was +waiting and would never give her up. + +Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade +Sybilla to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or to +correspond; they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and had +several times, the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctor’s +visitors as a means of exchanging letters. + +“And you told the visitors to ring twice?” Wyant interposed. + +The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. +Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The +young lady had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of +pledging her unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be +outdone? But his purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely +to reiterate his fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to +induce her to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every +detail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry out +his instructions he would answer for the result. His idea was that she +should secretly retire to a convent of which his aunt was the Mother +Superior, and from that stronghold should transact the sale of the +Leonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; +a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered, considerably in excess of the young +lady’s original inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if +necessary, be removed by force from Doctor Lombard’s house, and his +daughter, being safely in the convent, would be spared the painful +scenes incidental to the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard were +vindictive enough to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only to +make a SOMMATION RESPECTUEUSE, and at the end of the prescribed delay no +power on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count Ottaviano. + +Wyant’s anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was +absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the +first stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart +whenever he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of +the business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this +new Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part +he had unwittingly performed. + +He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + +“I won’t deprive you any longer,” he said, “of the pleasure of reading +your letter.” + +“Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, +you will take a message from me--the letter she expected this +afternoon?” + +“The letter she expected?” Wyant paused. “No, thank you. I thought +you understood that where I come from we don’t do that kind of +thing--knowingly.” + +“But, sir, to serve a young lady!” + +“I’m sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true”--the Count’s +expressive hands resented the doubt--“but remember that if I am under +obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who has +admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.” + +“HIS picture? Hers!” + +“Well, the house is his, at all events.” + +“Unhappily--since to her it is a dungeon!” + +“Why doesn’t she leave it, then?” exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + +The Count clasped his hands. “Ah, how you say that--with what force, +with what virility! If you would but say it to HER in that tone--you, +her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; +the father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he +would kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life +while she remains in that house!” + +“Oh, come,” said Wyant lightly, “they seem to understand each other well +enough. But in any case, you must see that I can’t interfere--at +least you would if you were an Englishman,” he added with an escape of +contempt. + + + + +III + + +Wyant’s affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with +his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of +Count Ottaviano’s story. + +The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account +of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of +distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and +lived either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His +wife owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the +second son, came there from time to time to look into its management. +The eldest son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt +of Count Ottaviano’s was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in +Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most +amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the +strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to +the adjustment of the young lady’s dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very +properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, +who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for +coming to Siena to inspect his mother’s estate. + +Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano’s personality the story had a +tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs +of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another +aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was +a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who +could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering +broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard’s fate was being played +out? Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the +lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa +with sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + +One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems; +and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant’s entrance, raised a placidly +wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had +been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a +cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings. + +“What a nice morning!” she said; “it must be delightful weather at +Bonchurch.” + +Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its +threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with +clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond +the opposite houses. + +Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised +at his reappearance he said at once: “I have come back to study Miss +Lombard’s picture.” + +“Oh, the picture--” Mrs. Lombard’s face expressed a gentle +disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter +sensibilities. “It’s an original Leonardo, you know,” she said +mechanically. + +“And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have +inherited her father’s love for art.” + +Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: “It’s unusual in so +young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later.” + +Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. “That’s what I say! I was quite +different at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit +of fancy-work. Not that I couldn’t sketch, too; I had a master down from +London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room +now--I did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked +a picnic, too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of +my own age. I say it’s more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling +for art, and do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up +everything else. I was taught that there were other things.” + +Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not +resist another question. “And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?” + +Her mother looked troubled. + +“Sybilla is so clever--she says I don’t understand. You know how +self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of +me, now--he knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very +particular; I was brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always +respected them. He says himself that he wouldn’t for the world miss +hearing my opinion on any subject; you may have noticed that he often +refers to my tastes. He has always respected my preference for living +in England; he likes to hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much +interested in my ideas that he often says he knows just what I am going +to say before I speak. But Sybilla does not care for what I think--” + +At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. “The +servant is a fool; she didn’t tell me you were here.” His eye turned to +his wife. “Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About +the aunts at Bonchurch, I’ll be bound!” + +Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his +hooked fingers, with a smile. + +“Mrs. Lombard’s aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the +circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from +the curate’s wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a +year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets’ wives. They +devoted themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think +I may say without boasting that Mrs. Lombard’s conversation shows marked +traces of the advantages she enjoyed.” + +Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + +“I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular.” + +“Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in +anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets +every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the +student of human nature.” Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. “But we +are missing an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour.” + +Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down +the passageway. + +The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner +radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady’s +flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like +precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on +the previous day. + +He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic +grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and +seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + +“Now, then,” he said, “tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth.” + +He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws +of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant’s notebook with the obvious +intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch. + +Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations +which Doctor Lombard’s strange household excited, sat motionless for a +few minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages +of the note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his +discomfiture at length roused him, and he began to write. + +He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to +unlock it, and his daughter entered. + +She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + +“Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come +back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; +he says he can’t wait.” + +“The devil!” cried her father impatiently. “Didn’t you tell him--” + +“Yes; but he says he can’t come back. If you want to see him you must +come now.” + +“Then you think there’s a chance?--” + +She nodded. + +He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + +“You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment.” + +He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + +Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise +at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for +hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her +small face pale and tumultuous. + +“I arranged it--I must speak to you,” she gasped. “He’ll be back in five +minutes.” + +Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + +Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him +at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture +overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a +voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. + +“How can I help you?” he said with a rush of compassion. + +“Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it’s so +difficult--he watches me--he’ll be back immediately.” + +“Try to tell me what I can do.” + +“I don’t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.” She turned away, fixing +her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. “There he comes, and +I haven’t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be +hurried.” + +“I don’t hear any one,” said Wyant, listening. “Try to tell me.” + +“How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.” She +drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--“Will you come here again +this afternoon--at about five?” she whispered. + +“Come here again?” + +“Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will come +with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and lock you +both in”--she gasped. + +“Lock us in?” + +“You see? You understand? It’s the only way for me to leave the +house--if I am ever to do it”--She drew another difficult breath. +“The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an hour,--perhaps +sooner--” + +She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for +support. + +“Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + +“I can’t, Miss Lombard,” he said at length. + +“You can’t?” + +“I’m sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--” + +He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit +to pause in its dash for a hole! + +Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + +“I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is +impossible. Can’t I talk to you again? Perhaps--” + +“Oh,” she cried, starting up, “there he comes!” + +Doctor Lombard’s step sounded in the passage. + +Wyant held her fast. “Tell me one thing: he won’t let you sell the +picture?” + +“No--hush!” + +“Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.” + +“The future?” + +“In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven’t +promised?” + +She shook her head. + +“Don’t, then; remember that.” + +She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + +As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of +ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange +face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as +part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached +out like the cry of an imprisoned anguish. + +Wyant turned away impatiently. + +“Rubbish!” he said to himself. “SHE isn’t walled in; she can get out if +she wants to.” + + + + +IV + + +Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard’s aid: he was +elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped into +the express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldo +he was convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followed +the only reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that the +priest and the Levite had probably justified themselves in much the same +manner. + +A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly relieved +from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A paragraph in +the morning paper announced the sudden death of Doctor Lombard, the +distinguished English dilettante who had long resided in Siena. Wyant’s +justification was complete. Our blindest impulses become evidence of +perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events. + +Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular complications +from which his foresight had probably saved him. The climax was +unexpectedly dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a step which, +whatever its issue, would have burdened her with retrospective +compunction, had been set free before her suitor’s ardor could have had +time to cool, and was now doubtless planning a life of domestic felicity +on the proceeds of the Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as +odd--he saw no mention of the sale of the picture. He had scanned the +papers for an immediate announcement of its transfer to one of the +great museums; but presently concluding that Miss Lombard, out of +filial piety, had wished to avoid an appearance of unseemly haste in the +disposal of her treasure, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Other +affairs happened to engage him; the months slipped by, and gradually the +lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in his mind. + +It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him again to +Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He +found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard’s street, +and glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse +of the doctor’s house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its +threshold. The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an +admirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard’s +marriage. + +“The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, +signore.” + +“Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?” + +“For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the +Maremma.” + +“But what happened--why was the marriage broken?” + +The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + +“And Miss Lombard still lives in her father’s house?” + +“Yes, signore; she is still there.” + +“And the Leonardo--” + +“The Leonardo, also, is still there.” + +The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered +Count Ottaviano’s injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to +think that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented +the marriage? If Doctor Lombard’s death had been long delayed, time +might have acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady’s resolve have +failed; but it seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which +Wyant had left the lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + +As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed +a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like +an emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and +imminent which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range. +Wyant could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with +the ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work. + +A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to +the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs. +Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations +of surprise. + +Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might +shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was +still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above +the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of +needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen +her engaged. + +Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, +and learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had +somehow never done so. + +“I am sorry not to see my aunts again,” Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; +“but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year.” + +“Next year, perhaps,” murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to +suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + +She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hair +enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her +cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has +darkened in drying. + +“And Professor Clyde--is he well?” Mrs. Lombard asked affably; +continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: “Surely, Sybilla, +Mr. Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the +Leonardo?” + +Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of +his friend’s well-being. + +“Ah--perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena,” she said, +sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued +a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: “And you +still have the picture?” + +She raised her eyes and looked at him. “Should you like to see it?” she +asked. + +On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same +secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down +the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making +Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the +curtain back from the picture. + +The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared +to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of +their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to +Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould +of darkness and oblivion. + +He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + +“Ah, I understand--you couldn’t part with it, after all!” he cried. + +“No--I couldn’t part with it,” she answered. + +“It’s too beautiful,--too beautiful,”--he assented. + +“Too beautiful?” She turned on him with a curious stare. “I have never +thought it beautiful, you know.” + +He gave back the stare. “You have never--” + +She shook her head. “It’s not that. I hate it; I’ve always hated it. But +he wouldn’t let me--he will never let me now.” + +Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised +him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. +Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the +pronoun not refer to her father? + +“You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the +picture?” + +“No--he prevented me; he will always prevent me.” + +There was another pause. “You promised him, then, before his death--” + +“No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me.” Her voice +sank to a whisper. “I was free--perfectly free--or I thought I was till +I tried.” + +“Till you tried?” + +“To disobey him--to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. I +tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me.” + +She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to +Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence. + +“And you can’t”--he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the +pitch of hers. + +She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. “I can’t lock him out; +I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another +chance.” + +Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + +“Oh”--he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + +“It is too late,” she said; “but you ought to have helped me that day.” + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith +Wharton, Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + +***** This file should be named 295-0.txt or 295-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/295/ + +Produced by Judith Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, Part 1 (of 10) + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Release Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #295] +[Last Updated: August 22, 2017] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE EARLY SHORT FICTION OF EDITH WHARTON + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + A Ten-Volume Collection + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Volume One + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> KERFOL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> MRS. MANSTEY�S VIEW </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE BOLTED DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DILETTANTE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> IV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KERFOL + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner�s Magazine, March 1916 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + �You ought to buy it,� said my host; �it�s just the place for a + solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to own + the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are dead broke, + and it�s going for a song—you ought to buy it.� + </p> + <p> + It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friend + Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociable + exterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I took + his hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoring + over to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road on + a heath, and said: �First turn to the right and second to the left. Then + straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, don�t ask + your way. They don�t understand French, and they would pretend they did + and mix you up. I�ll be back for you here by sunset—and don�t forget + the tombs in the chapel.� + </p> + <p> + I followed Lanrivain�s directions with the hesitation occasioned by the + usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn to the + right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met a peasant I + should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray; but I had the + desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the right turn and walked + on across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so unlike any other + avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must be <i>the</i> avenue. The + grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great height and then interwove + their pale-grey branches in a long tunnel through which the autumn light + fell faintly. I know most trees by name, but I haven�t to this day been + able to decide what those trees were. They had the tall curve of elms, the + tenuity of poplars, the ashen colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they + stretched ahead of me for half a mile or more without a break in their + arch. If ever I saw an avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was + the avenue at Kerfol. My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it. + </p> + <p> + Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall. + Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other grey + avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossed + with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with wild + shrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had been replaced + by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood for a long + time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and letting the + influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: �If I wait long enough, + the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs—� and I rather hoped + he wouldn�t turn up too soon. + </p> + <p> + I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, it + struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blind + house looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. It + may have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of my + gesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a + brake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto the + grass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, of + littleness, of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my + cigarette-smoke into the face of such a past. + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol—I was new to Brittany, and + Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before—but + one couldn�t as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a long + accumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared to guess: + perhaps only the sheer weight of many associated lives and deaths which + gives a kind of majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of Kerfol + suggested something more—a perspective of stern and cruel memories + stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of darkness. + </p> + <p> + Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with the + present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to the sky, + it might have been its own funeral monument. �Tombs in the chapel? The + whole place is a tomb!� I reflected. I hoped more and more that the + guardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking, would + seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and I wanted + only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + </p> + <p> + �It�s the very place for you!� Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by + the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that + Kerfol was the place for him. �Is it possible that any one could <i>not</i> see—?� + I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was undefinable. I + stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning to want to know + more; not to <i>see</i> more—I was by now so sure it was not a question of + seeing—but to feel more: feel all the place had to communicate. �But + to get in one will have to rout out the keeper,� I thought reluctantly, + and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and tried the iron gate. It + yielded, and I walked under the tunnel formed by the thickness of the + chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a wooden barricade had been laid + across the entrance, and beyond it I saw a court enclosed in noble + architecture. The main building faced me; and I now discovered that one + half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows through which the wild + growths of the moat and the trees of the park were visible. The rest of + the house was still in its robust beauty. One end abutted on the round + tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, and in an angle of the + building stood a graceful well-head adorned with mossy urns. A few roses + grew against the walls, and on an upper window-sill I remember noticing a + pot of fuchsias. + </p> + <p> + My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my + architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire to + explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering in which + corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier and went in. As + I did so, a little dog barred my way. He was such a remarkably beautiful + little dog that for a moment he made me forget the splendid place he was + defending. I was not sure of his breed at the time, but have since learned + that it was Chinese, and that he was of a rare variety called the + �Sleeve-dog.� He was very small and golden brown, with large brown eyes + and a ruffled throat: he looked rather like a large tawny chrysanthemum. I + said to myself: �These little beasts always snap and scream, and somebody + will be out in a minute.� + </p> + <p> + The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: there was + anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came no nearer. + Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticed that another + dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up. �There�ll be a hubbub + now,� I thought; for at the same moment a third dog, a long-haired white + mongrel, slipped out of a doorway and joined the others. All three stood + looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound came from them. As I + advanced they continued to fall back on muffled paws, still watching me. + �At a given point, they�ll all charge at my ankles: it�s one of the dodges + that dogs who live together put up on one,� I thought. I was not much + alarmed, for they were neither large nor formidable. But they let me + wander about the court as I pleased, following me at a little distance—always + the same distance—and always keeping their eyes on me. Presently I + looked across at the ruined facade, and saw that in one of its + window-frames another dog stood: a large white pointer with one brown ear. + He was an old grave dog, much more experienced than the others; and he + seemed to be observing me with a deeper intentness. + </p> + <p> + �I�ll hear from <i>him</i>,� I said to myself; but he stood in the empty + window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch me + without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense that + he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the court lay + between us, and we stared at each other silently across it. But he did not + stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the rest of the pack, + with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with pale agate-coloured + eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression was more timid than + that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little behind them. And still + there was not a sound. + </p> + <p> + I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me—waiting, + as they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown + dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The little + dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me—he simply + slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me. + �Oh, hang it!� I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the + well. + </p> + <p> + As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners of + the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or two, + and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the chapel. + When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared except the old + pointer, who still watched me from the empty window-frame. It was rather a + relief to be rid of that cloud of witnesses; and I began to look about me + for a way to the back of the house. �Perhaps there�ll be somebody in the + garden,� I thought. I found a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall + smothered in brambles, and got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and + geraniums pined in the flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on + them indifferently. Its garden side was plainer and severer than the + other: the long granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked + like a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some + disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and incredibly + old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to slip + through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a + box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the + avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and + springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy + top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking + down into the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was in + sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in the + thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged again into + the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden-brown one a little + ahead of the others, the black greyhound shivering in the rear. + </p> + <p> + �Oh, hang it—you uncomfortable beasts, you!� I exclaimed, my voice + startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me. I + knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approaching the + house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had a feeling + that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet they did + not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and they were not + thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if they had lived a + long time with people who never spoke to them or looked at them: as though + the silence of the place had gradually benumbed their busy inquisitive + natures. And this strange passivity, this almost human lassitude, seemed + to me sadder than the misery of starved and beaten animals. I should have + liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax them into a game or a scamper; + but the longer I looked into their fixed and weary eyes the more + preposterous the idea became. With the windows of that house looking down + on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? The dogs knew better: <i>they</i> + knew what the house would tolerate and what it would not. I even fancied + that they knew what was passing through my mind, and pitied me for my + frivolity. But even that feeling probably reached them through a thick fog + of listlessness. I had an idea that their distance from me was as nothing + to my remoteness from them. In the last analysis, the impression they + produced was that of having in common one memory so deep and dark that + nothing that had happened since was worth either a growl or a wag. + </p> + <p> + �I say,� I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, �do + you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if you�d + seen a ghost—that�s how you look! I wonder if there <i>is</i> a ghost here, + and nobody but you left for it to appear to?� The dogs continued to gaze + at me without moving... + </p> + <p> + It was dark when I saw Lanrivain�s motor lamps at the cross-roads—and + I wasn�t exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped from + the loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness—to + that degree—as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had + brought his solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a + fat and affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol... + </p> + <p> + But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in the + study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + �Well—are you going to buy Kerfol?� she asked, tilting up her gay + chin from her embroidery. + </p> + <p> + �I haven�t decided yet. The fact is, I couldn�t get into the house,� I + said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back for + another look. + </p> + <p> + �You couldn�t get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell the + place, and the old guardian has orders—� + </p> + <p> + �Very likely. But the old guardian wasn�t there.� + </p> + <p> + �What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter—?� + </p> + <p> + �There was nobody about. At least I saw no one.� + </p> + <p> + �How extraordinary! Literally nobody?� + </p> + <p> + �Nobody but a lot of dogs—a whole pack of them—who seemed to + have the place to themselves.� + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and folded her + hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + �A pack of dogs—you <i>saw</i> them?� + </p> + <p> + �Saw them? I saw nothing else!� + </p> + <p> + �How many?� She dropped her voice a little. �I�ve always wondered—� + </p> + <p> + I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar to + her. �Have you never been to Kerfol?� I asked. + </p> + <p> + �Oh, yes: often. But never on that day.� + </p> + <p> + �What day?� + </p> + <p> + �I�d quite forgotten—and so had Herv�, I�m sure. If we�d remembered, + we never should have sent you today—but then, after all, one doesn�t + half believe that sort of thing, does one?� + </p> + <p> + �What sort of thing?� I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the level + of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: �I <i>knew</i> there was something...� + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. + �Didn�t Herv� tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixed + up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of + them are rather unpleasant.� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—but those dogs?� I insisted. + </p> + <p> + �Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say + there�s one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that day + the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. The women in + Brittany drink dreadfully.� She stooped to match a silk; then she lifted + her charming inquisitive Parisian face: �Did you <i>really</i> see a lot of dogs? + There isn�t one at Kerfol,� she said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the back of + an upper shelf of his library. + </p> + <p> + �Yes—here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes + of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about a + hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account is + transcribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, it�s queer + reading. And there�s a Herv� de Lanrivain mixed up in it—not exactly + <i>my</i> style, as you�ll see. But then he�s only a collateral. Here, take the + book up to bed with you. I don�t exactly remember the details; but after + you�ve read it I�ll bet anything you�ll leave your light burning all + night!� + </p> + <p> + I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it was chiefly + because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. The account of the + trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol, was long and + closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably an almost literal + transcription of what took place in the court-room; and the trial lasted + nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was detestable... + </p> + <p> + At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But it is full + of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are forever + straying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle it, and give + it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have reverted to the text + because no other words could have conveyed so exactly the sense of what I + felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added anything of my own. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was in the year 16— that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain of + Kerfol, went to the <i>pardon</i> of Locronan to perform his religious duties. He + was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year, but hale and + sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So all his neighbours + attested. In appearance he seems to have been short and broad, with a + swarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a hanging nose and + broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married young and lost his + wife and son soon after, and since then had lived alone at Kerfol. Twice a + year he went to Morlaix, where he had a handsome house by the river, and + spent a week or ten days there; and occasionally he rode to Rennes on + business. Witnesses were found to declare that during these absences he + led a life different from the one he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he + busied himself with his estate, attended mass daily, and found his only + amusement in hunting the wild boar and water-fowl. But these rumours are + not particularly relevant, and it is certain that among people of his own + class in the neighbourhood he passed for a stern and even austere man, + observant of his religious obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. + There was no talk of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though + at that time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some people + said he had never looked at a woman since his wife�s death; but such + things are hard to prove, and the evidence on this point was not worth + much. + </p> + <p> + Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the <i>pardon</i> at + Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden over + pillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Anne + de Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less great + and powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father had squandered + his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in his little + granite manor on the moors... I have said I would add nothing of my own to + this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt myself here to + describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate of Locronan at the + very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also dismounting there. I take + my description from a rather rare thing: a faded drawing in red crayon, + sober and truthful enough to be by a late pupil of the Clouets, which + hangs in Lanrivain�s study, and is said to be a portrait of Anne de + Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of identity but the initials A. + B., and the date 16—, the year after her marriage. It represents a + young woman with a small oval face, almost pointed, yet wide enough for a + full mouth with a tender depression at the corners. The nose is small, and + the eyebrows are set rather high, far apart, and as lightly pencilled as + the eyebrows in a Chinese painting. The forehead is high and serious, and + the hair, which one feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and + lying close like a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel + probably, with a look at once shy and steady. A pair of beautiful long + hands are crossed below the lady�s breast... + </p> + <p> + The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baron + came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to be + instantly saddled, called to a young page come with him, and rode away + that same evening to the south. His steward followed the next morning with + coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following week Yves de Cornault + rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and told them he + was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of Douarnenez. And on + All Saints� Day the marriage took place. + </p> + <p> + As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that + they passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves de + Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that he was + content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplain and + other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had a softening + influence on her husband, and that he became less exacting with his + tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and less subject to the + fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. As to his wife, + the only grievance her champions could call up in her behalf was that + Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband was away on business + at Rennes or Morlaix—whither she was never taken—she was not + allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no one asserted + that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she had surprised her + crying, and had heard her say that she was a woman accursed to have no + child, and nothing in life to call her own. But that was a natural enough + feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and certainly it must have been + a great grief to Yves de Cornault that she gave him no son. Yet he never + made her feel her childlessness as a reproach—she herself admits + this in her evidence—but seemed to try to make her forget it by + showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though he was, he had never been + open-handed; but nothing was too fine for his wife, in the way of silks or + gems or linen, or whatever else she fancied. Every wandering merchant was + welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was called away he never came back + without bringing his wife a handsome present—something curious and + particular—from Morlaix or Rennes or Quimper. One of the + waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an interesting list of one + year�s gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a carved ivory junk, with + Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had brought back as a votive + offering for Notre Dame de la Clart�, above Ploumanac�h; from Quimper, an + embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of the Assumption; from Rennes, a + silver rose that opened and showed an amber Virgin with a crown of + garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length of Damascus velvet shot with gold, + bought of a Jew from Syria; and for Michaelmas that same year, from + Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round stones—emeralds and pearls + and rubies—strung like beads on a gold wire. This was the present + that pleased the lady best, the woman said. Later on, as it happened, it + was produced at the trial, and appears to have struck the Judges and the + public as a curious and valuable jewel. + </p> + <p> + The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far + as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder + and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up to + Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by the + fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box + in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the lid and let out + a little golden-brown dog. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded + toward her. �Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!� she cried as she + picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at her + with eyes �like a Christian�s.� After that she would never have it out of + her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been a child—as + indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know. Yves de + Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been brought to + him by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the sailor had bought + it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen it from a nobleman�s + wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do, since the pilgrim was + a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed to hellfire. Yves de + Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for they were beginning to be + in demand at the French court, and the sailor knew he had got hold of a + good thing; but Anne�s pleasure was so great that, to see her laugh and + play with the little animal, her husband would doubtless have given twice + the sum. + </p> + <p> + So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; but + now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly as + possible to Anne�s own statements; though toward the end, poor thing... + </p> + <p> + Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was brought to + Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the head of + a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife�s rooms to a door + opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave the alarm, so + distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror—for his blood was all + over her—that at first the roused household could not make out what + she was saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, sure + enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and head + foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the steps below him. + He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face and throat, as + if with a dull weapon; and one of his legs had a deep tear in it which had + cut an artery, and probably caused his death. But how did he come there, + and who had murdered him? + </p> + <p> + His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing his cry + had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this was immediately + questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from her room she could + not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to the thickness of the + walls and the length of the intervening passage; then it was evident that + she had not been in bed and asleep, since she was dressed when she roused + the house, and her bed had not been slept in. Moreover, the door at the + bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in the lock; and it was noticed + by the chaplain (an observant man) that the dress she wore was stained + with blood about the knees, and that there were traces of small + blood-stained hands low down on the staircase walls, so that it was + conjectured that she had really been at the postern-door when her husband + fell and, feeling her way up to him in the darkness on her hands and + knees, had been stained by his blood dripping down on her. Of course it + was argued on the other side that the blood-marks on her dress might have + been caused by her kneeling down by her husband when she rushed out of her + room; but there was the open door below, and the fact that the fingermarks + in the staircase all pointed upward. + </p> + <p> + The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite of its + improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her that Herv� de + Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had been arrested for + complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereupon came forward to + say that it was known throughout the country that Lanrivain had formerly + been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; but that he had been absent + from Brittany for over a year, and people had ceased to associate their + names. The witnesses who made this statement were not of a very reputable + sort. One was an old herb-gatherer suspected of witch-craft, another a + drunken clerk from a neighbouring parish, the third a half-witted shepherd + who could be made to say anything; and it was clear that the prosecution + was not satisfied with its case, and would have liked to find more + definite proof of Lanrivain�s complicity than the statement of the + herb-gatherer, who swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the park + on the night of the murder. One way of patching out incomplete proofs in + those days was to put some sort of pressure, moral or physical, on the + accused person. It is not clear what pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; + but on the third day, when she was brought into court, she �appeared weak + and wandering,� and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak + the truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she + confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with Herv� de + Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been surprised there by the + sound of her husband�s fall. That was better; and the prosecution rubbed + its hands with satisfaction. The satisfaction increased when various + dependents living at Kerfol were induced to say—with apparent + sincerity—that during the year or two preceding his death their + master had once more grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the + fits of brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before + his second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not been going + well at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say that there had been + any signs of open disagreement between husband and wife. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down at night + to open the door to Herv� de Lanrivain, made an answer which must have + sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she was lonely and + wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason? she was + asked; and replied: �Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships� heads.� �But + why at midnight?� the court asked. �Because I could see him in no other + way.� I can see the exchange of glances across the ermine collars under + the Crucifix. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life had been + extremely lonely: �desolate� was the word she used. It was true that her + husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days when he did not + speak at all. It was true that he had never struck or threatened her; but + he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when he rode away to Morlaix or + Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on her that she could not pick a + flower in the garden without having a waiting-woman at her heels. �I am no + Queen, to need such honours,� she once said to him; and he had answered + that a man who has a treasure does not leave the key in the lock when he + goes out. �Then take me with you,� she urged; but to this he said that + towns were pernicious places, and young wives better off at their own + firesides. + </p> + <p> + �But what did you want to say to Herv� de Lanrivain?� the court asked; and + she answered: �To ask him to take me away.� + </p> + <p> + �Ah—you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts?� + </p> + <p> + �No.� + </p> + <p> + �Then why did you want him to take you away?� + </p> + <p> + �Because I was afraid for my life.� + </p> + <p> + �Of whom were you afraid?� + </p> + <p> + �Of my husband.� + </p> + <p> + �Why were you afraid of your husband?� + </p> + <p> + �Because he had strangled my little dog.� + </p> + <p> + Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days when any + nobleman had a right to hang his peasants—and most of them exercised + it—pinching a pet animal�s wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss + about. + </p> + <p> + At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certain + sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed to explain + herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the following statement. + </p> + <p> + The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had not + been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have been + unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much. + </p> + <p> + It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, brought + her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make up for the + loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the little brown dog + from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Her husband seemed + pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave her leave to put her + jewelled bracelet around its neck, and to keep it always with her. + </p> + <p> + One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, as + his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly she + was waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly. + </p> + <p> + �You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in the + chapel with her feet on a little dog,� he said. + </p> + <p> + The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered: �Well, + when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, with my dog + at my feet.� + </p> + <p> + �Oho—we�ll wait and see,� he said, laughing also, but with his black + brows close together. �The dog is the emblem of fidelity.� + </p> + <p> + �And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?� + </p> + <p> + �When I�m in doubt I find out,� he answered. �I am an old man,� he added, + �and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear you shall have + your monument if you earn it.� + </p> + <p> + �And I swear to be faithful,� she returned, �if only for the sake of + having my little dog at my feet.� + </p> + <p> + Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and while + he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, came to + spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the <i>pardon</i> of Ste. Barbe. She was a + woman of great piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves de + Cornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe no + one could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of the + pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the first time + she talked with Herv� de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice to Kerfol + with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen words with + him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was under the + chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: �I + pity you,� and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any one + thought her an object of pity. He added: �Call for me when you need me,� + and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought often of the + meeting. + </p> + <p> + She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How or + where she would not say—one had the impression that she feared to + implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at the + last he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreign + country, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him for + many months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none to + give him but the collar about the little dog�s neck. She was sorry + afterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she + had not had the courage to refuse. + </p> + <p> + Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later he + picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its collar was + missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth of + the park, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. It was + true, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids search for + the necklet—they all believed the dog had lost it in the park... + </p> + <p> + Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in his + usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talked a + good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now and + then he stopped and looked hard at her; and when she went to bed she found + her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was dead, but + still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned to horror when + she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twice round its + throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid the + necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later, and + he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged for stealing + a faggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to death a young + horse he was breaking. + </p> + <p> + Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one by one; + and she heard nothing of Herv� de Lanrivain. It might be that her husband + had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of the necklet. Day + after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, night after night alone + on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes at table her husband + looked across at her and smiled; and then she felt sure that Lanrivain was + dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for she was sure her husband + would find out if she did: she had an idea that he could find out + anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted seer, and could show you + the whole world in her crystal, came to the castle for a night�s shelter, + and the maids flocked to her, Anne held back. The winter was long and + black and rainy. One day, in Yves de Cornault�s absence, some gypsies came + to Kerfol with a troop of performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and + cleverest, a white dog with a feathery coat and one blue and one brown + eye. It seemed to have been ill-treated by the gypsies, and clung to her + plaintively when she took it from them. That evening her husband came + back, and when she went to bed she found the dog strangled on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog; but + one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining at the + castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak of him to + her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggled food to + him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and petted him like + a child. + </p> + <p> + Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhound + strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, and + resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would never bring + him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, a brindled + puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snow of the + park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog in, warmed + and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till her husband�s + return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman who lived a long + way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say nothing; but that + night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, and when she opened + it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped up on her with little + sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the next morning was about to + have him taken back to the peasant woman when she heard her husband ride + into the court. She shut the dog in a chest and went down to receive him. + An hour or two later, when she returned to her room, the puppy lay + strangled on her pillow... + </p> + <p> + After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her loneliness + became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of the + castle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the old pointer + at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husband came out of + the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone... + </p> + <p> + This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, or + received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain that the + Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help the + accused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; but what + did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that his wife, to + gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. As for pleading + this trivial disagreement as an excuse for her relations—whatever + their nature—with her supposed accomplice, the argument was so + absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having let her make use of + it, and tried several times to cut short her story. But she went on to the + end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, as though the scenes she evoked + were so real to her that she had forgotten where she was and imagined + herself to be re-living them. + </p> + <p> + At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to her + said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozing + colleagues): �Then you would have us believe that you murdered your + husband because he would not let you keep a pet dog?� + </p> + <p> + �I did not murder my husband.� + </p> + <p> + �Who did, then? Herv� de Lanrivain?� + </p> + <p> + �No.� + </p> + <p> + �Who then? Can you tell us?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes, I can tell you. The dogs—� At that point she was carried out + of the court in a swoon. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line of + defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed convincing + when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first private colloquy; + but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of judicial scrutiny, and + the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed of it, and would have + sacrificed her without a scruple to save his professional reputation. But + the obstinate Judge—who perhaps, after all, was more inquisitive + than kindly—evidently wanted to hear the story out, and she was + ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition. + </p> + <p> + She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing + particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: she + did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar woman came + to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had no heart for + trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made their choice. And + then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her into buying for + herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent in it—she + had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had no desire + for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The pedlar said + that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; but she did not + really believe that, or care much either. However, she bought the thing + and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it about in her hand. + Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to wonder what kind of + spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey bean rolled in a + strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she knew, and a message + from Herv� de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home again and would be at + the door in the court that night after the moon had set... + </p> + <p> + She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and her + husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and there was + nothing to do but to wait... + </p> + <p> + At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even to + the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic + relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message at + night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no means + of sending a warning... + </p> + <p> + She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her + cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, + too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to the + traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had a + strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because he chose + to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate—she + was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling + for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed dishonour. + </p> + <p> + At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the evening + he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to his room. + His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back word that he + was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted + the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his loud regular + breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time + barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing + went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a + sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in the window + watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky was misty and + starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch black. She knew + the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her husband�s door—where + she stopped again to listen to his breathing—to the top of the + stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was + following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the darkness. They + were so steep and winding that she had to go very slowly, for fear of + stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to + make his escape, and hasten back to her room. She had tried the bolt + earlier in the evening, and managed to put a little grease on it; but + nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a squeak... not loud, but it made + her heart stop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise... + </p> + <p> + �What noise?� the prosecution interposed. + </p> + <p> + �My husband�s voice calling out my name and cursing me.� + </p> + <p> + �What did you hear after that?� + </p> + <p> + �A terrible scream and a fall.� + </p> + <p> + �Where was Herv� de Lanrivain at this time?� + </p> + <p> + �He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the + darkness. I told him for God�s sake to go, and then I pushed the door + shut.� + </p> + <p> + �What did you do next?� + </p> + <p> + �I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.� + </p> + <p> + �What did you hear?� + </p> + <p> + �I heard dogs snarling and panting.� (Visible discouragement of the bench, + boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the defense. + Dogs again—! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.) + </p> + <p> + �What dogs?� + </p> + <p> + She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her + answer: �I don�t know.� + </p> + <p> + �How do you mean—you don�t know?� + </p> + <p> + �I don�t know what dogs...� + </p> + <p> + The Judge again intervened: �Try to tell us exactly what happened. How + long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?� + </p> + <p> + �Only a few minutes.� + </p> + <p> + �And what was going on meanwhile overhead?� + </p> + <p> + �The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I + think he moaned once. Then he was quiet.� + </p> + <p> + �Then what happened?� + </p> + <p> + �Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown to + them—gulping and lapping.� + </p> + <p> + (There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and another + attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the inquisitive Judge + was still inquisitive.) + </p> + <p> + �And all the while you did not go up?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—I went up then—to drive them off.� + </p> + <p> + �The dogs?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes.� + </p> + <p> + �Well—?� + </p> + <p> + �When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband�s flint and steel + and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.� + </p> + <p> + �And the dogs?� + </p> + <p> + �The dogs were gone.� + </p> + <p> + �Gone—where to?� + </p> + <p> + �I don�t know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at + Kerfol.� + </p> + <p> + She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her + head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a + moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard to + say: �This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities�—and + the prisoner�s lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and + squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault�s + statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several + months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was no + denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been long + and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead man�s wounds. One of + the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The + suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers hurled + tomes of necromancy at each other. + </p> + <p> + At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance + of the same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of + could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did + not. Then the Judge put his final question: �If the dogs you think you + heard had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them + by their barking?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes.� + </p> + <p> + �Did you recognize them?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes.� + </p> + <p> + �What dogs do you take them to have been?� + </p> + <p> + �My dead dogs,� she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, not + to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical + investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed + with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de + Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband�s family, + who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many + years later, a harmless madwoman. + </p> + <p> + So ends her story. As for that of Herv� de Lanrivain, I had only to apply + to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The evidence + against the young man being insufficient, and his family influence in the + duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon afterward for Paris. He + was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and he appears to have come + almost immediately under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld d�Andilly + and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received into + their Order, and without achieving any particular distinction he followed + its good and evil fortunes till his death some twenty years later. + Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by a pupil of Philippe de + Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Herv� de + Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow + effigy, in the dark dress of the Jansenists, I almost found myself envying + his fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had + happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with + Pascal... + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. MANSTEY�S VIEW + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner�s Magazine, July, 1891 + </h3> + <p> + The view from Mrs. Manstey�s window was not a striking one, but to her at + least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back + room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street where + the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement + would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a + large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only + daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long journey + to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might have joined + her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many years apart that + they had ceased to feel any need of each other�s society, and their + intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of a few perfunctory + letters, written with indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by + Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had she + felt a stronger desire for her daughter�s companionship, Mrs. Manstey�s + increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the three flights of + stairs between her room and the street, would have given her pause on the + eve of undertaking so long a journey; and without perhaps, formulating + these reasons she had long since accepted as a matter of course her + solitary life in New York. + </p> + <p> + She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now + and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. + Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husband�s + lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many years + she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a hen-house and + a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast + of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and + animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling so + fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the most optimistic + eye would at first have failed to discover anything admirable. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting bow-window + where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking bulbs), + looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, however, she + could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost + boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year + the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink. + </p> + <p> + But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part + attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness and + fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments and + frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in + the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but + stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in + spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the + clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, + the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the + broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed her; + hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of the + prospect before her. + </p> + <p> + In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white flowers + against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little way down the + line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of wistaria? Farther + still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff and pink blossoms + above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite yard June was sweet + with the breath of a neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in + spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its welfare. + </p> + <p> + But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey�s view, there was + much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the + houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored + curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor�s window opposite; but + she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks + washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often + show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in + sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; she + knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly painted + house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the stray cats at + nightfall, Mrs. Manstey�s warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion + her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days + forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs. + Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter, beginning: + �Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has been fed,� when the + forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of seed in her hand. + </p> + <p> + But in Mrs. Manstey�s more meditative moods it was the narrowing + perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at + twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid + yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to Europe, + made years ago, and now reduced in her mind�s eye to a pale phantasmagoria + of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was + an artist; at all events she was sensible of many changes of color + unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring + was the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the close + of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of March, when patches + of earth showed through the snow, like ink-spots spreading on a sheet of + white blotting-paper; and, better still, the haze of boughs, leafless but + swollen, which replaced the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched + with a certain interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, + and missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and the + smoke disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not + idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view + surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her + rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the + contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain + green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn + into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor�s anecdotes + about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey�s real friends were the + denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, the + maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his + mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was + the church-spire floating in the sunset. + </p> + <p> + One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside and + eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the door + announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not care for her + landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike resignation. + To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and + the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampson�s unsuggestive face, and Mrs. + Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + </p> + <p> + �The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson,� she + remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the + absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not + likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of + expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she + wished to. + </p> + <p> + �The what, Mrs. Manstey?� inquired the landlady, glancing about the room + as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey�s statement. + </p> + <p> + �The magnolia in the next yard—in Mrs. Black�s yard,� Mrs. Manstey + repeated. + </p> + <p> + �Is it, indeed? I didn�t know there was a magnolia there,� said Mrs. + Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that + there was a magnolia in the next yard! + </p> + <p> + �By the way,� Mrs. Sampson continued, �speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me + that the work on the extension is to begin next week.� + </p> + <p> + �The what?� it was Mrs. Manstey�s turn to ask. + </p> + <p> + �The extension,� said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of + the ignored magnolia. �You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to + build an extension to her house? Yes, ma�am. I hear it is to run right + back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in + these hard times I don�t see; but she always was crazy about building. She + used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly ruined + herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should have + thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess it�s a disease, + like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady did + not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: �Do you + know how high the extension will be?� + </p> + <p> + �That�s the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right up + to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey paused again. �Won�t it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. + Sampson?� she asked. + </p> + <p> + �I should say it would. But there�s no help for it; if people have got a + mind to build extensions there�s no law to prevent �em, that I�m aware + of.� Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. �There is no help for it,� + Mrs. Sampson repeated, �but if I <i>am</i> a church member, I wouldn�t be so + sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I�m glad to + find you so comfortable.� + </p> + <p> + So comfortable—so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned + once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky + with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus had + put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, the magnolia + flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the + wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between + her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise; + presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant world be + blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the dinner-tray brought to + her that evening. She lingered in the window until the windy sunset died + in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she lay sleepless all night. + </p> + <p> + Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but even + through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm—and then the + rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that the + ailanthus was growing dusty. + </p> + <p> + �Of course I might move,� said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the + window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might she + be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. The + room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was as + much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. She + knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light + fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on + their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew which + way to lean to the sun. �We are all too old to move,� she said. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared through + torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the + flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the + building of the extension was to begin. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged + in gathering up the fragments of the boarders� dinner in the basement. The + card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey�s name. + </p> + <p> + �One of Mrs. Sampson�s boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can + give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah,� said Mrs. Black, �tell + the lady I�ll be upstairs in a minute.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with + statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down. + </p> + <p> + Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, + Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + </p> + <p> + �I�m happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please,� the landlady + remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to + build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down. + </p> + <p> + �Is there anything I can do for you, ma�am?� Mrs. Black continued. �My + house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and—� + </p> + <p> + �It is about the extension that I wish to speak,� said Mrs. Manstey, + suddenly. �I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a happy + one. I shall have to talk about myself first to—to make you + understand.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis. + </p> + <p> + �I never had what I wanted,� Mrs. Manstey continued. �It was always one + disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. I + dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was no + sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter married + years ago and went away—besides, she never cared for the same + things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen + years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampson�s, and I have been there ever + since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don�t get out + often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can understand + my sitting a great deal in my window—the back window on the third + floor—� + </p> + <p> + �Well, Mrs. Manstey,� said Mrs. Black, liberally, �I could give you a back + room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex—� + </p> + <p> + �But I don�t want to move; I can�t move,� said Mrs. Manstey, almost with a + scream. �And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I shall + have no view from my window—no view! Do you understand?� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had always + heard that lunatics must be humored. + </p> + <p> + �Dear me, dear me,� she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, + �that is too bad, isn�t it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, the + extension <i>will</i> interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey.� + </p> + <p> + �You do understand?� Mrs. Manstey gasped. + </p> + <p> + �Of course I do. And I�m real sorry about it, too. But there, don�t you + worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door. + </p> + <p> + �What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to + change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I have + two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could + manage, to give you a thousand if—� Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears + were rolling down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + �There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don�t you worry,� repeated Mrs. Black, + soothingly. �I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I can�t stay and + talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with supper + to get—� + </p> + <p> + Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized + her wrist. + </p> + <p> + �You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you + accept my proposition?� + </p> + <p> + �Why, I�ll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldn�t annoy + you for the world—� + </p> + <p> + �But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told,� Mrs. Manstey persisted. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black hesitated. �It shan�t begin, I promise you that; I�ll send word + to the builder this very night.� Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. + </p> + <p> + �You are not deceiving me, are you?� she said. + </p> + <p> + �No—no,� stammered Mrs. Black. �How can you think such a thing of + me, Mrs. Manstey?� + </p> + <p> + Slowly Mrs. Manstey�s clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open + door. �One thousand dollars,� she repeated, pausing in the hall; then she + let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting + herself on the cast-iron railing. + </p> + <p> + �My goodness,� exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, + �I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and + ladylike, too.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was + awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what haste + she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black�s yard was full of workmen. + Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, others + beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each + story of Mrs. Black�s house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. + At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a + settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went back to + bed, not caring to see what was going on. + </p> + <p> + Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she rose + and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were stiffer + than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her. + </p> + <p> + When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen had + removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had multiplied + since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated face, picked + a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the ground; the + next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing. + </p> + <p> + �Look out, Jim,� called one of the men to another who was smoking a pipe, + �if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper you�ll have the + old tinder-box burning down before you know it.� And Mrs. Manstey, leaning + forward, perceived that there were several barrels of paper and rubbish + under the wooden balcony. + </p> + <p> + At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and a + roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the west. + When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, in her + usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and lit it + with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf + in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual + peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their + mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening, and Mrs. + Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the table and began to + knit. + </p> + <p> + That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind + was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose + once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing was + discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These + lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their + extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she + merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her + head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the + kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her + pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, and + a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, led + by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom + of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter darkness + of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as there was + less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she contrived to + unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold wind smote her + as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines. + </p> + <p> + That morning at three o�clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to Mrs. + Black�s door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson�s startled boarders to their + windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black�s house was ablaze, + and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, + leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + </p> + <p> + The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the + house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that + little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and + smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. + Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not + unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open + window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very + ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor�s verdict would be, and + the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson�s table were awestruck + and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. Manstey well; she + �kept to herself,� as they said, and seemed to fancy herself too good for + them; but then it is always disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house + and, as one lady observed to another: �It might just as well have been you + or me, my dear.� + </p> + <p> + But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, lonely + if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. Sampson, with + muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed + remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All day she said + nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter�s address she shook her + head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening + attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she dozed. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. + Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move. + </p> + <p> + �Lift me up—out of bed,� she whispered. + </p> + <p> + They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to the + window. + </p> + <p> + �Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit + there all day,� Mrs. Sampson explained. �It can do her no harm, I + suppose?� + </p> + <p> + �Nothing matters now,� said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The + dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a + golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in + shadow. In Mrs. Black�s yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the + balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire the + builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few + more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more + difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not + understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating + ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was there—the + spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was + alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey�s head fell back and smiling she died. + </p> + <p> + That day the building of the extension was resumed. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOLTED DOOR + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribner�s Magazine, March 1909 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, paused + to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + </p> + <p> + Three minutes to eight. + </p> + <p> + In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of + Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of the + flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual—the + suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the + door-bell would be the beginning of the end—after that there�d be no + going back, by God—no going back! + </p> + <p> + Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room + opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror above + the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon—saw himself + spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but furrowed, gray + about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a spasmodic + straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted him: a tired + middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + </p> + <p> + As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door opened + and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was only + the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy surface of + the old Turkey rug. + </p> + <p> + �Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he�s unexpectedly detained and can�t + be here till eight-thirty.� + </p> + <p> + Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and + harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing + to the servant over his shoulder: �Very good. Put off dinner.� + </p> + <p> + Down his spine he felt the man�s injured stare. Mr. Granice had always + been so mild-spoken to his people—no doubt the odd change in his + manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very + likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table + till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, + propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + </p> + <p> + Another half hour alone with it! + </p> + <p> + He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some + professional matter, no doubt—the punctilious lawyer would have + allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more + especially since Granice, in his note, had said: �I shall want a little + business chat afterward.� + </p> + <p> + But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional + hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, + after all, Granice�s note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt + Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since + he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been + perpetually tinkering with his will. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow + temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks + earlier, at the Century Club. �Yes—my play�s as good as taken. I + shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical + chaps are so slippery—I won�t trust anybody but you to tie the knot + for me!� That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. + Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh—a queer + stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The + absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed + his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + </p> + <p> + He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the writing-table. + In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound in paper folders, + and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been slipped. Next to + the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a moment at these + oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from under the string + and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment + his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some + relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + </p> + <p> + It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of �The + Diversity Theatre.� + </p> + <p> + �<span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Granice</span>: + </p> + <p> + �I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and + it�s no use—the play won�t do. I have talked it over with Miss + Melrose—and you know there isn�t a gamer artist on our stage—and + I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn�t the poetry + that scares her—or me either. We both want to do all we can to help + along the poetic drama—we believe the public�s ready for it, and + we�re willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to + give them what they want. <i>But we don�t believe they could be made to want + this.</i> The fact is, there isn�t enough drama in your play to the allowance + of poetry—the thing drags all through. You�ve got a big idea, but + it�s not out of swaddling clothes. + </p> + <p> + �If this was your first play I�d say: <i>Try again</i>. But it has been just the + same with all the others you�ve shown me. And you remember the result of + �The Lee Shore,� where you carried all the expenses of production + yourself, and we couldn�t fill the theatre for a week. Yet �The Lee Shore� + was a modern problem play—much easier to swing than blank verse. It + isn�t as if you hadn�t tried all kinds—� + </p> + <p> + Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. Why + on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by heart, + when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand out in + letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + </p> + <p> + �<i>It has been just the same with all the others you�ve shown me.</i>� + </p> + <p> + That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting work! + </p> + <p> + �<i>You remember the result of �The Lee Shore.</i>�� + </p> + <p> + Good God—as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now + in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden + resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his + inheritance on testing his chance of success—the fever of + preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the �first night,� the flat fall, + the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of + his friends! + </p> + <p> + �<i>It isn�t as if you hadn�t tried all kinds</i>.� + </p> + <p> + No—he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the + light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and + the lyrical-romantic—finally deciding that he would no longer + �prostitute his talent� to win popularity, but would impose on the public + his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had + offered them everything—and always with the same result. + </p> + <p> + Ten years of it—ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The + ten years from forty to fifty—the best ten years of his life! And if + one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, + preparation—then call it half a man�s life-time: half a man�s + life-time thrown away! + </p> + <p> + And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled that, + thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten minutes past + eight—only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through + his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was + one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown + to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone.... But + why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn�t he cut the knot + himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did + he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living? + </p> + <p> + He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a + small slim ivory toy—just the instrument for a tired sufferer to + give himself a �hypodermic� with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, + while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, + between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he + had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and + lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand + that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his + arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to + his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet + through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran + down his quivering face... + </p> + <p> + He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented + handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples. It was no + use—he knew he could never do it in that way. His attempts at + self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He couldn�t make + himself a real life, and he couldn�t get rid of the life he had. And that + was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + </p> + <p> + The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for + his delay. + </p> + <p> + �I didn�t like to say anything while your man was about—but the fact + is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter—� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, it�s all right,� said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to feel + the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any + recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into + himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures + than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + </p> + <p> + �My dear fellow, it�s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting—especially + the production of an artist like yours.� Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy + luxuriously. �But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.� + </p> + <p> + Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment he + was shaken out of his self-absorption. + </p> + <p> + �MRS. ASHGROVE?� + </p> + <p> + Ascham smiled. �I thought you�d be interested; I know your passion for + causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it�s out of our + line entirely—we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to + consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife�s. + And, by Jove, it <i>is</i> a queer case!� The servant re-entered, and Ascham + snapped his lips shut. + </p> + <p> + Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + </p> + <p> + �No—serve it in the library,� said Granice, rising. He led the way + back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear + what Ascham had to tell him. + </p> + <p> + While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the + library, glancing at his letters—the usual meaningless notes and + bills—and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline + caught his eye. + </p> +<p class="c"> + �ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.<br /> + �THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.� + </p> + <p> + He read on with a thumping heart—found the name of a young author he + had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a �poetic drama,� dance + before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then—she + <i>was</i> �game�—it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted! + </p> + <p> + Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. �I + shan�t need you this evening, Flint. I�ll lock up myself.� + </p> + <p> + He fancied the man�s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, + Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? + Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly + felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to + take a light from Ascham�s cigar. + </p> + <p> + �Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,� he said, seeming to himself to speak + stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + </p> + <p> + �Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there�s not much to <i>tell</i>.� + </p> + <p> + �And you couldn�t if there were?� Granice smiled. + </p> + <p> + �Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice + of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.� + </p> + <p> + �And what�s your impression, now you�ve seen her?� + </p> + <p> + �My impression is, very distinctly, <i>That nothing will ever be known</i>.� + </p> + <p> + �Ah—?� Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + </p> + <p> + �I�m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his + business, and will consequently never be found out. That�s a capital cigar + you�ve given me.� + </p> + <p> + �You like it? I get them over from Cuba.� Granice examined his own + reflectively. �Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals + never <i>are</i> caught?� + </p> + <p> + �Of course I do. Look about you—look back for the last dozen years—none + of the big murder problems are ever solved.� The lawyer ruminated behind + his blue cloud. �Why, take the instance in your own family: I�d forgotten + I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenman�s murder—do + you suppose that will ever be explained?� + </p> + <p> + As the words dropped from Ascham�s lips his host looked slowly about the + library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale + unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was + as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat + slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: �I could explain + the Lenman murder myself.� + </p> + <p> + Ascham�s eye kindled: he shared Granice�s interest in criminal cases. + </p> + <p> + �By Jove! You�ve had a theory all this time? It�s odd you never mentioned + it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case + not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help.� + </p> + <p> + Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in + which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to + try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills + on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of + life—of performing the same automatic gestures another day—displaced + his fleeting vision. + </p> + <p> + �I haven�t a theory. I <i>know</i> who murdered Joseph Lenman.� + </p> + <p> + Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + �You <i>know</i>? Well, who did?� he laughed. + </p> + <p> + �I did,� said Granice, rising. + </p> + <p> + He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he + broke into another laugh. + </p> + <p> + �Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I + suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all + about it! Confession is good for the soul.� + </p> + <p> + Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from + his throat; then he repeated doggedly: �I murdered him.� + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham + did not laugh. + </p> + <p> + �Granice!� + </p> + <p> + �I murdered him—to get his money, as you say.� + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of + amusement, saw his guest�s look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + </p> + <p> + �What�s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.� + </p> + <p> + �It�s not a joke. It�s the truth. I murdered him.� He had spoken painfully + at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated + the words he found they were easier to say. + </p> + <p> + Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + </p> + <p> + �What�s the matter? Aren�t you well? What on earth are you driving at?� + </p> + <p> + �I�m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want + it known that I murdered him.� + </p> + <p> + �<i>You want it known</i>?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes. That�s why I sent for you. I�m sick of living, and when I try to + kill myself I funk it.� He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in + his throat had been untied. + </p> + <p> + �Good Lord—good Lord,� the lawyer gasped. + </p> + <p> + �But I suppose,� Granice continued, �there�s no doubt this would be murder + in the first degree? I�m sure of the chair if I own up?� + </p> + <p> + Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: �Sit down, Granice. Let�s + talk.� + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + </p> + <p> + He began by a quick survey of his early years—the years of drudgery + and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say �no,� had so + signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he died + he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin + found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to + support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at + eighteen in a broker�s office. He loathed his work, and he was always + poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother died, + but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his hands. His + own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, and work harder + than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for + figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to + travel and write—those were his inmost longings. And as the years + dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or + acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried + writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain + could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat + till after dark, and could only �brush up� for dinner, and afterward lie + on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned through the evening + paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, + more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what is + known as �pleasure.� And in summer, when he and Kate went to the sea-side + for a month, he dozed through the days in utter weariness. Once he fell in + love with a charming girl—but what had he to offer her, in God�s + name? She seemed to like him, and in common decency he had to drop out of + the running. Apparently no one replaced him, for she never married, but + grew stoutish, grayish, philanthropic—yet how sweet she had been + when he had first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected... + </p> + <p> + But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his + soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was <i>in him</i>—he could + not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the + years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession—yet with + every year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt + himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process + in his sister�s wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full + of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant—she + had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, + was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the + chance to fulfil! It exasperated him to think of it—and to reflect + that even now a little travel, a little health, a little money, might + transform her, make her young and desirable... The chief fruit of his + experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth—there + is only health as against sickness, wealth as against poverty; and age or + youth as the outcome of the lot one draws. + </p> + <p> + At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean against + the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from his seat, + or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + </p> + <p> + �Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old Lenman—my + mother�s cousin, as you know. Some of the family always mounted guard over + him—generally a niece or so. But that year they were all scattered, + and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if we�d relieve her + of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield + is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family + observances, had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we + should be called on—and there was the saving of rent and the good + air for Kate. So we went. + </p> + <p> + �You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or some + primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan�s microscope. He was large, + undifferentiated, inert—since I could remember him he had done + nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, and cultivate + melons—that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons—his + were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield—his big + kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And + in nearly all of them melons were grown—early melons and late, + French, English, domestic—dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, + colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children—a + staff of trained attendants waited on them. I�m not sure they didn�t have + a doctor to take their temperature—at any rate the place was full of + thermometers. And they didn�t sprawl on the ground like ordinary melons; + they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each melon hung + in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the + sun and air... + </p> + <p> + �It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his + own melons—the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and + motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated + atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of his + existence was not to let himself be �worried.�... I remember his advising + me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate�s bad health, + and her need of a change. �I never let myself worry,� he said + complacently. �It�s the worst thing for the liver—and you look to me + as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You�ll make + yourself happier and others too.� And all he had to do was to write a + cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + </p> + <p> + �The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. + The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. + But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate�s—and one + could picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us + waiting. I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to + him. + </p> + <p> + �Well, I tried to see if I couldn�t reach him through his vanity. I + flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was + taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was + driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, + prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When + he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a + hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the + resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn�t eat as much as a + mouthful of his melons—had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. + �But, after all, it�s my only hobby—why shouldn�t I indulge it?� he + said sentimentally. As if I�d ever been able to indulge any of mine! On + the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + </p> + <p> + �One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag + herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon + with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon—a day + to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one�s eyes on the sky, and let the + cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the + fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph�s hideous black walnut library, I + passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who + dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember + thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about the + melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + </p> + <p> + �Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his fat + hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the + Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon—the + fattest melon I�d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of + contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself + on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a + favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an + egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering—and without stopping to + greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + </p> + <p> + ��Look at it, look at it—did you ever see such a beauty? Such + firmness—roundness—such delicious smoothness to the touch?� It + was as if he had said �she� instead of �it,� and when he put out his + senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + </p> + <p> + �Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had + been specially recommended for the melon-houses—though it was + against my cousin�s principles to employ a Papist—had been assigned + to the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its + existence, as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, + pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be + photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The + Italian had done well—seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And + that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be + shown next day at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to + gaze on its blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned + scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it—drop it crash on the sharp spout + of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale + rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + </p> + <p> + �The old man�s rage was fearful in its impotence—he shook, + spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had + sacked him on the spot, without wages or character—had threatened to + have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. �By God, + and I�ll do it—I�ll write to Washington—I�ll have the pauper + scoundrel deported! I�ll show him what money can do!� As likely as not + there was some murderous Black-hand business under it—it would be + found that the fellow was a member of a �gang.� Those Italians would + murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And + then he grew frightened at his own excitement. �But I must calm myself,� + he said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the + Churchman. He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon + was brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an + hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the + fallen melon. + </p> + <p> + �All the while one phrase of the old man�s buzzed in my brain like the fly + about the melon. �<i>I�ll show him what money can do!</i>� Good heaven! If I + could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of giving + happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him + something about my situation and Kate�s—spoke of my ill-health, my + unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself a name—I + stammered out an entreaty for a loan. �I can guarantee to repay you, sir—I�ve + a half-written play as security...� + </p> + <p> + �I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as an + egg-shell again—his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels + over a slippery rampart. + </p> + <p> + ��A half-written play—a play of <i>yours</i> as security?� He looked at me + almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. �Do you + understand anything of business?� he enquired mildly. I laughed and + answered: �No, not much.� + </p> + <p> + �He leaned back with closed lids. �All this excitement has been too much + for me,� he said. �If you�ll excuse me, I�ll prepare for my nap.� And I + stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.� + </p> + <p> + Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray + set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of + soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham�s dead cigar. + </p> + <p> + �Better light another,� he suggested. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told of + his mounting obsession—how the murderous impulse had waked in him on + the instant of his cousin�s refusal, and he had muttered to himself: �By + God, if you won�t, I�ll make you.� He spoke more tranquilly as the + narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to + act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how the + old man was to be �disposed of.� Suddenly he remembered the outcry: �Those + Italians will murder you for a quarter!� But no definite project presented + itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of + the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of the + old man�s condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, on getting + home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had + been there again—had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up + to the library, and �used threatening language.� The house-keeper found + cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing �something awful.� + The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the police had + ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had �nerves,� and lost his + taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and the + consultation amused and excited the old man—he became once more an + important figure. The medical men reassured the family—too + completely!—and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: + advised him to take whatever �tempted him.� And so one day, tremulously, + prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with + ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering + cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + </p> + <p> + �But you remember the circumstances,� Granice went on; �how suspicion + turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given + him he had been seen hanging about the house since �the scene.� It was + said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest + seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the + explanation he was gone—gone clean out of sight. He had been + �warned� to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that + no one ever laid eyes on him again.� + </p> + <p> + Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer�s, and he + sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. + Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange insistent + object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + </p> + <p> + �It was I who put the stuff in the melon,� he said. �And I don�t want you + to think I�m sorry for it. This isn�t �remorse,� understand. I�m glad the + old skin-flint is dead—I�m glad the others have their money. But + mine�s no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. And + I�ve never had what I wanted.� + </p> + <p> + Ascham continued to stare; then he said: �What on earth was your object, + then?� + </p> + <p> + �Why, to <i>get</i> what I wanted—what I fancied was in reach! I wanted + change, rest, <i>life</i>, for both of us—wanted, above all, for myself, + the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to tie + myself up to my work. And I�ve slaved at it steadily for ten years without + reward—without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will look at + my stuff. And now I�m fifty, and I�m beaten, and I know it.� His chin + dropped forward on his breast. �I want to chuck the whole business,� he + ended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was after midnight when Ascham left. + </p> + <p> + His hand on Granice�s shoulder, as he turned to go—�District + Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!� he had cried; and so, + with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + </p> + <p> + Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that + Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, + elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail—but + without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer�s eye. + </p> + <p> + At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced—but that, as Granice now + perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into + contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met + and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask + suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: �By Jove, Granice you�ll + write a successful play yet. The way you�ve worked this all out is a + marvel.� + </p> + <p> + Granice swung about furiously—that last sneer about the play + inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + </p> + <p> + �I did it, I did it,� he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself + against the impenetrable surface of the other�s mockery; and Ascham + answered with a smile: �Ever read any of those books on hallucination? + I�ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two + if you like...� + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He + understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + </p> + <p> + �Good God—what if they all think me crazy?� + </p> + <p> + The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat—he sat there and + shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to + rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how + incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would + believe him. + </p> + <p> + �That�s the trouble—Ascham�s not a criminal lawyer. And then he�s a + friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, + he�d never let me see it—his instinct would be to cover the whole + thing up... But in that case—if he <i>did</i> believe me—he might + think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...� Granice began to + tremble again. �Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert—one of + those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything—their + word always goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I�d better be shut up, I�ll + be in a strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he�d do it from the kindest + motives—be quite right to do it if he thinks I�m a murderer!� + </p> + <p> + The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting + temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had + not believed his story. + </p> + <p> + �But he did—he did! I can see it now—I noticed what a queer + eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do—what shall I do?� + </p> + <p> + He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham + should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with + him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the + morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and + the movement started a new train of association. + </p> + <p> + He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his + chair. + </p> + <p> + �Give me three-o-ten... yes.� + </p> + <p> + The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would act—act + at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself to some + unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through the + meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like coming + out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the + queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced by these + momentary lulls. + </p> + <p> + �That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... + Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight + home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? It�s rather + urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate �copy.�... All right!� He + hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call up + the editor of the Investigator—Robert Denver was the very man he + needed... + </p> + <p> + Granice put out the lights in the library—it was odd how the + automatic gestures persisted!—went into the hall, put on his hat and + overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator + boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice + passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a + crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare + stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. + But from Denver�s house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as + Granice sprang from his cab the editor�s electric turned the corner. + </p> + <p> + The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered + Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + </p> + <p> + �Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but + this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old.� + </p> + <p> + Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—watched his rise + through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the + Investigator�s editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling hair + there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his + way home in the small hours, used to �bob in� on Granice, while the latter + sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice�s flat on the way to + his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and + Granice�s shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss + the universe. + </p> + <p> + �Well—this is like old times—a good old habit reversed.� The + editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. �Reminds me of the + nights when I used to rout you out... How�s the play, by the way? There <i>is</i> + a play, I suppose? It�s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: + �How�s the baby?�� + </p> + <p> + Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he + had grown. It was evident, even to Granice�s tortured nerves, that the + words had not been uttered in malice—and the fact gave him a new + measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been a + failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham�s irony. + </p> + <p> + �Come in—come in.� The editor led the way into a small cheerful + room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward + his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + </p> + <p> + �Now, then—help yourself. And let�s hear all about it.� + </p> + <p> + He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his + cigar, said to himself: �Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them + stupid.� + </p> + <p> + Then he turned, and began: �Denver, I want to tell you—� + </p> + <p> + The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was + gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the + editor�s face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once the + hour struck—then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere + grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from + Granice�s forehead. + </p> + <p> + �Do you mind if I open the window?� + </p> + <p> + �No. It <i>is</i> stuffy in here. Wait—I�ll do it myself.� Denver pushed + down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. �Well—go on,� he + said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + </p> + <p> + �There�s no use in my going on if you don�t believe me.� + </p> + <p> + The editor remained unmoved. �Who says I don�t believe you? And how can I + tell till you�ve finished?� + </p> + <p> + Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. �It was simple enough, as you�ll + see. From the day the old man said to me, �Those Italians would murder you + for a quarter,� I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It + struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back + in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that + never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, + I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I + wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried + the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for + my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those + no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family + use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked + about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a + foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a + night. I knew the way pretty well, for I�d done it often with the same + lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over + ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms + were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + </p> + <p> + �Well, then came the report about the Italian�s threats, and I saw I must + act at once... I meant to break into the old man�s room, shoot him, and + get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then + we heard that he was ill—that there�d been a consultation. Perhaps + the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only + be!...� + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to + have cooled the room. + </p> + <p> + �Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up from + my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try a bit of + melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her—all Wrenfield was in + a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of the little + French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato—and the + patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + </p> + <p> + �In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew the + ways of the house—I was sure the melon would be brought in over + night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the + ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons didn�t lie + around loose in that house—every one was known, numbered, + catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would eat + them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt + pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It + would have been the devil and all to get into the old man�s bedroom + without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break into the + pantry without much trouble. + </p> + <p> + �It was a cloudy night, too—everything served me. I dined quietly, + and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to + bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a + sort of disguise—red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them + into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a + half-drunken machinist whom I�d never seen before. That served me, too. + They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn�t even + bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going place... + </p> + <p> + �Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was + out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp + pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard + and ulster. Then away again—it was just eleven-thirty when I got to + Wrenfield. + </p> + <p> + �I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped + through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—I + remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By the stable a + dog came out growling—but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went + back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed + by ten. But there might be a prowling servant—the kitchen-maid might + have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I + crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. + It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the + pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, + and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—and + there was the little French melon... only one. + </p> + <p> + �I stopped to listen—I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle + of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. + It was all done inside of three minutes—at ten minutes to twelve I + was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a + back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was + beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the + beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with + and they went down plump, like a dead body—and at two o�clock I was + back at my desk.� + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his + listener; but Denver�s face remained inscrutable. + </p> + <p> + At length he said: �Why did you want to tell me this?� + </p> + <p> + The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had + explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive + had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight + with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the + subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + </p> + <p> + �Why, I—the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose you�d call it...� + </p> + <p> + Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + </p> + <p> + �Remorse? Bosh!� he said energetically. + </p> + <p> + Granice�s heart sank. �You don�t believe in—<i>remorse</i>?� + </p> + <p> + �Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of + remorse proves to me that you�re not the man to have planned and put + through such a job.� + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. �Well—I lied to you about remorse. I�ve never felt + any.� + </p> + <p> + Denver�s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. �What + was your motive, then? You must have had one.� + </p> + <p> + �I�ll tell you—� And Granice began again to rehearse the story of + his failure, of his loathing for life. �Don�t say you don�t believe me + this time... that this isn�t a real reason!� he stammered out piteously as + he ended. + </p> + <p> + Denver meditated. �No, I won�t say that. I�ve seen too many queer things. + There�s always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is + that we find so many for staying in!� Granice�s heart grew light. �Then + you <i>do</i> believe me?� he faltered. + </p> + <p> + �Believe that you�re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven�t the nerve + to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—that�s easy enough, too. But all that + doesn�t make you a murderer—though I don�t say it proves you could + never have been one.� + </p> + <p> + �I <i>have</i> been one, Denver—I swear to you.� + </p> + <p> + �Perhaps.� He meditated. �Just tell me one or two things.� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, go ahead. You won�t stump me!� Granice heard himself say with a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + �Well—how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your + sister�s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, + remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn�t the change in your ways + surprise her?� + </p> + <p> + �No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in + the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town + for a night or two before—before I did the job.� + </p> + <p> + �And that night she went to bed early with a headache?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—blinding. She didn�t know anything when she had that kind. And + her room was at the back of the flat.� + </p> + <p> + Denver again meditated. �And when you got back—she didn�t hear you? + You got in without her knowing it?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes. I went straight to my work—took it up at the word where I�d + left off—<i>Why, denver, don�t you remember</i>?� Granice suddenly, + passionately interjected. + </p> + <p> + �Remember—?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes; how you found me—when you looked in that morning, between two + and three... your usual hour...?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes,� the editor nodded. + </p> + <p> + Granice gave a short laugh. �In my old coat—with my pipe: looked as + if I�d been working all night, didn�t I? Well, I hadn�t been in my chair + ten minutes!� + </p> + <p> + Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. �I didn�t know + whether <i>you</i> remembered that.� + </p> + <p> + �What?� + </p> + <p> + �My coming in that particular night—or morning.� + </p> + <p> + Granice swung round in his chair. �Why, man alive! That�s why I�m here + now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked + round to see what all the old man�s heirs had been doing that night—you + who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual.... I + thought <i>that</i> would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else + would!� + </p> + <p> + Denver smiled. �Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough—and + the idea�s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi + to establish your guilt.� + </p> + <p> + �That�s it—that�s it!� Granice�s laugh had a ring of triumph. + </p> + <p> + �Well, but how about the other chap�s testimony—I mean that young + doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don�t you remember my testifying + that I�d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to + smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: �All right; you�ll find him in. I + passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as + usual.� And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she + corroborated his statement, you remember.� + </p> + <p> + �Yes; I remember.� + </p> + <p> + �Well, then?� + </p> + <p> + �Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old + coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you + fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I + counted on that, and knew you�d take any vague outline as mine.� + </p> + <p> + �Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the + shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if + you�d fallen asleep.� + </p> + <p> + �Yes; and she was right. It <i>did</i> move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray must + have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something gave my + mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the + table.� + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing + heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not + sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the + law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow + for the incalculableness of human impulses. + </p> + <p> + �Well?� Granice faltered out. + </p> + <p> + Denver stood up with a shrug. �Look here, man—what�s wrong with you? + Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I�d like to take you to + see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—who�s a wonder at + pulling fellows in your state out of their hole—� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, oh—� Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed + each other. �You don�t believe me, then?� + </p> + <p> + �This yarn—how can I? There wasn�t a flaw in your alibi.� + </p> + <p> + �But haven�t I filled it full of them now?� + </p> + <p> + Denver shook his head. �I might think so if I hadn�t happened to know that + you <i>wanted</i> to. There�s the hitch, don�t you see?� + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. �No, I didn�t. You mean my wanting to be found guilty—?� + </p> + <p> + �Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been + worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn�t + do much credit to your ingenuity.� + </p> + <p> + Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? But + on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. �Look here, Denver—I + daresay you�re right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my + statement in the Investigator, just as I�ve made it. Ridicule it as much + as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it—men who + don�t know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I don�t + care a damn whether <i>you</i> believe me—what I want is to convince the + Grand Jury! I oughtn�t to have come to a man who knows me—your + cursed incredulity is infectious. I don�t put my case well, because I know + in advance it�s discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. + That�s why I can�t convince <i>you</i>. It�s a vicious circle.� He laid a hand on + Denver�s arm. �Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the paper.� + </p> + <p> + But Denver did not warm to the idea. �My dear fellow, you seem to forget + that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every + possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to + believe that you murdered old Lenman—you or anybody else. All they + wanted was a murderer—the most improbable would have served. But + your alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you�ve told me has + shaken it.� Denver laid his cool hand over the other�s burning fingers. + �Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case—then come + in and submit it to the Investigator.� + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The perspiration was rolling off Granice�s forehead. Every few minutes he + had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his haggard + face. + </p> + <p> + For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case to + the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with + Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience on + the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval between he + had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at + once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it + impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him that the + only way of averting that hideous peril was by establishing, in some sane + impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even if he had not been so + incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed now the only alternative + to the strait-jacket. + </p> + <p> + As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at + his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing + hand. �I don�t expect you to believe me now—but can�t you put me + under arrest, and have the thing looked into?� + </p> + <p> + Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy + face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to keep + watch over impulses not strictly professional. + </p> + <p> + �Well, I don�t know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I�m + bound to look into your statement—� + </p> + <p> + Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn�t + have said that if he hadn�t believed him! + </p> + <p> + �That�s all right. Then I needn�t detain you. I can be found at any time + at my apartment.� He gave the address. + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. �What do you say to + leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I�m giving a little supper at + Rector�s—quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose—I + think you know her—and a friend or two; and if you�ll join us...� + </p> + <p> + Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made. + </p> + <p> + He waited for four days—four days of concentrated horror. During the + first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham�s alienist dogged him; and as + that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal + had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been + going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before + now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how + little the story had impressed him! + </p> + <p> + Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate + himself. He was chained to life—a �prisoner of consciousness.� Where + was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In the + glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a + sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable <i>selfness</i>, + keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever + known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of + self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark windings. Often + he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something + material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—and + as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own + loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance. + </p> + <p> + Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window + at the awakening activities of the street—at the street-cleaners, + the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by + through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of them—any of them—to + take his chance in any of their skins! They were the toilers—the men + whose lot was pitied—the victims wept over and ranted about by + altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load + of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no—the + iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was hand-cuffed to + his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man rather than another? The + only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, + would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that morning? + </p> + <p> + On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the + succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He + hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a + moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: a + policeman, a �secret agent,� or some other mysterious emissary of the law? + </p> + <p> + On the third morning Flint, stepping softly—as if, confound it! his + master were ill—entered the library where Granice sat behind an + unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + </p> + <p> + Granice read the name—J. B. Hewson—and underneath, in pencil, + �From the District Attorney�s office.� He started up with a thumping + heart, and signed an assent to the servant. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty—the + kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. �Just the + type of the successful detective,� Granice reflected as he shook hands + with his visitor. + </p> + <p> + And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. + He had been sent by the District Attorney to have �a quiet talk� with Mr. + Granice—to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the + Lenman murder. + </p> + <p> + His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice�s + self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man—a man who knew his + business—it would be easy enough to make <i>him</i> see through that + ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one + himself—to prove his coolness—began again to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever before. + Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener�s detached, impartial attitude + helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at least, had not decided in + advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of being trusted made him more + lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time his words would certainly carry + conviction... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him + stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too + smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man�s nimble glance + followed Granice�s. + </p> + <p> + �Sure of the number, are you?� he asked briskly. + </p> + <p> + �Oh, yes—it was 104.� + </p> + <p> + �Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up—that�s certain.� + </p> + <p> + He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick + and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of + tottering tenements and stables. + </p> + <p> + �Dead sure?� he repeated. + </p> + <p> + �Yes,� said Granice, discouraged. �And even if I hadn�t been, I know the + garage was just opposite Leffler�s over there.� He pointed across the + street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words + �Livery and Boarding� were still faintly discernible. + </p> + <p> + The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. �Well, that�s + something—may get a clue there. Leffler�s—same name there, + anyhow. You remember that name?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—distinctly.� + </p> + <p> + Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the interest + of the Explorer�s �smartest� reporter. If there were moments when he + hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed impossible + that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, peering, + listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite + sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, �like a + leech,� as he phrased it—jumped at it, thrilled to it, and settled + down to �draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go till he + had.� No one else had treated Granice in that way—even Allonby�s + detective had not taken a single note. And though a week had elapsed since + the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been heard from the + District Attorney�s office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter + again. But McCarren wasn�t going to drop it—not he! He positively + hung on Granice�s footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the + previous day together, and now they were off again, running down clues. + </p> + <p> + But at Leffler�s they got none, after all. Leffler�s was no longer a + stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between + sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a hospital + for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a blear-eyed old + woman who knew nothing of Flood�s garage across the way—did not even + remember what had stood there before the new flat-house began to rise. + </p> + <p> + �Well—we may run Leffler down somewhere; I�ve seen harder jobs + done,� said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + </p> + <p> + As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine tone: + �I�d undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put me on + the track of that cyanide.� + </p> + <p> + Granice�s heart sank. Yes—there was the weak spot; he had felt it + from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was + strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his + rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + </p> + <p> + �Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I�m due at the office now. Besides, it�d be no + use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up tomorrow + or next day?� + </p> + <p> + He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + </p> + <p> + Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in + demeanor. + </p> + <p> + �Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the + bard says. Can�t get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say + you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes,� said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + �Who bought it, do you know?� + </p> + <p> + Granice wrinkled his brows. �Why, Flood—yes, Flood himself. I sold + it back to him three months later.� + </p> + <p> + �Flood? The devil! And I�ve ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of + business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.� + </p> + <p> + Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + </p> + <p> + �That brings us back to the poison,� McCarren continued, his note-book + out. �Just go over that again, will you?� + </p> + <p> + And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the time—and + he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he decided on + poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured chemicals; and + there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing business—just + the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that suspicion might + turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous + course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom + irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his profession, + amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the exercise of which + he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the habit of dropping in to + smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat + in Venn�s work-shop, at the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant + Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of + deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious + tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a cheerful + crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, experimenters in divers forms + of expression. Coming and going among so many, it was easy enough to pass + unperceived; and one afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned + home, found himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the + cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket. + </p> + <p> + But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long since + dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the house in + Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting + life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their + obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge + the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. + </p> + <p> + �And there�s the third door slammed in our faces.� He shut his note-book, + and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on + Granice�s furrowed face. + </p> + <p> + �Look here, Mr. Granice—you see the weak spot, don�t you?� + </p> + <p> + The other made a despairing motion. �I see so many!� + </p> + <p> + �Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want + this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?� + </p> + <p> + Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his quick + light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life would + believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and Granice + racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw the + reporter�s face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + </p> + <p> + �Mr. Granice—has the memory of it always haunted you?� + </p> + <p> + Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. �That�s it—the + memory of it... always...� + </p> + <p> + McCarren nodded vehemently. �Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn�t let you + sleep? The time came when you <i>had</i> to make a clean breast of it?� + </p> + <p> + �I had to. Can�t you understand?� + </p> + <p> + The reporter struck his fist on the table. �God, sir! I don�t suppose + there�s a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can�t picture + the deadly horrors of remorse—� + </p> + <p> + The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the + word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable motive + the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he said, once + one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the case became so + many incentives to effort. + </p> + <p> + �Remorse—<i>remorse</i>,� he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue + with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and + Granice, perversely, said to himself: �If I could only have struck that + note I should have been running in six theatres at once.� + </p> + <p> + He saw that from that moment McCarren�s professional zeal would be fanned + by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose that they + should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall or theatre. + It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an object of + pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a kind of gray + penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren�s attention on his case; and to + feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. + He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the meaningless + performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense of the reporter�s + observation. + </p> + <p> + Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: + he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every + physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his + kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren�s + attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on + his own problem. + </p> + <p> + �See that fellow over there—the little dried-up man in the third + row, pulling his moustache? <i>His</i> memoirs would be worth publishing,� + McCarren said suddenly in the last entr�acte. + </p> + <p> + Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby�s + office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being + shadowed. + </p> + <p> + �Caesar, if <i>he</i> could talk—!� McCarren continued. �Know who he is, of + course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country—� + </p> + <p> + Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. �<i>That</i> + man—the fourth from the aisle? You�re mistaken. That�s not Dr. + Stell.� + </p> + <p> + McCarren laughed. �Well, I guess I�ve been in court enough to know Stell + when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead + insanity.� + </p> + <p> + A cold shiver ran down Granice�s spine, but he repeated obstinately: + �That�s not Dr. Stell.� + </p> + <p> + �Not Stell? Why, man, I <i>know</i> him. Look—here he comes. If it isn�t + Stell, he won�t speak to me.� + </p> + <p> + The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared + McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + </p> + <p> + �How�do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain�t it?� the reporter + cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of amicable + assent, passed on. + </p> + <p> + Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken—the man who + had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: a + physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him insane, + like the others—had regarded his confession as the maundering of a + maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror—he seemed to see the + mad-house gaping for him. + </p> + <p> + �Isn�t there a man a good deal like him—a detective named J. B. + Hewson?� + </p> + <p> + But he knew in advance what McCarren�s answer would be. �Hewson? J. B. + Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough—I + guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his + name.� + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District + Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + </p> + <p> + But when they were face to face Allonby�s jovial countenance showed no + sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned across + his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + </p> + <p> + Granice broke out at once: �That detective you sent me the other day—� + </p> + <p> + Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + </p> + <p> + �—I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?� + </p> + <p> + The other�s face did not lose its composure. �Because I looked up your + story first—and there�s nothing in it.� + </p> + <p> + �Nothing in it?� Granice furiously interposed. + </p> + <p> + �Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don�t you bring me proofs? + I know you�ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that + little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been able to make + out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?� + </p> + <p> + Granice�s lips began to tremble. �Why did you play me that trick?� + </p> + <p> + �About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it�s part of my business. Stell <i>is</i> + a detective, if you come to that—every doctor is.� + </p> + <p> + The trembling of Granice�s lips increased, communicating itself in a long + quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry throat. + �Well—and what did he detect?� + </p> + <p> + �In you? Oh, he thinks it�s overwork—overwork and too much smoking. + If you look in on him some day at his office he�ll show you the record of + hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. + It�s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the + same.� + </p> + <p> + �But, Allonby, I killed that man!� + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney�s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an + almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the + call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + </p> + <p> + �Sorry, my dear fellow—lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some + morning,� Allonby said, shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the + alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting + time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped + back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to Allonby + he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have + deceived him as to the alienist�s diagnosis? What if he were really being + shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth + out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + </p> + <p> + The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment to + the conditions of their previous meeting. �We have to do that + occasionally, Mr. Granice; it�s one of our methods. And you had given + Allonby a fright.� + </p> + <p> + Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to produce + the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last talk with the + physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken for a symptom of + derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell�s allusion. + </p> + <p> + �You think, then, it�s a case of brain-fag—nothing more?� + </p> + <p> + �Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a + good deal, don�t you?� + </p> + <p> + He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or + any form of diversion that did not—that in short— + </p> + <p> + Granice interrupted him impatiently. �Oh, I loathe all that—and I�m + sick of travelling.� + </p> + <p> + �H�m. Then some larger interest—politics, reform, philanthropy? + Something to take you out of yourself.� + </p> + <p> + �Yes. I understand,� said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + �Above all, don�t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,� the + doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + </p> + <p> + On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like + his—the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his + guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case + like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a play: + the great alienist who couldn�t read a man�s mind any better than that! + </p> + <p> + Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + </p> + <p> + But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness + returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham he + found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been + carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. + Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood on + the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself + despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in the + sluggish circle of his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh + recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take + it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, + another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire to + establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as an + irresponsible dreamer—even if he had to kill himself in the end, he + would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from + it. + </p> + <p> + He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had been + published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a brief + statement from the District Attorney�s office, and the rest of his + communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged him + to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of his + delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread the + reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the words he + kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. His inner self + became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours reciting + and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, which he constantly + retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity languished under the + lack of an audience, the sense of being buried beneath deepening drifts of + indifference. In a passion of resentment he swore that he would prove + himself a murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and + for a sleepless night or two the thought flamed red on his darkness. But + daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse was lacking and he hated + too promiscuously to choose his victim... So he was thrown back on the + unavailing struggle to impose the truth of his story. As fast as one + channel closed on him he tried to pierce another through the sliding sands + of incredulity. But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race + leagued together to cheat one man of the right to die. + </p> + <p> + Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last shred + of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really the victim + of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of holiday-makers jeering + at a poor creature in its blind dashes against the solid walls of + consciousness? But, no—men were not so uniformly cruel: there were + flaws in the close surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and + pity here and there... + </p> + <p> + Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons + more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities + of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation. + The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit seen + between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista + Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole + orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would be easier to convince + a chance idler in the street than the trained intelligence hampered by a + sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up in him with the tropic + luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he began to walk the streets, + and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the + impartial stranger to whom he should disclose himself. + </p> + <p> + At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he + always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that his + first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, + intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he sought. + He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous motions of + the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence of the average + face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a beginning—once + sitting down at a man�s side in a basement chop-house, another day + approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both cases the + premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His dread of + being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an unnatural + keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and he had + provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, + trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + </p> + <p> + He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at + irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, + and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a world so + remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the mysterious + sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one identity to + another—yet the other as unescapably himself! + </p> + <p> + One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in him. + Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing conditions. + He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire which alone + attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not always, of + course—he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. And he + could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and + indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull + brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless + millions paused, listened, believed... + </p> + <p> + It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side docks, + looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his + eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the + face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and not + till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the shabby + reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. + Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air—certainly he felt + calmer than for many days... + </p> + <p> + He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked + up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him—they + were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in + Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + </p> + <p> + At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a + votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, after + all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and he felt + tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted trees, + making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat + alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made him stop + before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, had + hardly looked at the women�s faces as they passed. His case was man�s + work: how could a woman help him? But this girl�s face was extraordinary—quiet + and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a hundred images of space, + distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed by a + familiar wharf, but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in + their shrouds... Certainly this girl would understand. He went up to her + quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms—wishing her to see at + once that he was �a gentleman.� + </p> + <p> + �I am a stranger to you,� he began, sitting down beside her, �but your + face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face I�ve + waited for... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you—� + </p> + <p> + The girl�s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + </p> + <p> + In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by the + arm. + </p> + <p> + �Here—wait—listen! Oh, don�t scream, you fool!� he shouted + out. + </p> + <p> + He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. + Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard + within him was loosened and ran to tears. + </p> + <p> + �Ah, you know—you <i>know</i> I�m guilty!� + </p> + <p> + He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl�s frightened + face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It was the + policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, the crowd + at his heels... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + In the charming place in which he found himself there were so many + sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty + of making himself heard. + </p> + <p> + It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested for + murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he needed + rest, and the time to �review� his statements; it appeared that + reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To this end + he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet establishment, + with an open space and trees about it, where he had found a number of + intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged in preparing or + reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to lend an + interested ear to his own recital. + </p> + <p> + For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of + this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part an + encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really brilliant + and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his old doubts. + Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had less power to aid + him than they boasted. His interminable conferences resulted in nothing, + and as the benefit of the long rest made itself felt, it produced an + increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction more and more + unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days visitors from the + outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote out long and + logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively slipped them + into the hands of these messengers of hope. + </p> + <p> + This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived only + to watch for the visitors� days, and scan the faces that swept by him like + stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + </p> + <p> + Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his + companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, a + kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his �statements� + afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out into + the open seas of life. + </p> + <p> + One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, a pair + of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He sprang up + and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + </p> + <p> + The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a + startled deprecating, �<i>Why</i>—?� + </p> + <p> + �You didn�t know me? I�m so changed?� Granice faltered, feeling the + rebound of the other�s wonder. + </p> + <p> + �Why, no; but you�re looking quieter—smoothed out,� McCarren smiled. + </p> + <p> + �Yes: that�s what I�m here for—to rest. And I�ve taken the + opportunity to write out a clearer statement—� + </p> + <p> + Granice�s hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from + his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a + tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild + thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + </p> + <p> + �Perhaps your friend—he <i>is</i> your friend?—would glance over it—or + I could put the case in a few words if you have time?� Granice�s voice + shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope + was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former + glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + �I�m sorry we can�t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend + has an engagement, and we�re rather pressed—� + </p> + <p> + Granice continued to proffer the paper. �I�m sorry—I think I could + have explained. But you�ll take this, at any rate?� + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at him gently. �Certainly—I�ll take it.� He had + his hand out. �Good-bye.� + </p> + <p> + �Good-bye,� Granice echoed. + </p> + <p> + He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light + hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they + were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning + to hope again, already planning a new statement. + </p> + <p> + Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist�s + companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred + windows. + </p> + <p> + �So that was Granice?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—that was Granice, poor devil,� said McCarren. + </p> + <p> + �Strange case! I suppose there�s never been one just like it? He�s still + absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?� + </p> + <p> + �Absolutely. Yes.� + </p> + <p> + The stranger reflected. �And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? + No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow + like that—where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever + get the least clue to it?� + </p> + <p> + McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in + contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze + on his companion. + </p> + <p> + �That was the queer part of it. I�ve never spoken of it—but I <i>did</i> + get a clue.� + </p> + <p> + �By Jove! That�s interesting. What was it?� + </p> + <p> + McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. �Why—that it wasn�t a + delusion.� + </p> + <p> + He produced his effect—the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + </p> + <p> + �He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest + accident, when I�d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.� + </p> + <p> + �He murdered him—murdered his cousin?� + </p> + <p> + �Sure as you live. Only don�t split on me. It�s about the queerest + business I ever ran into... <i>Do about it</i>? Why, what was I to do? I couldn�t + hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, + and had him stowed away safe in there!� + </p> + <p> + The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice�s statement in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + �Here—take this; it makes me sick,� he said abruptly, thrusting the + paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the + gates. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DILETTANTE + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Harper�s Monthly, December 1903 + </h3> + <p> + It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself + advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as + usual into Mrs. Vervain�s street. + </p> + <p> + The �as usual� was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way of + bridging the interval—in days and other sequences—that lay + between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he + instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from + the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending + it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved + dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his + call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that + episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the + talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, he + had felt the dilettante�s irresistible craving to take a last look at a + work of art that was passing out of his possession. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpected + than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things for + granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that she + owed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale had + made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, of + telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. The + latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a + picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: it + was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered with the + debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the privilege of + loving her is one of the least favors that a charming woman can accord; + and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had developed a + science of evasion in which the woman of the moment became a mere + implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment to the + cultivation of this art. The perils from which it had been his refuge + became naively harmless: was it possible that he who now took his easy way + along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights of emotion? + Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the satisfaction of feeling + that he had entered earlier than most into that chiar�oscuro of sensation + where every half-tone has its value. + </p> + <p> + As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable to Mrs. + Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray their feelings, but + he had never before had such fine material to work in. She had been + surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of making the most + awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly undressing + her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline of his reticences + and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and perhaps more remarkable + in that it involved keeping time with any tune he played and reading at + sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + </p> + <p> + It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but the + result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had been perfect: + her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he had announced + his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed a difficulty; a + deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent, it was agreed to + see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence in the completeness + of his method. It had been his pride never to put himself in a position + which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; but here, as he + perceived, the main portals would have opened for him of their own accord. + All this, and much more, he read in the finished naturalness with which + Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He had never seen a better piece of + work: there was no over-eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and + this gave her art the grace of a natural quality) there were none of those + damnable implications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend�s + betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady in + complacency. So masterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset + of Miss Gaynor�s door-step words—�To be so kind to me, how she must + have liked you!�—though he caught himself wishing it lay within the + bounds of fitness to transmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman + he knew who was unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps + the one drawback to his new situation that it might develop good things + which it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend�s powers, + the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his distrust of her + efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her street instead of + going on to the club. He would show her that he knew how to value her; he + would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and more + delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. Incidentally, he would + also dispose of the interval of time before dinner: ever since he had seen + Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he had + been wondering how he should put in the rest of the afternoon. It was + absurd, how he missed the girl.... Yes, that was it; the desire to talk + about her was, after all, at the bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. + Vervain! It was absurd, if you like—but it was delightfully + rejuvenating. He could recall the time when he had been afraid of being + obvious: now he felt that this return to the primitive emotions might be + as restorative as a holiday in the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by + the girl�s candor, her directness, her lack of complications, that he was + taken. The sense that she might say something rash at any moment was + positively exhilarating: if she had thrown her arms about him at the + station he would not have given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It + surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of heart he brought to the + adventure; and though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his + intactness to any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that + his sentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain was at home—as usual. When one visits the cemetery one + expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as + another proof of his friend�s good taste that she had been in no undue + haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on his + coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though there + had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once enveloped + him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted + to her very furniture. + </p> + <p> + It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. + Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + </p> + <p> + �You?� she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. + </p> + <p> + It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The + difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale�s balance. + </p> + <p> + �Why not?� he said, restoring the book. �Isn�t it my hour?� And as she + made no answer, he added gently, �Unless it�s some one else�s?� + </p> + <p> + She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. �Mine, merely,� she + said. + </p> + <p> + �I hope that doesn�t mean that you�re unwilling to share it?� + </p> + <p> + �With you? By no means. You�re welcome to my last crust.� + </p> + <p> + He looked at her reproachfully. �Do you call this the last?� + </p> + <p> + She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. �It�s a way of + giving it more flavor!� + </p> + <p> + He returned the smile. �A visit to you doesn�t need such condiments.� + </p> + <p> + She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. + </p> + <p> + �Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste,� she confessed. + </p> + <p> + Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into the + imprudence of saying, �Why should you want it to be different from what + was always so perfectly right?� + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. �Doesn�t the fact that it�s the last constitute a + difference?� + </p> + <p> + �The last—my last visit to you?� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, metaphorically, I mean—there�s a break in the continuity.� + </p> + <p> + Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already! + </p> + <p> + �I don�t recognize it,� he said. �Unless you make me—� he added, + with a note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. + </p> + <p> + She turned to him with grave eyes. �You recognize no difference whatever?� + </p> + <p> + �None—except an added link in the chain.� + </p> + <p> + �An added link?� + </p> + <p> + �In having one more thing to like you for—your letting Miss Gaynor + see why I had already so many.� He flattered himself that this turn had + taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. �Was it that you came for?� + she asked, almost gaily. + </p> + <p> + �If it is necessary to have a reason—that was one.� + </p> + <p> + �To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?� + </p> + <p> + �To tell you how she talks about you.� + </p> + <p> + �That will be very interesting—especially if you have seen her since + her second visit to me.� + </p> + <p> + �Her second visit?� Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and moved + to another. �She came to see you again?� + </p> + <p> + �This morning, yes—by appointment.� + </p> + <p> + He continued to look at her blankly. �You sent for her?� + </p> + <p> + �I didn�t have to—she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt + you have seen her since.� + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his + thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. �I saw her off just + now at the station.� + </p> + <p> + �And she didn�t tell you that she had been here again?� + </p> + <p> + �There was hardly time, I suppose—there were people about—� he + floundered. + </p> + <p> + �Ah, she�ll write, then.� + </p> + <p> + He regained his composure. �Of course she�ll write: very often, I hope. + You know I�m absurdly in love,� he cried audaciously. + </p> + <p> + She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the + chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a + pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. �Oh, my poor Thursdale!� she + murmured. + </p> + <p> + �I suppose it�s rather ridiculous,� he owned; and as she remained silent, + he added, with a sudden break—�Or have you another reason for + pitying me?� + </p> + <p> + Her answer was another question. �Have you been back to your rooms since + you left her?� + </p> + <p> + �Since I left her at the station? I came straight here.� + </p> + <p> + �Ah, yes—you <i>could</i>: there was no reason—� Her words passed + into a silent musing. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale moved nervously nearer. �You said you had something to tell me?� + </p> + <p> + �Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your rooms.� + </p> + <p> + �A letter? What do you mean? A letter from <i>her</i>? What has happened?� + </p> + <p> + His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. �Nothing has + happened—perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always <i>hated</i>, you + know,� she added incoherently, �to have things happen: you never would let + them.� + </p> + <p> + �And now—?� + </p> + <p> + �Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To + know if anything had happened.� + </p> + <p> + �Had happened?� He gazed at her slowly. �Between you and me?� he said with + a rush of light. + </p> + <p> + The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them + that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. + </p> + <p> + �You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are + you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?� + </p> + <p> + His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: �I supposed it might have struck you that + there were times when we presented that appearance.� + </p> + <p> + He made an impatient gesture. �A man�s past is his own!� + </p> + <p> + �Perhaps—it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. + But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is + naturally inexperienced.� + </p> + <p> + �Of course—but—supposing her act a natural one—� he + floundered lamentably among his innuendoes—�I still don�t see—how + there was anything—� + </p> + <p> + �Anything to take hold of? There wasn�t—� + </p> + <p> + �Well, then—?� escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did + not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: �She can + hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!� + </p> + <p> + �But she does,� said Mrs. Vervain. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no trace of + jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear the candid + ring of the girl�s praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an abyss of + insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, she must at + least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. + The situation seemed one through which one could no longer move in a + penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the direct query: �Won�t you + explain what you mean?� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong his + distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it + was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was + the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she had + lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted, + that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. + </p> + <p> + At last she said slowly: �She came to find out if you were really free.� + </p> + <p> + Thursdale colored again. �Free?� he stammered, with a sense of physical + disgust at contact with such crassness. + </p> + <p> + �Yes—if I had quite done with you.� She smiled in recovered + security. �It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for + definitions.� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—well?� he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + </p> + <p> + �Well—and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she + wanted me to define <i>my</i> status—to know exactly where I had stood all + along.� + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. + �And even when you had told her that—� + </p> + <p> + �Even when I had told her that I had <i>had</i> no status—that I had never + stood anywhere, in any sense she meant,� said Mrs. Vervain, slowly—�even + then she wasn�t satisfied, it seems.� + </p> + <p> + He uttered an uneasy exclamation. �She didn�t believe you, you mean?� + </p> + <p> + �I mean that she <i>did</i> believe me: too thoroughly.� + </p> + <p> + �Well, then—in God�s name, what did she want?� + </p> + <p> + �Something more—those were the words she used.� + </p> + <p> + �Something more? Between—between you and me? Is it a conundrum?� He + laughed awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + �Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbidden to + contemplate the relation of the sexes.� + </p> + <p> + �So it seems!� he commented. �But since, in this case, there wasn�t any—� + he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. + </p> + <p> + �That�s just it. The unpardonable offence has been—in our not + offending.� + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down despairingly. �I give it up!—What did you tell + her?� he burst out with sudden crudeness. + </p> + <p> + �The exact truth. If I had only known,� she broke off with a beseeching + tenderness, �won�t you believe that I would still have lied for you?� + </p> + <p> + �Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?� + </p> + <p> + �To save you—to hide you from her to the last! As I�ve hidden you + from myself all these years!� She stood up with a sudden tragic import in + her movement. �You believe me capable of that, don�t you? If I had only + guessed—but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth + out of me with a spring.� + </p> + <p> + �The truth that you and I had never—� + </p> + <p> + �Had never—never in all these years! Oh, she knew why—she + measured us both in a flash. She didn�t suspect me of having haggled with + you—her words pelted me like hail. �He just took what he wanted—sifted + and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap of + cinders. And you let him—you let yourself be cut in bits�—she + mixed her metaphors a little—�be cut in bits, and used or discarded, + while all the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he�s + Shylock—and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut + out of you.� But she despises me the most, you know—far the most—� + Mrs. Vervain ended. + </p> + <p> + The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they seemed + out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind of + intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without + perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand opera-singer + had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, + but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils of + reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + </p> + <p> + His first words were characteristic. �She <i>does</i> despise me, then?� he + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + �She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the heart.� + </p> + <p> + He was excessively pale. �Please tell me exactly what she said of me.� + </p> + <p> + �She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that while she + understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been opened to the + many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an + unwillingness to be taken with reservations—she thinks you would + have loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The point of + view is original—she insists on a man with a past!� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, a past—if she�s serious—I could rake up a past!� he said + with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + �So I suggested: but she has her eyes on this particular portion of it. She + insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had done to + me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling her.� + </p> + <p> + Thursdale drew a difficult breath. �I never supposed—your revenge is + complete,� he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + He heard a little gasp in her throat. �My revenge? When I sent for you to + warn you—to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?� + </p> + <p> + �You�re very good—but it�s rather late to talk of saving me.� He + held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + </p> + <p> + �How you must care!—for I never saw you so dull,� was her answer. + �Don�t you see that it�s not too late for me to help you?� And as he + continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: �Take the rest—in + imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied + to her—she�s too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, + I sha�n�t have been wasted.� + </p> + <p> + His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look + back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to + need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept + them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this contact + of naked souls. + </p> + <p> + It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but something + in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went up to his + friend and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + �You would do it—you would do it!� + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + </p> + <p> + �Good-by,� he said, kissing it. + </p> + <p> + �Good-by? You are going—?� + </p> + <p> + �To get my letter.� + </p> + <p> + �Your letter? The letter won�t matter, if you will only do what I ask.� + </p> + <p> + He returned her gaze. �I might, I suppose, without being out of character. + Only, don�t you see that if your plan helped me it could only harm her?� + </p> + <p> + �Harm <i>her</i>?� + </p> + <p> + �To sacrifice you wouldn�t make me different. I shall go on being what I + have always been—sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want + my punishment to fall on <i>her</i>?� + </p> + <p> + She looked at him long and deeply. �Ah, if I had to choose between you—!� + </p> + <p> + �You would let her take her chance? But I can�t, you see. I must take my + punishment alone.� + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand away, sighing. �Oh, there will be no punishment for + either of you.� + </p> + <p> + �For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me.� + </p> + <p> + She shook her head with a slight laugh. �There will be no letter.� + </p> + <p> + Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. �No + letter? You don�t mean—� + </p> + <p> + �I mean that she�s been with you since I saw her—she�s seen you and + heard your voice. If there <i>is</i> a letter, she has recalled it—from the + first station, by telegraph.� + </p> + <p> + He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. �But in the + mean while I shall have read it,� he said. + </p> + <p> + The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness + of the room. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + �Above all,� the letter ended, �don�t leave Siena without seeing Doctor + Lombard�s Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or a + madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of the + Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring its + remotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, which + came to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one of the + missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according to the + most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched example of the + best period. + </p> + <p> + �Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; but we + struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Siena three + years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may get a peep + at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for I hear he + refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in my monograph on + the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me, and if you + can�t persuade him to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at least + jot down a detailed description of the picture and get from him all the + facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments have offered + him a large advance on his purchase, but that he refuses to sell at any + price, though he certainly can�t afford such luxuries; in fact, I don�t + see where he got enough money to buy the picture. He lives in the Via Papa + Giulio.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant sat at the table d�hote of his hotel, re-reading his friend�s letter + over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena without having found + time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifference to the + opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to the strange + red city and he was still under the spell of its more conspicuous wonders—the + brick palaces flinging out their wrought-iron torch-holders with a gesture + of arrogant suzerainty; the great council-chamber emblazoned with civic + allegories; the pageant of Pope Julius on the Library walls; the Sodomas + smiling balefully through the dusk of mouldering chapels—and it was + only when his first hunger was appeased that he remembered that one course + in the banquet was still untasted. + </p> + <p> + He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a nod + to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous eyes + and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing the + <i>Fanfulla di Domenica</i>. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned the + nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to the + ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just restoring + the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the + lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + �Pardon me, sir,� he said in measured English, and with an intonation of + exquisite politeness; �you have let this letter fall.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant, recognizing his friend�s note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, + took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he + perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a + gaze of melancholy interrogation. + </p> + <p> + �Again pardon me,� the young man at length ventured, �but are you by + chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?� + </p> + <p> + �No,� returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of foreign + advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded politeness: + �Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his house. I see it is + not given here.� + </p> + <p> + The young man brightened perceptibly. �The number of the house is + thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you—it is well known in + Siena. It is called,� he continued after a moment, �the House of the Dead + Hand.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared. �What a queer name!� he said. + </p> + <p> + �The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred + years has been above the door.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: �If + you would have the kindness to ring twice.� + </p> + <p> + �To ring twice?� + </p> + <p> + �At the doctor�s.� The young man smiled. �It is the custom.� + </p> + <p> + It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the mid-blue, + and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-colored hills. For + nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching the shadows race + across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in the west; then he + decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The map in his + guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of the streets which + radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course, pausing at every + other step to fill his eye with some fresh image of weather-beaten beauty. + The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the sunshine and hanging like a + funereal baldachin above the projecting cornices of Doctor Lombard�s + street, and Wyant walked for some distance in the shade of the beetling + palace fronts before his eye fell on a doorway surmounted by a sallow + marble hand. He stood for a moment staring up at the strange emblem. The + hand was a woman�s—a dead drooping hand, which hung there convulsed + and helpless, as though it had been thrust forth in denunciation of some + evil mystery within the house, and had sunk struggling into death. + </p> + <p> + A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that the + English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing through a + glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with a plaster + �sculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing the �sculapius + was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-rope he remembered + his unknown friend�s injunction, and rang twice. + </p> + <p> + His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and small + close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, his card, and + his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, cold ante-chamber + floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click down an interminable + corridor, and after some delay she returned and told him to follow her. + </p> + <p> + They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but loftily + vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph of Scipio or + Alexander—martial figures following Wyant with the filmed melancholy + gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he was admitted to a + smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing more + obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry which had + faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that the young + man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. Against these + hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt feet, and at a table in + the window three persons were seated: an elderly lady who was warming her + hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a strip of needle-work, and an old + man. + </p> + <p> + As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious of + staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure, dressed + with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, lean, vulpine, + eagle-beaked as that of some art-loving despot of the Renaissance: a head + combining the venerable hair and large prominent eyes of the humanist with + the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant, in musing on the Italian + portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had often fancied that only in + that period of fierce individualism could types so paradoxical have been + produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who committed them to the bronze had + never drawn a face more strangely stamped with contradictory passions than + that of Doctor Lombard. + </p> + <p> + �I am glad to see you,� he said to Wyant, extending a hand which seemed a + mere framework held together by knotted veins. �We lead a quiet life here + and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clyde�s is welcome.� + Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he added dryly: �My + wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde.� + </p> + <p> + �Oh yes—he used to make me such nice toast; they don�t understand + toast in Italy,� said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice. + </p> + <p> + It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard�s manner and appearance + to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconsciently and + ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed a protest + against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, with pale cheeks + netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portrait sustained a + bogwood watch-chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a heap of + knitting and an old copy of <i>The Queen</i>. + </p> + <p> + The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of her + mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her small head + was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she might have had + a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of her round + mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression implied ill-temper or + apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between the fierce vitality + of the doctor�s age and the inanimateness of his daughter�s youth. + </p> + <p> + Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young man tried + to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some random remark + on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent, and Doctor + Lombard interposed with a smile: �My dear sir, my wife considers Siena a + most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed by the cheapness of the + marketing; but she deplores the total absence of muffins and cannel coal, + and cannot resign herself to the Italian method of dusting furniture.� + </p> + <p> + �But they don�t, you know—they don�t dust it!� Mrs. Lombard + protested, without showing any resentment of her husband�s manner. + </p> + <p> + �Precisely—they don�t dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we have + not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of the Mangia. Can + you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yet dared to write it + home to her aunts at Bonchurch.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her views, + and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant�s embarrassment, planted + himself suddenly before the young man. + </p> + <p> + �And now,� said he, �do you want to see my Leonardo?� + </p> + <p> + �<i>Do I</i>?� cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + </p> + <p> + The doctor chuckled. �Ah,� he said, with a kind of crooning deliberation, + �that�s the way they all behave—that�s what they all come for.� He + turned to his daughter with another variation of mockery in his smile. + �Don�t fancy it�s for your <i>beaux yeux</i>, my dear; or for the mature charms + of Mrs. Lombard,� he added, glaring suddenly at his wife, who had taken up + her knitting and was softly murmuring over the number of her stitches. + </p> + <p> + Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued, + addressing himself to Wyant: �They all come—they all come; but many + are called and few are chosen.� His voice sank to solemnity. �While I + live,� he said, �no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But I will + not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would send an + unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the + picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him—if you can.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment to put in + his appeal for a photograph. + </p> + <p> + �Well, sir,� he said, �you know Clyde wants me to take away all I can of + it.� + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. �You�re welcome to take away all you + can carry,� he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter: �That is, if + he has your permission, Sybilla.� + </p> + <p> + The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a key from a + secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continued in the + same note of grim jocularity: �For you must know that the picture is not + mine—it is my daughter�s.� + </p> + <p> + He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyant turned + on the young girl�s impassive figure. + </p> + <p> + �Sybilla,� he pursued, �is a votary of the arts; she has inherited her + fond father�s passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, she also + recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and having seen the + Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyond my reach, + she took a step which deserves to go down to history: she invested her + whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus enabling me to + spend my closing years in communion with one of the world�s masterpieces. + My dear sir, could Antigone do more?� + </p> + <p> + The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one of the + tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door. + </p> + <p> + �Come,� said Doctor Lombard, �let us go before the light fails us.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + </p> + <p> + �No, no,� said his host, �my wife will not come with us. You might not + suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for art—Italian + art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorian school.� + </p> + <p> + �Frith�s Railway Station, you know,� said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. �I like + an animated picture.� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry to let her + father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrow stone + passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred, and Wyant + noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fitted another key + into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a small room. The dark + panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams of yellow light + slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in the central + brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet. + </p> + <p> + �A little too bright, Sybilla,� said Doctor Lombard. His face had grown + solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew a linen + drapery across the upper part of the window. + </p> + <p> + �That will do—that will do.� He turned impressively to Wyant. �Do + you see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there—keep + your left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord.� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind the + velvet curtain. + </p> + <p> + �Ah,� said the doctor, �one moment: I should like you, while looking at + the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla—� + </p> + <p> + Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptness which + proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began to recite, + in a full round voice like her mother�s, St. Bernard�s invocation to the + Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise. + </p> + <p> + �Thank you, my dear,� said her father, drawing a deep breath as she ended. + �That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares one better than + anything I know for the contemplation of the picture.� + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo appeared + in its frame of tarnished gold: + </p> + <p> + From the nature of Miss Lombard�s recitation Wyant had expected a sacred + subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the composition was + gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain. + </p> + <p> + In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale calcareous + landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucified Christ hung + livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of the foreground, + however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair of marble with + bas-reliefs of dancing m�nads. Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled with + minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled that of + Dosso Dossi�s Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely fluted lines + from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high forehead the + crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; one hand drooped on + the arm of her chair; the other held up an inverted human skull, into + which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown and sidelong as the St. John of the + Louvre, poured a stream of wine from a high-poised flagon. At the lady�s + feet lay the symbols of art and luxury: a flute and a roll of music, a + platter heaped with grapes and roses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and + a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; behind her, on the chalky + hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll in a corner of the foreground + bore the legend: <i>Lux Mundi</i>. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly toward + his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her hand on the + cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange + Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in rapt + contemplation of his treasure. + </p> + <p> + Wyant addressed the young girl. + </p> + <p> + �You are fortunate,� he said, �to be the possessor of anything so + perfect.� + </p> + <p> + �It is considered very beautiful,� she said coldly. + </p> + <p> + �Beautiful—<i>beautiful</i>!� the doctor burst out. �Ah, the poor, worn + out, over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the language fresh + enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightness has been + worn off by misuse. Think of the things that have been called beautiful, + and then look at <i>that</i>!� + </p> + <p> + �It is worthy of a new vocabulary,� Wyant agreed. + </p> + <p> + �Yes,� Doctor Lombard continued, �my daughter is indeed fortunate. She has + chosen what Catholics call the higher life—the counsel of + perfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity of + understanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with an + untouched masterpiece of Leonardo�s? Think of the happiness of being + always under the influence of such a creation; of living <i>into</i> it; of + partaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; the + sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young life + to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, point out + some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will appreciate them.� + </p> + <p> + The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing away from + him, she pointed to the canvas. + </p> + <p> + �Notice the modeling of the left hand,� she began in a monotonous voice; + �it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the naked genius will + remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it is more purely + pagan and is turned a little less to the right. The embroidery on the + cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of this plant have burst + through the vase. This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet�s character + in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and the serpent, + emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have not yet been able to + decipher.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + </p> + <p> + �And the picture itself?� he said. �How do you explain that? <i>Lux Mundi</i>—what + a curious device to connect with such a subject! What can it mean?� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not included in + her lesson. + </p> + <p> + �What, indeed?� the doctor interposed. �What does life mean? As one may + define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundred different + meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted as a well-cut + diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it she who is the true + <i>Lux Mundi</i>—the light reflected from jewels and young eyes, from + polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is that the + Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is this lady + the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, with her back + turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? Something of both + these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to me it symbolizes + rather the central truth of existence: that all that is raised in + incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love, religion; that all + our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us by the mysterious + genius of a remote and cruel past.� + </p> + <p> + The doctor�s face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten itself and + become taller. + </p> + <p> + �Ah,� he cried, growing more dithyrambic, �how lightly you ask what it + means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who have given + my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated its tomb, laid + open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle, bone, and + artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poets and + humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled and + doubted with �neas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed to + its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in neolithic + caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrils of the + arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I stand abashed + and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It means nothing—it + means all things. It may represent the period which saw its creation; it + may represent all ages past and to come. There are volumes of meaning in + the tiniest emblem on the lady�s cloak; the blossoms of its border are + rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don�t ask what it means, + young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for having seen it!� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + �Don�t excite yourself, father,� she said in the detached tone of a + professional nurse. + </p> + <p> + He answered with a despairing gesture. �Ah, it�s easy for you to talk. You + have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, and every moment + counts!� + </p> + <p> + �It�s bad for you,� she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + The doctor�s sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He dropped into a + seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drew the curtain + across the picture. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was slipping + from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde�s wish for a photograph. He now + understood the meaning of the laugh with which Doctor Lombard had given + him leave to carry away all the details he could remember. The picture was + so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed with elusive and contradictory + suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed suddenly before it, + must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of confused wonder. Yet how + valuable to Clyde the record of such a work would be! In some ways it + seemed to be the summing up of the master�s thought, the key to his + enigmatic philosophy. + </p> + <p> + The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His daughter + unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to the room in which + they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there, and he could + think of no excuse for lingering. + </p> + <p> + He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in the middle + of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + </p> + <p> + �It is very good of you,� he said, �to allow one even a glimpse of such a + treasure.� + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with her odd directness. �You will come again?� she said + quickly; and turning to her father she added: �You know what Professor + Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the picture + without seeing it again.� + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a + trance. + </p> + <p> + �Eh?� he said, rousing himself with an effort. + </p> + <p> + �I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to + tell Professor Clyde about it,� Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary + precision of tone. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being + divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. + </p> + <p> + �Well, well,� the doctor muttered, �I don�t say no—I don�t say no. I + know what Clyde wants—I don�t refuse to help him.� He turned to + Wyant. �You may come again—you may make notes,� he added with a + sudden effort. �Jot down what occurs to you. I�m willing to concede that.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant again caught the girl�s eye, but its emphatic message perplexed him. + </p> + <p> + �You�re very good,� he said tentatively, �but the fact is the picture is + so mysterious—so full of complicated detail—that I�m afraid no + notes I could make would serve Clyde�s purpose as well as—as a + photograph, say. If you would allow me—� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard�s brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. + </p> + <p> + �A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people + have been allowed to set foot in that room! A <i>photograph</i>?� + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. + </p> + <p> + �I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having any + reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let me take + a photograph for his personal use—not to be reproduced in his book, + but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the photograph + myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you wished it, only + one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you + when he had done with it.� + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. �When he had done with it? + Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, + drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by every + ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of every + art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I�d as soon give you the picture itself: why + don�t you ask for that?� + </p> + <p> + �Well, sir,� said Wyant calmly, �if you will trust me with it, I�ll engage + to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but Clyde�s see + it while it is out of your keeping.� + </p> + <p> + The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst + into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + �Upon my soul!� he said with sardonic good humor. + </p> + <p> + It was Miss Lombard�s turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words + and her father�s unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her + depth. + </p> + <p> + �Well, sir, am I to take the picture?� Wyant smilingly pursued. + </p> + <p> + �No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind that,—nothing + that can be reproduced. Sybilla,� he cried with sudden passion, �swear to + me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No photograph, no sketch—now + or afterward. Do you hear me?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes, father,� said the girl quietly. + </p> + <p> + �The vandals,� he muttered, �the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it + would ever get into their hands I�d burn it first, by God!� He turned to + Wyant, speaking more quietly. �I said you might come back—I never + retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde + shall see the notes you make.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant was growing warm. + </p> + <p> + �If you won�t trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to show + my notes!� he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + </p> + <p> + �Humph!� he said; �would they be of much use to anybody?� + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience. + </p> + <p> + �To Clyde, I hope, at any rate,� he answered, holding out his hand. The + doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: �When + shall I come, sir?� + </p> + <p> + �To-morrow—to-morrow morning,� cried Miss Lombard, speaking + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + �The picture is hers,� he said to Wyant. + </p> + <p> + In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had admitted + him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar the door. As + the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm. + </p> + <p> + �You have a letter?� she said in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + �A letter?� He stared. �What letter?� + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at its + scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above the + entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into the + passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning. But + the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about Doctor Lombard�s + house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and her father? Above + all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did not look like a person + capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; and there had been + moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + </p> + <p> + The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellow light, + and the young man turned his steps toward the church of San Domenico, in + the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodoma�s St. Catherine. + </p> + <p> + The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he had to + grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation of the + sunset, the saint�s figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk, and + the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to + glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the + accidental collaboration of light and color. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the ground at + his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet of note-paper, + folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearing the + superscription:— + </p> + <p> + To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from? He was + distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air, close to his + feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; then he turned and + looked about the church. There was only one figure in it, that of a man + who knelt near the high altar. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard�s maid-servant. Was + this the letter she had asked for? Had he been unconsciously carrying it + about with him all the afternoon? Who was Count Ottaviano Celsi, and how + came Wyant to have been chosen to act as that nobleman�s ambulant + letter-box? + </p> + <p> + Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to explore his + pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the mystery; + but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and he was + reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand to have + bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood motionless + before the picture. + </p> + <p> + At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and + turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d�hote. + </p> + <p> + The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + </p> + <p> + �I do not intrude?� he inquired suavely. + </p> + <p> + Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, glancing + about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + </p> + <p> + �I see,� he remarked with a smile, �that you know the hour at which our + saint should be visited.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + </p> + <p> + The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + </p> + <p> + �What grace! What poetry!� he murmured, apostrophizing the St. Catherine, + but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + </p> + <p> + �But it is cold here—mortally cold; you do not find it so?� The + intruder put on his hat. �It is permitted at this hour—when the + church is empty. And you, my dear sir—do you not feel the dampness? + You are an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover + the head when they are engaged in the study of the paintings.� + </p> + <p> + He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant�s hat. + </p> + <p> + �Permit me—cover yourself!� he said a moment later, holding out the + hat with an ingratiating gesture. + </p> + <p> + A light flashed on Wyant. + </p> + <p> + �Perhaps,� he said, looking straight at the young man, �you will tell me + your name. My own is Wyant.� + </p> + <p> + The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted + card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. +</pre> + <p> + �I am much obliged to you,� said Wyant; �and I may as well tell you that + the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat + is not there, but in my pocket.� + </p> + <p> + He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. + </p> + <p> + �And now,� Wyant continued, �you will perhaps be good enough to tell me + what all this means.� + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this + request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. + </p> + <p> + �I suppose you know,� Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of the + other�s discomfiture, �that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. I + don�t yet understand what part I have been made to play, but it�s evident + that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, and I + propose to know the reason why.� + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + �Sir,� he pleaded, �you permit me to speak?� + </p> + <p> + �I expect you to,� cried Wyant. �But not here,� he added, hearing the + clank of the verger�s keys. �It is growing dark, and we shall be turned + out in a few minutes.� + </p> + <p> + He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into the + deserted square. + </p> + <p> + �Now,� said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + </p> + <p> + The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to + speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. + </p> + <p> + �My dear sir—my dear Mr. Wyant—you find me in an abominable + position—that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have + taken advantage of you—yes! I have counted on your amiability, your + chivalry—too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was + to oblige a lady�—he laid a hand on his heart—�a lady whom I + would die to serve!� He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate + English swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some + difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case. + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Siena some + months previously, on business connected with his mother�s property; the + paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient city his father was + syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Count had met the + incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with + her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor + Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of settlements + arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was possessed of a small + property in her own right, had a short time before invested the whole + amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo. Thereupon Count + Ottaviano�s parents had politely suggested that she should sell the + picture and thus recover her independence; and this proposal being met by + a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent to + their son�s marriage. The young lady�s attitude had hitherto been one of + passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and would never + venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known to Ottaviano her + intention of not giving him up, of waiting patiently till events should + take a more favorable turn. She seemed hardly aware, the Count said with a + sigh, that the means of escape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, + and had a right to sell the picture, and to marry without asking her + father�s consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep himself + before her, to remind her that he, too, was waiting and would never give + her up. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade Sybilla + to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or to correspond; + they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and had several times, + the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctor�s visitors as a means + of exchanging letters. + </p> + <p> + �And you told the visitors to ring twice?� Wyant interposed. + </p> + <p> + The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. Wyant + blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The young lady + had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of pledging her + unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his + purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his + fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her to sell + the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every detail was complete; + if she would but have the courage to carry out his instructions he would + answer for the result. His idea was that she should secretly retire to a + convent of which his aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that + stronghold should transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser + ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano + whispered, considerably in excess of the young lady�s original + inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by + force from Doctor Lombard�s house, and his daughter, being safely in the + convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to the removal. + Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough to refuse his consent to + her marriage, she had only to make a <i>sommation respectueuse</i>, and at the + end of the prescribed delay no power on earth could prevent her becoming + the wife of Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + Wyant�s anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was + absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the first + stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart whenever + he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of the + business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new + Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had + unwittingly performed. + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + �I won�t deprive you any longer,� he said, �of the pleasure of reading + your letter.� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, you + will take a message from me—the letter she expected this afternoon?� + </p> + <p> + �The letter she expected?� Wyant paused. �No, thank you. I thought you + understood that where I come from we don�t do that kind of thing—knowingly.� + </p> + <p> + �But, sir, to serve a young lady!� + </p> + <p> + �I�m sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true�—the + Count�s expressive hands resented the doubt—�but remember that if I + am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who + has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture.� + </p> + <p> + �<i>His</i> picture? Hers!� + </p> + <p> + �Well, the house is his, at all events.� + </p> + <p> + �Unhappily—since to her it is a dungeon!� + </p> + <p> + �Why doesn�t she leave it, then?� exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + </p> + <p> + The Count clasped his hands. �Ah, how you say that—with what force, + with what virility! If you would but say it to <i>her</i> in that tone—you, + her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; the + father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he would + kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she + remains in that house!� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, come,� said Wyant lightly, �they seem to understand each other well + enough. But in any case, you must see that I can�t interfere—at + least you would if you were an Englishman,� he added with an escape of + contempt. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Wyant�s affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with his + land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of Count + Ottaviano�s story. + </p> + <p> + The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account of + his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of + distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and lived + either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His wife + owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the second + son, came there from time to time to look into its management. The eldest + son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt of Count + Ottaviano�s was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in Siena. At + one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most amiable and + accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the strange + Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to the + adjustment of the young lady�s dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very + properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, who + was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for coming to + Siena to inspect his mother�s estate. + </p> + <p> + Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano�s personality the story had a tinge + of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs of the + House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another aspect. + It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a + suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could + tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken + purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard�s fate was being played out? + Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the lives + within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa with + sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + </p> + <p> + One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems; and + that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant�s entrance, raised a placidly + wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had + been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a + cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + �What a nice morning!� she said; �it must be delightful weather at + Bonchurch.� + </p> + <p> + Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its + threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with + clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond + the opposite houses. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised at + his reappearance he said at once: �I have come back to study Miss + Lombard�s picture.� + </p> + <p> + �Oh, the picture—� Mrs. Lombard�s face expressed a gentle + disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter + sensibilities. �It�s an original Leonardo, you know,� she said + mechanically. + </p> + <p> + �And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have + inherited her father�s love for art.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: �It�s unusual in so + young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. �That�s what I say! I was quite different + at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit of + fancy-work. Not that I couldn�t sketch, too; I had a master down from + London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room now—I + did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked a picnic, + too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I + say it�s more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and do + crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything else. I was + taught that there were other things.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not + resist another question. �And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?� + </p> + <p> + Her mother looked troubled. + </p> + <p> + �Sybilla is so clever—she says I don�t understand. You know how + self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of me, now—he + knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very particular; I was + brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always respected them. He + says himself that he wouldn�t for the world miss hearing my opinion on any + subject; you may have noticed that he often refers to my tastes. He has + always respected my preference for living in England; he likes to hear me + give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in my ideas that he often + says he knows just what I am going to say before I speak. But Sybilla does + not care for what I think—� + </p> + <p> + At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. �The + servant is a fool; she didn�t tell me you were here.� His eye turned to + his wife. �Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About the + aunts at Bonchurch, I�ll be bound!� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his + hooked fingers, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + �Mrs. Lombard�s aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the + circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from the + curate�s wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a year, + and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets� wives. They devoted + themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think I may say + without boasting that Mrs. Lombard�s conversation shows marked traces of + the advantages she enjoyed.� + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + �I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular.� + </p> + <p> + �Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in anything + but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets every + spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the student + of human nature.� Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. �But we are missing + an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down + the passageway. + </p> + <p> + The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner + radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady�s + flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like + precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on the + previous day. + </p> + <p> + He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic + grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and + seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + </p> + <p> + �Now, then,� he said, �tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth.� + </p> + <p> + He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws of + a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant�s notebook with the obvious intention + of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations + which Doctor Lombard�s strange household excited, sat motionless for a few + minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages of the + note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture + at length roused him, and he began to write. + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to + unlock it, and his daughter entered. + </p> + <p> + She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + �Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come back + this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; he says + he can�t wait.� + </p> + <p> + �The devil!� cried her father impatiently. �Didn�t you tell him—� + </p> + <p> + �Yes; but he says he can�t come back. If you want to see him you must come + now.� + </p> + <p> + �Then you think there�s a chance?—� + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + </p> + <p> + �You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment.� + </p> + <p> + He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise at + being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for hardly + had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her small + face pale and tumultuous. + </p> + <p> + �I arranged it—I must speak to you,� she gasped. �He�ll be back in + five minutes.� + </p> + <p> + Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him at + the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture + overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a + voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. + </p> + <p> + �How can I help you?� he said with a rush of compassion. + </p> + <p> + �Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it�s so + difficult—he watches me—he�ll be back immediately.� + </p> + <p> + �Try to tell me what I can do.� + </p> + <p> + �I don�t dare; I feel as if he were behind me.� She turned away, fixing + her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. �There he comes, and I + haven�t spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be + hurried.� + </p> + <p> + �I don�t hear any one,� said Wyant, listening. �Try to tell me.� + </p> + <p> + �How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain.� She + drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge—�Will you come here again + this afternoon—at about five?� she whispered. + </p> + <p> + �Come here again?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes—you can ask to see the picture,—make some excuse. He will + come with you, of course; I will open the door for you—and—and + lock you both in�—she gasped. + </p> + <p> + �Lock us in?� + </p> + <p> + �You see? You understand? It�s the only way for me to leave the house—if + I am ever to do it�—She drew another difficult breath. �The key will + be returned—by a safe person—in half an hour,—perhaps + sooner—� + </p> + <p> + She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for + support. + </p> + <p> + �Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + </p> + <p> + �I can�t, Miss Lombard,� he said at length. + </p> + <p> + �You can�t?� + </p> + <p> + �I�m sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider—� + </p> + <p> + He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit to + pause in its dash for a hole! + </p> + <p> + Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + </p> + <p> + �I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is + impossible. Can�t I talk to you again? Perhaps—� + </p> + <p> + �Oh,� she cried, starting up, �there he comes!� + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard�s step sounded in the passage. + </p> + <p> + Wyant held her fast. �Tell me one thing: he won�t let you sell the + picture?� + </p> + <p> + �No—hush!� + </p> + <p> + �Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that.� + </p> + <p> + �The future?� + </p> + <p> + �In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven�t promised?� + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + �Don�t, then; remember that.� + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + </p> + <p> + As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of ravaged + brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange face, seen + momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as part of an + inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached out like the + cry of an imprisoned anguish. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away impatiently. + </p> + <p> + �Rubbish!� he said to himself. �<i>She</i> isn�t walled in; she can get out if + she wants to.� + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard�s aid: he was + elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped into the + express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldo he was + convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followed the only + reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that the priest and the + Levite had probably justified themselves in much the same manner. + </p> + <p> + A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly relieved + from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A paragraph in the + morning paper announced the sudden death of Doctor Lombard, the + distinguished English dilettante who had long resided in Siena. Wyant�s + justification was complete. Our blindest impulses become evidence of + perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events. + </p> + <p> + Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular complications from + which his foresight had probably saved him. The climax was unexpectedly + dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a step which, whatever its issue, + would have burdened her with retrospective compunction, had been set free + before her suitor�s ardor could have had time to cool, and was now + doubtless planning a life of domestic felicity on the proceeds of the + Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as odd—he saw no mention + of the sale of the picture. He had scanned the papers for an immediate + announcement of its transfer to one of the great museums; but presently + concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filial piety, had wished to avoid an + appearance of unseemly haste in the disposal of her treasure, he dismissed + the matter from his mind. Other affairs happened to engage him; the months + slipped by, and gradually the lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in + his mind. + </p> + <p> + It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him again to + Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He + found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard�s street, and + glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse of the + doctor�s house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its threshold. + The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an admirable + frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard�s marriage. + </p> + <p> + �The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, signore.� + </p> + <p> + �Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?� + </p> + <p> + �For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the + Maremma.� + </p> + <p> + �But what happened—why was the marriage broken?� + </p> + <p> + The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + </p> + <p> + �And Miss Lombard still lives in her father�s house?� + </p> + <p> + �Yes, signore; she is still there.� + </p> + <p> + �And the Leonardo—� + </p> + <p> + �The Leonardo, also, is still there.� + </p> + <p> + The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered + Count Ottaviano�s injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to think + that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented the + marriage? If Doctor Lombard�s death had been long delayed, time might have + acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady�s resolve have failed; but it + seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which Wyant had left the + lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + </p> + <p> + As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed a + reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like an + emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and imminent + which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range. Wyant + could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with the + ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work. + </p> + <p> + A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to the + tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs. Lombard + and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might + shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was still + knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above the + brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of + needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen + her engaged. + </p> + <p> + Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, and + learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had somehow + never done so. + </p> + <p> + �I am sorry not to see my aunts again,� Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; �but + Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year.� + </p> + <p> + �Next year, perhaps,� murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to + suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + </p> + <p> + She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hair + enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her + cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has + darkened in drying. + </p> + <p> + �And Professor Clyde—is he well?� Mrs. Lombard asked affably; + continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: �Surely, Sybilla, Mr. + Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the + Leonardo?� + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of + his friend�s well-being. + </p> + <p> + �Ah—perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena,� she said, + sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued a + pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: �And you still + have the picture?� + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes and looked at him. �Should you like to see it?� she + asked. + </p> + <p> + On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same + secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down + the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making + Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the + curtain back from the picture. + </p> + <p> + The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared + to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of + their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to + Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould of + darkness and oblivion. + </p> + <p> + He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + �Ah, I understand—you couldn�t part with it, after all!� he cried. + </p> + <p> + �No—I couldn�t part with it,� she answered. + </p> + <p> + �It�s too beautiful,—too beautiful,�—he assented. + </p> + <p> + �Too beautiful?� She turned on him with a curious stare. �I have never + thought it beautiful, you know.� + </p> + <p> + He gave back the stare. �You have never—� + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. �It�s not that. I hate it; I�ve always hated it. But + he wouldn�t let me—he will never let me now.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised + him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. + Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the + pronoun not refer to her father? + </p> + <p> + �You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the picture?� + </p> + <p> + �No—he prevented me; he will always prevent me.� + </p> + <p> + There was another pause. �You promised him, then, before his death—� + </p> + <p> + �No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me.� Her voice sank + to a whisper. �I was free—perfectly free—or I thought I was + till I tried.� + </p> + <p> + �Till you tried?� + </p> + <p> + �To disobey him—to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. + I tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me.� + </p> + <p> + She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to + Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence. + </p> + <p> + �And you can�t�—he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the + pitch of hers. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. �I can�t lock him out; I can + never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another chance.� + </p> + <p> + Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + </p> + <p> + �Oh�—he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + </p> + <p> + �It is too late,� she said; �but you ought to have helped me that day.� + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith +Wharton, Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + +***** This file should be named 295-h.htm or 295-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/295/ + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, Part 1 (of 10) + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Posting Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #295] +Release Date: July, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss + + + + + + + + + +THE EARLY SHORT FICTION OF EDITH WHARTON + +By Edith Wharton + +A Ten-Volume Collection + +Volume One + + + +Contents of Volume One + + Stories + KERFOL.........................March 1916 + MRS. MANSTEY'S VIEW............July 1891 + THE BOLTED DOOR................March 1909 + THE DILETTANTE.................December 1903 + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND.....August 1904 + + +The following works not included in the present eBook: + + Verse + THE PARTING DAY................February 1880 + AEROPAGUS......................March 1880 + A FAILURE......................April 1880 + PATIENCE.......................April 1880 + WANTS..........................May 1880 + THE LAST GIUSTIANINI...........October 1889 + EURYALUS.......................December 1889 + HAPPINESS......................December 1889 + + + Bibliography + + EDITH WHARTON BIBLIOGRAPHY: + SHORT STORIES AND POEMS........Judy Boss + + + + + +KERFOL + +As first published in Scribner's Magazine, March 1916 + + + + +I + + +"You ought to buy it," said my host; "it's just the place for a +solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to +own the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are dead +broke, and it's going for a song--you ought to buy it." + +It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friend +Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociable +exterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I took +his hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoring +over to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road +on a heath, and said: "First turn to the right and second to the left. +Then straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, +don't ask your way. They don't understand French, and they would pretend +they did and mix you up. I'll be back for you here by sunset--and don't +forget the tombs in the chapel." + +I followed Lanrivain's directions with the hesitation occasioned by the +usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn +to the right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met a +peasant I should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray; +but I had the desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the right +turn and walked on across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so +unlike any other avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must +be THE avenue. The grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great +height and then interwove their pale-grey branches in a long tunnel +through which the autumn light fell faintly. I know most trees by name, +but I haven't to this day been able to decide what those trees were. +They had the tall curve of elms, the tenuity of poplars, the ashen +colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they stretched ahead of me for +half a mile or more without a break in their arch. If ever I saw an +avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was the avenue at Kerfol. +My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it. + +Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall. +Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other grey +avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossed +with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with +wild shrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had been +replaced by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood +for a long time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and +letting the influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: "If I wait +long enough, the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs--" and I +rather hoped he wouldn't turn up too soon. + +I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, it +struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blind +house looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. It +may have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of my +gesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a +brake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto +the grass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, +of littleness, of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my +cigarette-smoke into the face of such a past. + +I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol--I was new to Brittany, and +Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before--but +one couldn't as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a +long accumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared to +guess: perhaps only the sheer weight of many associated lives and deaths +which gives a kind of majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of +Kerfol suggested something more--a perspective of stern and cruel +memories stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of +darkness. + +Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with the +present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to the +sky, it might have been its own funeral monument. "Tombs in the chapel? +The whole place is a tomb!" I reflected. I hoped more and more that the +guardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking, +would seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and I +wanted only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + +"It's the very place for you!" Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by +the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that +Kerfol was the place for him. "Is it possible that any one could NOT +see--?" I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was +undefinable. I stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning +to want to know more; not to SEE more--I was by now so sure it was not +a question of seeing--but to feel more: feel all the place had to +communicate. "But to get in one will have to rout out the keeper," I +thought reluctantly, and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and +tried the iron gate. It yielded, and I walked under the tunnel formed +by the thickness of the chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a wooden +barricade had been laid across the entrance, and beyond it I saw a court +enclosed in noble architecture. The main building faced me; and I now +discovered that one half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows +through which the wild growths of the moat and the trees of the park +were visible. The rest of the house was still in its robust beauty. One +end abutted on the round tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, +and in an angle of the building stood a graceful well-head adorned +with mossy urns. A few roses grew against the walls, and on an upper +window-sill I remember noticing a pot of fuchsias. + +My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my +architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire +to explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering in +which corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier +and went in. As I did so, a little dog barred my way. He was such a +remarkably beautiful little dog that for a moment he made me forget +the splendid place he was defending. I was not sure of his breed at the +time, but have since learned that it was Chinese, and that he was of +a rare variety called the "Sleeve-dog." He was very small and golden +brown, with large brown eyes and a ruffled throat: he looked rather +like a large tawny chrysanthemum. I said to myself: "These little beasts +always snap and scream, and somebody will be out in a minute." + +The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: there +was anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came no +nearer. Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticed +that another dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up. "There'll +be a hubbub now," I thought; for at the same moment a third dog, a +long-haired white mongrel, slipped out of a doorway and joined the +others. All three stood looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound +came from them. As I advanced they continued to fall back on muffled +paws, still watching me. "At a given point, they'll all charge at my +ankles: it's one of the dodges that dogs who live together put up on +one," I thought. I was not much alarmed, for they were neither large +nor formidable. But they let me wander about the court as I pleased, +following me at a little distance--always the same distance--and always +keeping their eyes on me. Presently I looked across at the ruined +facade, and saw that in one of its window-frames another dog stood: a +large white pointer with one brown ear. He was an old grave dog, much +more experienced than the others; and he seemed to be observing me with +a deeper intentness. + +"I'll hear from HIM," I said to myself; but he stood in the empty +window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch me +without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense +that he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the +court lay between us, and we stared at each other silently across it. +But he did not stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the +rest of the pack, with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with +pale agate-coloured eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression +was more timid than that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little +behind them. And still there was not a sound. + +I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me--waiting, as +they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown +dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The +little dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me--he simply +slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me. +"Oh, hang it!" I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the +well. + +As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners +of the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or +two, and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the +chapel. When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared +except the old pointer, who still watched me from the empty +window-frame. It was rather a relief to be rid of that cloud of +witnesses; and I began to look about me for a way to the back of the +house. "Perhaps there'll be somebody in the garden," I thought. I found +a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall smothered in brambles, and +got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and geraniums pined in the +flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on them indifferently. +Its garden side was plainer and severer than the other: the long +granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked like +a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some +disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and +incredibly old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to +slip through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a +box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the +avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and +springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy +top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking +down into the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was +in sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in the +thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged again into +the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden-brown one a little +ahead of the others, the black greyhound shivering in the rear. + +"Oh, hang it--you uncomfortable beasts, you!" I exclaimed, my voice +startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me. +I knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approaching +the house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had a +feeling that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet +they did not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and +they were not thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if +they had lived a long time with people who never spoke to them or looked +at them: as though the silence of the place had gradually benumbed their +busy inquisitive natures. And this strange passivity, this almost human +lassitude, seemed to me sadder than the misery of starved and beaten +animals. I should have liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax them +into a game or a scamper; but the longer I looked into their fixed and +weary eyes the more preposterous the idea became. With the windows of +that house looking down on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? +The dogs knew better: THEY knew what the house would tolerate and what +it would not. I even fancied that they knew what was passing through +my mind, and pitied me for my frivolity. But even that feeling probably +reached them through a thick fog of listlessness. I had an idea that +their distance from me was as nothing to my remoteness from them. In the +last analysis, the impression they produced was that of having in common +one memory so deep and dark that nothing that had happened since was +worth either a growl or a wag. + +"I say," I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, "do +you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if you'd +seen a ghost--that's how you look! I wonder if there IS a ghost here, +and nobody but you left for it to appear to?" The dogs continued to gaze +at me without moving... + + +It was dark when I saw Lanrivain's motor lamps at the cross-roads--and I +wasn't exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped from +the loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness--to +that degree--as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had brought +his solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a fat +and affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol... + +But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in the +study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room. + +"Well--are you going to buy Kerfol?" she asked, tilting up her gay chin +from her embroidery. + +"I haven't decided yet. The fact is, I couldn't get into the house," I +said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back for +another look. + +"You couldn't get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell the +place, and the old guardian has orders--" + +"Very likely. But the old guardian wasn't there." + +"What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter--?" + +"There was nobody about. At least I saw no one." + +"How extraordinary! Literally nobody?" + +"Nobody but a lot of dogs--a whole pack of them--who seemed to have the +place to themselves." + +Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and folded her +hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully. + +"A pack of dogs--you SAW them?" + +"Saw them? I saw nothing else!" + +"How many?" She dropped her voice a little. "I've always wondered--" + +I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar +to her. "Have you never been to Kerfol?" I asked. + +"Oh, yes: often. But never on that day." + +"What day?" + +"I'd quite forgotten--and so had Herve, I'm sure. If we'd remembered, we +never should have sent you today--but then, after all, one doesn't half +believe that sort of thing, does one?" + +"What sort of thing?" I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the +level of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: "I KNEW there was something..." + +Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. +"Didn't Herve tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixed +up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of +them are rather unpleasant." + +"Yes--but those dogs?" I insisted. + +"Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say +there's one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that +day the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. The +women in Brittany drink dreadfully." She stooped to match a silk; then +she lifted her charming inquisitive Parisian face: "Did you REALLY see a +lot of dogs? There isn't one at Kerfol," she said. + + + + +II + + +Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the back +of an upper shelf of his library. + +"Yes--here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes +of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about a +hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account +is transcribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, it's +queer reading. And there's a Herve de Lanrivain mixed up in it--not +exactly MY style, as you'll see. But then he's only a collateral. Here, +take the book up to bed with you. I don't exactly remember the details; +but after you've read it I'll bet anything you'll leave your light +burning all night!" + +I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it was +chiefly because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. The +account of the trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol, +was long and closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably an +almost literal transcription of what took place in the court-room; +and the trial lasted nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was +detestable... + +At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But it +is full of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are +forever straying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle +it, and give it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have +reverted to the text because no other words could have conveyed so +exactly the sense of what I felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added +anything of my own. + + + + +III + + +It was in the year 16-- that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain of +Kerfol, went to the pardon of Locronan to perform his religious duties. +He was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year, but +hale and sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So all +his neighbours attested. In appearance he seems to have been short +and broad, with a swarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a +hanging nose and broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married +young and lost his wife and son soon after, and since then had lived +alone at Kerfol. Twice a year he went to Morlaix, where he had a +handsome house by the river, and spent a week or ten days there; and +occasionally he rode to Rennes on business. Witnesses were found to +declare that during these absences he led a life different from the one +he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he busied himself with his estate, +attended mass daily, and found his only amusement in hunting the wild +boar and water-fowl. But these rumours are not particularly +relevant, and it is certain that among people of his own class in the +neighbourhood he passed for a stern and even austere man, observant of +his religious obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. There was +no talk of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though at that +time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some people said +he had never looked at a woman since his wife's death; but such things +are hard to prove, and the evidence on this point was not worth much. + +Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the pardon at +Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden over +pillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Anne +de Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less +great and powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father had +squandered his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in his +little granite manor on the moors... I have said I would add nothing of +my own to this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt +myself here to describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate +of Locronan at the very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also +dismounting there. I take my description from a rather rare thing: a +faded drawing in red crayon, sober and truthful enough to be by a late +pupil of the Clouets, which hangs in Lanrivain's study, and is said to +be a portrait of Anne de Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of +identity but the initials A. B., and the date 16--, the year after her +marriage. It represents a young woman with a small oval face, almost +pointed, yet wide enough for a full mouth with a tender depression at +the corners. The nose is small, and the eyebrows are set rather high, +far apart, and as lightly pencilled as the eyebrows in a Chinese +painting. The forehead is high and serious, and the hair, which one +feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and lying close like +a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel probably, with a look +at once shy and steady. A pair of beautiful long hands are crossed below +the lady's breast... + +The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baron +came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to be +instantly saddled, called to a young page come with him, and rode away +that same evening to the south. His steward followed the next morning +with coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following week Yves de +Cornault rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and +told them he was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of +Douarnenez. And on All Saints' Day the marriage took place. + +As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that +they passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves +de Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that +he was content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplain +and other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had a +softening influence on her husband, and that he became less exacting +with his tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and less +subject to the fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. +As to his wife, the only grievance her champions could call up in her +behalf was that Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband was +away on business at Rennes or Morlaix--whither she was never taken--she +was not allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no +one asserted that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she +had surprised her crying, and had heard her say that she was a woman +accursed to have no child, and nothing in life to call her own. But +that was a natural enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and +certainly it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that +she gave him no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as a +reproach--she herself admits this in her evidence--but seemed to try to +make her forget it by showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though +he was, he had never been open-handed; but nothing was too fine for +his wife, in the way of silks or gems or linen, or whatever else she +fancied. Every wandering merchant was welcome at Kerfol, and when the +master was called away he never came back without bringing his wife +a handsome present--something curious and particular--from Morlaix or +Rennes or Quimper. One of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, +an interesting list of one year's gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a +carved ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had +brought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarte, above +Ploumanac'h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of +the Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that opened and showed an +amber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length +of Damascus velvet shot with gold, bought of a Jew from Syria; and for +Michaelmas that same year, from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round +stones--emeralds and pearls and rubies--strung like beads on a gold +wire. This was the present that pleased the lady best, the woman said. +Later on, as it happened, it was produced at the trial, and appears to +have struck the Judges and the public as a curious and valuable jewel. + +The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far +as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder +and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up +to Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by +the fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a +velvet box in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the +lid and let out a little golden-brown dog. + +Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded +toward her. "Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!" she cried as she +picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at +her with eyes "like a Christian's." After that she would never have +it out of her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been a +child--as indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know. +Yves de Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been +brought to him by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the +sailor had bought it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen +it from a nobleman's wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do, +since the pilgrim was a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed to +hellfire. Yves de Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for they +were beginning to be in demand at the French court, and the sailor knew +he had got hold of a good thing; but Anne's pleasure was so great that, +to see her laugh and play with the little animal, her husband would +doubtless have given twice the sum. + + +So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; +but now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly as +possible to Anne's own statements; though toward the end, poor thing... + +Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was brought +to Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the +head of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wife's rooms to +a door opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave the +alarm, so distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror--for his blood +was all over her--that at first the roused household could not make out +what she was saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, +sure enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and +head foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the steps +below him. He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face +and throat, as if with a dull weapon; and one of his legs had a deep +tear in it which had cut an artery, and probably caused his death. But +how did he come there, and who had murdered him? + +His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing +his cry had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this was +immediately questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from her +room she could not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to the +thickness of the walls and the length of the intervening passage; then +it was evident that she had not been in bed and asleep, since she was +dressed when she roused the house, and her bed had not been slept in. +Moreover, the door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in +the lock; and it was noticed by the chaplain (an observant man) that the +dress she wore was stained with blood about the knees, and that there +were traces of small blood-stained hands low down on the staircase +walls, so that it was conjectured that she had really been at the +postern-door when her husband fell and, feeling her way up to him in the +darkness on her hands and knees, had been stained by his blood dripping +down on her. Of course it was argued on the other side that the +blood-marks on her dress might have been caused by her kneeling down by +her husband when she rushed out of her room; but there was the open door +below, and the fact that the fingermarks in the staircase all pointed +upward. + +The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite of +its improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her that +Herve de Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had been +arrested for complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereupon +came forward to say that it was known throughout the country that +Lanrivain had formerly been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; but +that he had been absent from Brittany for over a year, and people had +ceased to associate their names. The witnesses who made this statement +were not of a very reputable sort. One was an old herb-gatherer +suspected of witch-craft, another a drunken clerk from a neighbouring +parish, the third a half-witted shepherd who could be made to say +anything; and it was clear that the prosecution was not satisfied +with its case, and would have liked to find more definite proof of +Lanrivain's complicity than the statement of the herb-gatherer, who +swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the park on the night of +the murder. One way of patching out incomplete proofs in those days was +to put some sort of pressure, moral or physical, on the accused person. +It is not clear what pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; but on the +third day, when she was brought into court, she "appeared weak and +wandering," and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak +the truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she +confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with Herve +de Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been surprised there by +the sound of her husband's fall. That was better; and the prosecution +rubbed its hands with satisfaction. The satisfaction increased when +various dependents living at Kerfol were induced to say--with apparent +sincerity--that during the year or two preceding his death their master +had once more grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the fits +of brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before his +second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not been going well +at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say that there had been any +signs of open disagreement between husband and wife. + +Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down at +night to open the door to Herve de Lanrivain, made an answer which must +have sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she was +lonely and wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason? +she was asked; and replied: "Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships' +heads." "But why at midnight?" the court asked. "Because I could see him +in no other way." I can see the exchange of glances across the ermine +collars under the Crucifix. + +Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life had +been extremely lonely: "desolate" was the word she used. It was true +that her husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days +when he did not speak at all. It was true that he had never struck or +threatened her; but he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when he +rode away to Morlaix or Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on +her that she could not pick a flower in the garden without having a +waiting-woman at her heels. "I am no Queen, to need such honours," she +once said to him; and he had answered that a man who has a treasure does +not leave the key in the lock when he goes out. "Then take me with you," +she urged; but to this he said that towns were pernicious places, and +young wives better off at their own firesides. + +"But what did you want to say to Herve de Lanrivain?" the court asked; +and she answered: "To ask him to take me away." + +"Ah--you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts?" + +"No." + +"Then why did you want him to take you away?" + +"Because I was afraid for my life." + +"Of whom were you afraid?" + +"Of my husband." + +"Why were you afraid of your husband?" + +"Because he had strangled my little dog." + +Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days when any +nobleman had a right to hang his peasants--and most of them exercised +it--pinching a pet animal's wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss about. + +At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certain +sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed to +explain herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the following +statement. + +The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had +not been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have been +unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much. + +It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, +brought her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make up +for the loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the little +brown dog from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Her +husband seemed pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave her +leave to put her jewelled bracelet around its neck, and to keep it +always with her. + +One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, as +his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly she +was waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly. + +"You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in the +chapel with her feet on a little dog," he said. + +The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered: +"Well, when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, with +my dog at my feet." + +"Oho--we'll wait and see," he said, laughing also, but with his black +brows close together. "The dog is the emblem of fidelity." + +"And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?" + +"When I'm in doubt I find out," he answered. "I am an old man," he +added, "and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear you +shall have your monument if you earn it." + +"And I swear to be faithful," she returned, "if only for the sake of +having my little dog at my feet." + +Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and while +he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, came +to spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the pardon of Ste. Barbe. She +was a woman of great piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves +de Cornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe +no one could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of +the pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the first +time she talked with Herve de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice to +Kerfol with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen words +with him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was under +the chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: +"I pity you," and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any +one thought her an object of pity. He added: "Call for me when you need +me," and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought often +of the meeting. + +She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How +or where she would not say--one had the impression that she feared to +implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at the +last he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreign +country, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him for +many months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none +to give him but the collar about the little dog's neck. She was sorry +afterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she +had not had the courage to refuse. + +Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later +he picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its collar was +missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth +of the park, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. +It was true, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids +search for the necklet--they all believed the dog had lost it in the +park... + +Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in his +usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talked +a good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now +and then he stopped and looked hard at her; and when she went to bed she +found her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was +dead, but still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned to +horror when she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twice +round its throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + +The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid the +necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later, +and he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged for +stealing a faggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to death +a young horse he was breaking. + +Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one by +one; and she heard nothing of Herve de Lanrivain. It might be that +her husband had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of the +necklet. Day after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, night +after night alone on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes at +table her husband looked across at her and smiled; and then she felt +sure that Lanrivain was dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for +she was sure her husband would find out if she did: she had an idea +that he could find out anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted +seer, and could show you the whole world in her crystal, came to the +castle for a night's shelter, and the maids flocked to her, Anne held +back. The winter was long and black and rainy. One day, in Yves +de Cornault's absence, some gypsies came to Kerfol with a troop of +performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and cleverest, a white dog +with a feathery coat and one blue and one brown eye. It seemed to have +been ill-treated by the gypsies, and clung to her plaintively when she +took it from them. That evening her husband came back, and when she went +to bed she found the dog strangled on her pillow. + +After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog; +but one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining at +the castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak of +him to her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggled +food to him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and petted +him like a child. + +Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhound +strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, and +resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would never +bring him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, a +brindled puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snow +of the park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog +in, warmed and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till +her husband's return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman +who lived a long way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say +nothing; but that night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, +and when she opened it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped up +on her with little sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the next +morning was about to have him taken back to the peasant woman when she +heard her husband ride into the court. She shut the dog in a chest and +went down to receive him. An hour or two later, when she returned to her +room, the puppy lay strangled on her pillow... + +After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her loneliness +became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of +the castle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the old +pointer at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husband +came out of the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone... + +This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, or +received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain that +the Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help the +accused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; but +what did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that his +wife, to gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. +As for pleading this trivial disagreement as an excuse for her +relations--whatever their nature--with her supposed accomplice, the +argument was so absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having +let her make use of it, and tried several times to cut short her story. +But she went on to the end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, as +though the scenes she evoked were so real to her that she had forgotten +where she was and imagined herself to be re-living them. + +At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to her +said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozing +colleagues): "Then you would have us believe that you murdered your +husband because he would not let you keep a pet dog?" + +"I did not murder my husband." + +"Who did, then? Herve de Lanrivain?" + +"No." + +"Who then? Can you tell us?" + +"Yes, I can tell you. The dogs--" At that point she was carried out of +the court in a swoon. + + . . . . . . . . + +It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line +of defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed +convincing when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first +private colloquy; but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of +judicial scrutiny, and the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed +of it, and would have sacrificed her without a scruple to save his +professional reputation. But the obstinate Judge--who perhaps, after +all, was more inquisitive than kindly--evidently wanted to hear +the story out, and she was ordered, the next day, to continue her +deposition. + +She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing +particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: +she did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar +woman came to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had +no heart for trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made +their choice. And then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her +into buying for herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent +in it--she had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had +no desire for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The +pedlar said that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; +but she did not really believe that, or care much either. However, she +bought the thing and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it +about in her hand. Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to +wonder what kind of spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey +bean rolled in a strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she +knew, and a message from Herve de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home +again and would be at the door in the court that night after the moon +had set... + +She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and +her husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and +there was nothing to do but to wait... + +At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even +to the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic +relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message +at night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no +means of sending a warning... + +She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her +cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, +too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to +the traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had +a strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because +he chose to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any +rate--she was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was +no feeling for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed +dishonour. + +At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the +evening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to +his room. His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back +word that he was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, +when Anne lifted the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his +loud regular breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a +long time barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the +breathing went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a +man in a sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in +the window watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky +was misty and starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch +black. She knew the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her +husband's door--where she stopped again to listen to his breathing--to +the top of the stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself +that no one was following her; then she began to go down the stairs in +the darkness. They were so steep and winding that she had to go very +slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door +unbolted, tell Lanrivain to make his escape, and hasten back to her +room. She had tried the bolt earlier in the evening, and managed to put +a little grease on it; but nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a +squeak... not loud, but it made her heart stop; and the next minute, +overhead, she heard a noise... + +"What noise?" the prosecution interposed. + +"My husband's voice calling out my name and cursing me." + +"What did you hear after that?" + +"A terrible scream and a fall." + +"Where was Herve de Lanrivain at this time?" + +"He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the +darkness. I told him for God's sake to go, and then I pushed the door +shut." + +"What did you do next?" + +"I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened." + +"What did you hear?" + +"I heard dogs snarling and panting." (Visible discouragement of the +bench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the +defense. Dogs again--! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.) + +"What dogs?" + +She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her +answer: "I don't know." + +"How do you mean--you don't know?" + +"I don't know what dogs..." + +The Judge again intervened: "Try to tell us exactly what happened. How +long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?" + +"Only a few minutes." + +"And what was going on meanwhile overhead?" + +"The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I +think he moaned once. Then he was quiet." + +"Then what happened?" + +"Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown +to them--gulping and lapping." + +(There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and +another attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the +inquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.) + +"And all the while you did not go up?" + +"Yes--I went up then--to drive them off." + +"The dogs?" + +"Yes." + +"Well--?" + +"When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband's flint and +steel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead." + +"And the dogs?" + +"The dogs were gone." + +"Gone--where to?" + +"I don't know. There was no way out--and there were no dogs at Kerfol." + +She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her +head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a +moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard +to say: "This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities"--and +the prisoner's lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion. + +After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and +squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornault's +statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several +months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was +no denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been +long and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead man's wounds. +One of the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like +bites. The suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing +lawyers hurled tomes of necromancy at each other. + +At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court--at the instance of +the same Judge--and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of could +have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did not. +Then the Judge put his final question: "If the dogs you think you heard +had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them by +their barking?" + +"Yes." + +"Did you recognize them?" + +"Yes." + +"What dogs do you take them to have been?" + +"My dead dogs," she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, +not to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical +investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed +with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de +Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husband's family, +who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died +many years later, a harmless madwoman. + +So ends her story. As for that of Herve de Lanrivain, I had only to +apply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The +evidence against the young man being insufficient, and his family +influence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon +afterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and +he appears to have come almost immediately under the influence of the +famous M. Arnauld d'Andilly and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or +two later he was received into their Order, and without achieving any +particular distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till his +death some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by +a pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a +narrow brow. Poor Herve de Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as +I looked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the dark dress of the +Jansenists, I almost found myself envying his fate. After all, in the +course of his life two great things had happened to him: he had loved +romantically, and he must have talked with Pascal... + +The End + + + + + +MRS. MANSTEY'S VIEW + +As first published in Scribner's Magazine, July, 1891 + + + +The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but to her +at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the +back room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street +where the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the +pavement would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a +clerk in a large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for +her only daughter had married in California, and could not afford the +long journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might +have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many +years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each other's +society, and their intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of +a few perfunctory letters, written with indifference by the daughter, +and with difficulty by Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing +stiff with gout. Even had she felt a stronger desire for her daughter's +companionship, Mrs. Manstey's increasing infirmity, which caused her to +dread the three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would +have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey; and +without perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since accepted +as a matter of course her solitary life in New York. + +She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now +and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. +Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husband's +lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many +years she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a +hen-house and a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving +only in the breast of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness +for plants and animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her +cling so fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the +most optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover anything +admirable. + +Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting +bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking +bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, +however, she could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in +the topmost boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how +early each year the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with +hearts of pink. + +But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part +attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness +and fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments +and frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to +admire in the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, +indeed, but stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and +no shade in spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the +clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, +the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the +broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed +her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of +the prospect before her. + +In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white +flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little +way down the line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of +wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff +and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite +yard June was sweet with the breath of a neglected syringa, which +persisted in growing in spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its +welfare. + +But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey's view, there was +much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the +houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored +curtains which had lately been hung in the doctor's window opposite; but +she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks +washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often +show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in +sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; +she knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly +painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the +stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Manstey's warmest sympathies were given. +On one occasion her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, +who for two days forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the +third day, Mrs. Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a +letter, beginning: "Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has +been fed," when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of +seed in her hand. + +But in Mrs. Manstey's more meditative moods it was the narrowing +perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at +twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the +fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip +to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her mind's eye to a pale +phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at +heart Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at all events she was sensible of many +changes of color unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the +green of early spring was the black lattice of branches against a cold +sulphur sky at the close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny +thaws of March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like +ink-spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better +still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced the +clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain interest +the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and missed a detail +in the landscape when the factory was closed and the smoke disappeared. + +Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not +idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view +surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her +rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the +contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain +green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn +into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor's anecdotes +about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey's real friends were the +denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, +the maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his +mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was +the church-spire floating in the sunset. + +One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside +and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the +door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not +care for her landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike +resignation. To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from +the blue sky and the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampson's unsuggestive +face, and Mrs. Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + +"The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson," she +remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the +absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not +likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of +expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she +wished to. + +"The what, Mrs. Manstey?" inquired the landlady, glancing about the room +as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey's statement. + +"The magnolia in the next yard--in Mrs. Black's yard," Mrs. Manstey +repeated. + +"Is it, indeed? I didn't know there was a magnolia there," said Mrs. +Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that +there was a magnolia in the next yard! + +"By the way," Mrs. Sampson continued, "speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me +that the work on the extension is to begin next week." + +"The what?" it was Mrs. Manstey's turn to ask. + +"The extension," said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of +the ignored magnolia. "You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to +build an extension to her house? Yes, ma'am. I hear it is to run right +back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in +these hard times I don't see; but she always was crazy about building. +She used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly +ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should +have thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess it's a +disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday." + +Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady +did not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: +"Do you know how high the extension will be?" + +"That's the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right +up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?" + +Mrs. Manstey paused again. "Won't it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. +Sampson?" she asked. + +"I should say it would. But there's no help for it; if people have got +a mind to build extensions there's no law to prevent 'em, that I'm aware +of." Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. "There is no help for it," +Mrs. Sampson repeated, "but if I AM a church member, I wouldn't be so +sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I'm glad +to find you so comfortable." + +So comfortable--so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned +once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky +with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus +had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, +the magnolia flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in +alabaster. Soon the wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but +not for her. Between her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar +would swiftly rise; presently even the spire would disappear, and all +her radiant world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the +dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the window +until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she +lay sleepless all night. + +Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but +even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm--and then +the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that +the ailanthus was growing dusty. + +"Of course I might move," said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the +window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might +she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. +The room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was +as much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. +She knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the +light fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown +shabby on their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window +and knew which way to lean to the sun. "We are all too old to move," she +said. + +That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared +through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the +flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the +building of the extension was to begin. + +On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged +in gathering up the fragments of the boarders' dinner in the basement. +The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey's name. + +"One of Mrs. Sampson's boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can +give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah," said Mrs. Black, +"tell the lady I'll be upstairs in a minute." + +Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with +statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down. + +Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, +Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + +"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please," the landlady +remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to +build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down. + +"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?" Mrs. Black continued. "My +house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and--" + +"It is about the extension that I wish to speak," said Mrs. Manstey, +suddenly. "I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a +happy one. I shall have to talk about myself first to--to make you +understand." + +Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis. + +"I never had what I wanted," Mrs. Manstey continued. "It was always one +disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. +I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was +no sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter +married years ago and went away--besides, she never cared for the same +things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen +years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampson's, and I have been there ever +since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don't get +out often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can +understand my sitting a great deal in my window--the back window on the +third floor--" + +"Well, Mrs. Manstey," said Mrs. Black, liberally, "I could give you a +back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex--" + +"But I don't want to move; I can't move," said Mrs. Manstey, almost with +a scream. "And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I +shall have no view from my window--no view! Do you understand?" + +Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had +always heard that lunatics must be humored. + +"Dear me, dear me," she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, +"that is too bad, isn't it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, +the extension WILL interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey." + +"You do understand?" Mrs. Manstey gasped. + +"Of course I do. And I'm real sorry about it, too. But there, don't you +worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right." + +Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door. + +"What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to +change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I +have two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could +manage, to give you a thousand if--" Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were +rolling down her cheeks. + +"There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don't you worry," repeated Mrs. Black, +soothingly. "I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I can't stay +and talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with +supper to get--" + +Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized +her wrist. + +"You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you +accept my proposition?" + +"Why, I'll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldn't +annoy you for the world--" + +"But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told," Mrs. Manstey persisted. + +Mrs. Black hesitated. "It shan't begin, I promise you that; I'll send +word to the builder this very night." Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. + +"You are not deceiving me, are you?" she said. + +"No--no," stammered Mrs. Black. "How can you think such a thing of me, +Mrs. Manstey?" + +Slowly Mrs. Manstey's clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open +door. "One thousand dollars," she repeated, pausing in the hall; then +she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting +herself on the cast-iron railing. + +"My goodness," exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, +"I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and +ladylike, too." + +Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was +awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what +haste she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black's yard was full of +workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, +others beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which +adorned each story of Mrs. Black's house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had +been deceived. At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. +Sampson, but a settled discouragement soon took possession of her and +she went back to bed, not caring to see what was going on. + +Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she +rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were +stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her. + +When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen +had removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had +multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated +face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the +ground; the next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in +passing. + +"Look out, Jim," called one of the men to another who was smoking a +pipe, "if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper you'll +have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it." And Mrs. +Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were several barrels of +paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony. + +At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and +a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the +west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, +in her usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled +and lit it with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a +zinc-covered shelf in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it +assumed its usual peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants +seemed, like their mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet +evening, and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the +table and began to knit. + +That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind +was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey +rose once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing +was discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These +lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their +extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she +merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her +head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the +kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her +pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, +and a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, +led by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the +bottom of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter +darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, +as there was less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she +contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of +cold wind smote her as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the +clothes-lines. + +That morning at three o'clock an alarm of fire brought the engines to +Mrs. Black's door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson's startled boarders to +their windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Black's house was +ablaze, and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. +Manstey, leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + +The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the +house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that +little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and +smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. +Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not +unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an +open window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she +was very ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor's verdict +would be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson's table +were awestruck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. +Manstey well; she "kept to herself," as they said, and seemed to fancy +herself too good for them; but then it is always disagreeable to have +anyone dying in the house and, as one lady observed to another: "It +might just as well have been you or me, my dear." + +But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, +lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. +Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. +Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All +day she said nothing; but when she was asked for her daughter's address +she shook her head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be +listening attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she +dozed. + +The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. +Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move. + +"Lift me up--out of bed," she whispered. + +They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to +the window. + +"Oh, the window--she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit there +all day," Mrs. Sampson explained. "It can do her no harm, I suppose?" + +"Nothing matters now," said the nurse. + +They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The +dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught +a golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in +shadow. In Mrs. Black's yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the +balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire +the builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a +few more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + +It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more +difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not +understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating +ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was +there--the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to +blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the +sun. + +Mrs. Manstey's head fell back and smiling she died. + +That day the building of the extension was resumed. + +The End + + + + + +THE BOLTED DOOR + +As first published in Scribner's Magazine, March 1909 + + + + +I + + +Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, +paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + +Three minutes to eight. + +In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of +Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of +the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual--the +suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the +door-bell would be the beginning of the end--after that there'd be no +going back, by God--no going back! + +Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room +opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror +above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon--saw +himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but +furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by +a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted +him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + +As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door +opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it +was only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy +surface of the old Turkey rug. + +"Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained and can't +be here till eight-thirty." + +Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and +harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing +to the servant over his shoulder: "Very good. Put off dinner." + +Down his spine he felt the man's injured stare. Mr. Granice had always +been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change in his manner +had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very likely +they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table till he +heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, propping +his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + +Another half hour alone with it! + +He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some +professional matter, no doubt--the punctilious lawyer would have allowed +nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more especially +since Granice, in his note, had said: "I shall want a little business +chat afterward." + +But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional +hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, +after all, Granice's note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt +Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. +Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice +had been perpetually tinkering with his will. + +Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow +temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks +earlier, at the Century Club. "Yes--my play's as good as taken. I shall +be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical chaps +are so slippery--I won't trust anybody but you to tie the knot for me!" +That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice, +at the idea, broke into an audible laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like +the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the +unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his lips +angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + +He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the +writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound +in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been +slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a +moment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from +under the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do +so from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on +that letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + +It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "The +Diversity Theatre." + + +"MY DEAR MR. GRANICE: + +"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, +and it's no use--the play won't do. I have talked it over with Miss +Melrose--and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our stage--and I +regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn't the poetry +that scares her--or me either. We both want to do all we can to help +along the poetic drama--we believe the public's ready for it, and we're +willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give +them what they want. BUT WE DON'T BELIEVE THEY COULD BE MADE TO +WANT THIS. The fact is, there isn't enough drama in your play to the +allowance of poetry--the thing drags all through. You've got a big idea, +but it's not out of swaddling clothes. + +"If this was your first play I'd say: TRY AGAIN. But it has been just +the same with all the others you've shown me. And you remember the +result of 'The Lee Shore,' where you carried all the expenses of +production yourself, and we couldn't fill the theatre for a week. Yet +'The Lee Shore' was a modern problem play--much easier to swing than +blank verse. It isn't as if you hadn't tried all kinds--" + +Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. +Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by +heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand +out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + +"IT HAS BEEN JUST THE SAME WITH ALL THE OTHERS YOU'VE SHOWN ME." + +That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting +work! + +"YOU REMEMBER THE RESULT OF 'THE LEE SHORE.'" + +Good God--as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now in a +drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve +to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his +inheritance on testing his chance of success--the fever of preparation, +the dry-mouthed agony of the "first night," the flat fall, the stupid +press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his +friends! + +"IT ISN'T AS IF YOU HADN'T TRIED ALL KINDS." + +No--he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light +curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the +lyrical-romantic--finally deciding that he would no longer "prostitute +his talent" to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own +theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had +offered them everything--and always with the same result. + +Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The +ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his life! And if +one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, +preparation--then call it half a man's life-time: half a man's life-time +thrown away! + +And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled +that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten +minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy +rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for +Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion +as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more +to be alone.... But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn't +he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole +business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this +nightmare of living? + +He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a +small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give +himself a "hypodermic" with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while +with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, +between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he +had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and +lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand +that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself +to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly +nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of +the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his +forehead and ran down his quivering face... + +He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a +cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and +temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that way. His +attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He +couldn't make himself a real life, and he couldn't get rid of the life +he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + +The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for +his delay. + +"I didn't like to say anything while your man was about--but the fact +is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--" + +"Oh, it's all right," said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to +feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any +recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal +into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social +gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + +"My dear fellow, it's sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting--especially +the production of an artist like yours." Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy +luxuriously. "But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me." + +Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment +he was shaken out of his self-absorption. + +"MRS. ASHGROVE?" + +Ascham smiled. "I thought you'd be interested; I know your passion for +causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it's out of our +line entirely--we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to consult +me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife's. And, by +Jove, it IS a queer case!" The servant re-entered, and Ascham snapped +his lips shut. + +Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + +"No--serve it in the library," said Granice, rising. He led the way back +to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what +Ascham had to tell him. + +While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the +library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes and +bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline +caught his eye. + + + "ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO + PLAY POETRY. + "THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER + POET." + + +He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young author he +had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poetic drama," dance +before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was +true, then--she WAS "game"--it was not the manner but the matter she +mistrusted! + +Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. "I +shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up myself." + +He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, +Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the +way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice +suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + +As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward +to take a light from Ascham's cigar. + +"Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove," he said, seeming to himself to speak +stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + +"Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there's not much to TELL." + +"And you couldn't if there were?" Granice smiled. + +"Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her +choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our +talk." + +"And what's your impression, now you've seen her?" + +"My impression is, very distinctly, THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BE KNOWN." + +"Ah--?" Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + +"I'm more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his +business, and will consequently never be found out. That's a capital +cigar you've given me." + +"You like it? I get them over from Cuba." Granice examined his own +reflectively. "Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals +never ARE caught?" + +"Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen +years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved." The lawyer +ruminated behind his blue cloud. "Why, take the instance in your own +family: I'd forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph +Lenman's murder--do you suppose that will ever be explained?" + +As the words dropped from Ascham's lips his host looked slowly about +the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale +unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was +as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat +slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: "I could explain +the Lenman murder myself." + +Ascham's eye kindled: he shared Granice's interest in criminal cases. + +"By Jove! You've had a theory all this time? It's odd you never +mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the +Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a +help." + +Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in +which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were +to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes +and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless +routine of life--of performing the same automatic gestures another +day--displaced his fleeting vision. + +"I haven't a theory. I KNOW who murdered Joseph Lenman." + +Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + +"You KNOW? Well, who did?" he laughed. + +"I did," said Granice, rising. + +He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then +he broke into another laugh. + +"Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, +I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me +all about it! Confession is good for the soul." + +Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from +his throat; then he repeated doggedly: "I murdered him." + +The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham +did not laugh. + +"Granice!" + +"I murdered him--to get his money, as you say." + +There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of +amusement, saw his guest's look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + +"What's the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see." + +"It's not a joke. It's the truth. I murdered him." He had spoken +painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time +he repeated the words he found they were easier to say. + +Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + +"What's the matter? Aren't you well? What on earth are you driving at?" + +"I'm perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want +it known that I murdered him." + +"YOU WANT IT KNOWN?" + +"Yes. That's why I sent for you. I'm sick of living, and when I try to +kill myself I funk it." He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in +his throat had been untied. + +"Good Lord--good Lord," the lawyer gasped. + +"But I suppose," Granice continued, "there's no doubt this would be +murder in the first degree? I'm sure of the chair if I own up?" + +Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: "Sit down, Granice. +Let's talk." + + + + +II + + +Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + +He began by a quick survey of his early years--the years of drudgery and +privation. His father, a charming man who could never say "no," had so +signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he +died he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful +kin found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to +support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at +eighteen in a broker's office. He loathed his work, and he was always +poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother +died, but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his +hands. His own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, +and work harder than ever when he came back. He had no knack for +business, no head for figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of +commerce. He wanted to travel and write--those were his inmost longings. +And as the years dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making +any more money, or acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed +him. He tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired +that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not reach his +dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only "brush up" for dinner, +and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned +through the evening paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; +or he dined out, or, more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or +two in quest of what is known as "pleasure." And in summer, when he +and Kate went to the sea-side for a month, he dozed through the days in +utter weariness. Once he fell in love with a charming girl--but what had +he to offer her, in God's name? She seemed to like him, and in common +decency he had to drop out of the running. Apparently no one +replaced him, for she never married, but grew stoutish, grayish, +philanthropic--yet how sweet she had been when he had first kissed her! +One more wasted life, he reflected... + +But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his +soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was IN HIM--he could +not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the +years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession--yet with every +year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt +himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the +process in his sister's wasted face. At eighteen she had been +pretty, and as full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, +insignificant--she had missed her chance of life. And she had no +resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive +functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It exasperated him +to think of it--and to reflect that even now a little travel, a +little health, a little money, might transform her, make her young and +desirable... The chief fruit of his experience was that there is no such +fixed state as age or youth--there is only health as against sickness, +wealth as against poverty; and age or youth as the outcome of the lot +one draws. + +At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean +against the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from +his seat, or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + +"Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old +Lenman--my mother's cousin, as you know. Some of the family always +mounted guard over him--generally a niece or so. But that year they were +all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if +we'd relieve her of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of +course, for Wrenfield is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a +slave to family observances, had always been good to the old man, so it +was natural we should be called on--and there was the saving of rent and +the good air for Kate. So we went. + +"You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or +some primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan's microscope. He was +large, undifferentiated, inert--since I could remember him he had +done nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, +and cultivate melons--that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door +melons--his were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield--his +big kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of +green-houses. And in nearly all of them melons were grown--early melons +and late, French, English, domestic--dwarf melons and monsters: every +shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children--a +staff of trained attendants waited on them. I'm not sure they didn't +have a doctor to take their temperature--at any rate the place was full +of thermometers. And they didn't sprawl on the ground like ordinary +melons; they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each +melon hung in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all +sides to the sun and air... + +"It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of +his own melons--the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic +and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated +atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of +his existence was not to let himself be 'worried.'... I remember his +advising me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate's +bad health, and her need of a change. 'I never let myself worry,' he +said complacently. 'It's the worst thing for the liver--and you look to +me as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You'll make +yourself happier and others too.' And all he had to do was to write a +cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + +"The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. +The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. +But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate's--and one could +picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us waiting. +I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to him. + +"Well, I tried to see if I couldn't reach him through his vanity. I +flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was +taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was +driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, +prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. +When he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of +a hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the +resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn't eat as much as +a mouthful of his melons--had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. +'But, after all, it's my only hobby--why shouldn't I indulge it?' he +said sentimentally. As if I'd ever been able to indulge any of mine! On +the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + +"One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag +herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon +with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon--a day to +lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one's eyes on the sky, and let the +cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested +by the fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph's hideous black walnut +library, I passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated +Italian, who dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. +I remember thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen +about the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + +"Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his +fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the +Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon--the +fattest melon I'd ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy +of contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated +myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask +him a favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm +as an egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without stopping to +greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + +"'Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such +firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?' It was +as if he had said 'she' instead of 'it,' and when he put out his senile +hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + +"Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had +been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though it was against +my cousin's principles to employ a Papist--had been assigned to the care +of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its existence, as +destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest +sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and +celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done +well--seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning +he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at +the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its blonde +virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned scoundrelly Jesuit +done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp spout of a watering-pot, +so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale rotundity, and was +henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + +"The old man's rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook, spluttered +and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had sacked +him on the spot, without wages or character--had threatened to have him +arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. 'By God, and +I'll do it--I'll write to Washington--I'll have the pauper scoundrel +deported! I'll show him what money can do!' As likely as not there was +some murderous Black-hand business under it--it would be found that the +fellow was a member of a 'gang.' Those Italians would murder you for a +quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And then he grew +frightened at his own excitement. 'But I must calm myself,' he said. He +took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the Churchman. +He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon was +brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an +hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the +fallen melon. + +"All the while one phrase of the old man's buzzed in my brain like the +fly about the melon. 'I'LL SHOW HIM WHAT MONEY CAN DO!' Good heaven! +If I could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of +giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried +to tell him something about my situation and Kate's--spoke of my +ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make +myself a name--I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. 'I can guarantee +to repay you, sir--I've a half-written play as security...' + +"I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as +an egg-shell again--his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels +over a slippery rampart. + +"'A half-written play--a play of YOURS as security?' He looked at me +almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. 'Do +you understand anything of business?' he enquired mildly. I laughed and +answered: 'No, not much.' + +"He leaned back with closed lids. 'All this excitement has been too much +for me,' he said. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll prepare for my nap.' And I +stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian." + +Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray +set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of +soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham's dead cigar. + +"Better light another," he suggested. + +The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told +of his mounting obsession--how the murderous impulse had waked in him on +the instant of his cousin's refusal, and he had muttered to himself: +"By God, if you won't, I'll make you." He spoke more tranquilly as the +narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve +to act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how +the old man was to be "disposed of." Suddenly he remembered the outcry: +"Those Italians will murder you for a quarter!" But no definite project +presented itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + +Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of +the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of +the old man's condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, +on getting home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The +Italian had been there again--had somehow slipped into the house, +made his way up to the library, and "used threatening language." The +house-keeper found cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing +"something awful." The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; +and the police had ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + +But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had "nerves," and lost his +taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and +the consultation amused and excited the old man--he became once more +an important figure. The medical men reassured the family--too +completely!--and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: +advised him to take whatever "tempted him." And so one day, tremulously, +prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up +with ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a +hovering cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + +"But you remember the circumstances," Granice went on; "how suspicion +turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given +him he had been seen hanging about the house since 'the scene.' It was +said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest +seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the +explanation he was gone--gone clean out of sight. He had been 'warned' +to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that no one +ever laid eyes on him again." + +Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer's, and +he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar +room. Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange +insistent object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + +"It was I who put the stuff in the melon," he said. "And I don't want +you to think I'm sorry for it. This isn't 'remorse,' understand. I'm +glad the old skin-flint is dead--I'm glad the others have their money. +But mine's no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. +And I've never had what I wanted." + +Ascham continued to stare; then he said: "What on earth was your object, +then?" + +"Why, to GET what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I wanted +change, rest, LIFE, for both of us--wanted, above all, for myself, the +chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to +tie myself up to my work. And I've slaved at it steadily for ten years +without reward--without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will +look at my stuff. And now I'm fifty, and I'm beaten, and I know it." +His chin dropped forward on his breast. "I want to chuck the whole +business," he ended. + + + + +III + + +It was after midnight when Ascham left. + +His hand on Granice's shoulder, as he turned to go--"District Attorney +be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!" he had cried; and so, with an +exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + +Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that +Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, +elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail--but without +once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer's eye. + +At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced--but that, as Granice now +perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into +contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly +met and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask +suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: "By Jove, Granice you'll +write a successful play yet. The way you've worked this all out is a +marvel." + +Granice swung about furiously--that last sneer about the play inflamed +him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + +"I did it, I did it," he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself +against the impenetrable surface of the other's mockery; and Ascham +answered with a smile: "Ever read any of those books on hallucination? +I've got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two +if you like..." + + +Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. +He understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + +"Good God--what if they all think me crazy?" + +The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat--he sat there and +shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began +to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how +incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would +believe him. + +"That's the trouble--Ascham's not a criminal lawyer. And then he's a +friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe +me, he'd never let me see it--his instinct would be to cover the whole +thing up... But in that case--if he DID believe me--he might think it +a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum..." Granice began to tremble +again. "Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert--one of those +damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything--their word always +goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I'd better be shut up, I'll be in a +strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he'd do it from the kindest motives--be +quite right to do it if he thinks I'm a murderer!" + +The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting +temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had +not believed his story. + +"But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer eye he +cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I do?" + +He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham +should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with +him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the +morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and +the movement started a new train of association. + +He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his +chair. + +"Give me three-o-ten... yes." + +The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would +act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself +to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through +the meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like +coming out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One +of the queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced +by these momentary lulls. + +"That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... +Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight +home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? It's rather +urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate 'copy.'... All right!" He +hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call +up the editor of the Investigator--Robert Denver was the very man he +needed... + +Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the automatic +gestures persisted!--went into the hall, put on his hat and overcoat, +and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator boy +blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice +passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a +crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare +stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. +But from Denver's house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as +Granice sprang from his cab the editor's electric turned the corner. + +The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, +ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + +"Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but +this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old." + +Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years--watched his rise +through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the +Investigator's editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling +hair there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, +on his way home in the small hours, used to "bob in" on Granice, while +the latter sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice's flat +on the way to his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the +window, and Granice's shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, +and discuss the universe. + +"Well--this is like old times--a good old habit reversed." The editor +smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. "Reminds me of the nights +when I used to rout you out... How's the play, by the way? There IS a +play, I suppose? It's as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: +'How's the baby?'" + +Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy +he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice's tortured nerves, that +the words had not been uttered in malice--and the fact gave him a new +measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been +a failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham's irony. + +"Come in--come in." The editor led the way into a small cheerful room, +where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward his +visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + +"Now, then--help yourself. And let's hear all about it." + +He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his +cigar, said to himself: "Success makes men comfortable, but it makes +them stupid." + +Then he turned, and began: "Denver, I want to tell you--" + +The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was +gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them +the editor's face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once +the hour struck--then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere +grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from +Granice's forehead. + +"Do you mind if I open the window?" + +"No. It IS stuffy in here. Wait--I'll do it myself." Denver pushed +down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. "Well--go on," he said, +filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + +"There's no use in my going on if you don't believe me." + +The editor remained unmoved. "Who says I don't believe you? And how can +I tell till you've finished?" + +Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. "It was simple enough, as +you'll see. From the day the old man said to me, 'Those Italians would +murder you for a quarter,' I dropped everything and just worked at +my scheme. It struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to +Wrenfield and back in a night--and that led to the idea of a motor. A +motor--that never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I +suppose. Well, I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I +found what I wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, +and I tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I +bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those +no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for +family use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I +looked about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a +baby in a foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and +back in a night. I knew the way pretty well, for I'd done it often with +the same lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is +over ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But +my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + +"Well, then came the report about the Italian's threats, and I saw I +must act at once... I meant to break into the old man's room, shoot him, +and get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. +Then we heard that he was ill--that there'd been a consultation. Perhaps +the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only +be!..." + +Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to +have cooled the room. + +"Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up +from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try +a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her--all Wrenfield +was in a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of +the little French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato--and +the patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + +"In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew +the ways of the house--I was sure the melon would be brought in over +night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the +ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons +didn't lie around loose in that house--every one was known, numbered, +catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would +eat them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, +I felt pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than +shooting. It would have been the devil and all to get into the old man's +bedroom without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break +into the pantry without much trouble. + +"It was a cloudy night, too--everything served me. I dined quietly, and +sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to +bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a +sort of disguise--red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them +into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a +half-drunken machinist whom I'd never seen before. That served me, too. +They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn't even +bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going +place... + +"Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was +out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp +pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard +and ulster. Then away again--it was just eleven-thirty when I got to +Wrenfield. + +"I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped +through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the +dark--I remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By +the stable a dog came out growling--but he nosed me out, jumped on me, +and went back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody +went to bed by ten. But there might be a prowling servant--the +kitchen-maid might have come down to let in her Italian. I had to +risk that, of course. I crept around by the back door and hid in the +shrubbery. Then I listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed +over to the house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a +little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I +groped my way to the ice-box, opened it--and there was the little French +melon... only one. + +"I stopped to listen--I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle of +stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. +It was all done inside of three minutes--at ten minutes to twelve I was +back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a +back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was +beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the +beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them +with and they went down plump, like a dead body--and at two o'clock I +was back at my desk." + +Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his +listener; but Denver's face remained inscrutable. + +At length he said: "Why did you want to tell me this?" + +The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had +explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive +had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight +with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand +the subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + +"Why, I--the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose you'd call it..." + +Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + +"Remorse? Bosh!" he said energetically. + +Granice's heart sank. "You don't believe in--REMORSE?" + +"Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of +remorse proves to me that you're not the man to have planned and put +through such a job." + +Granice groaned. "Well--I lied to you about remorse. I've never felt +any." + +Denver's lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. "What +was your motive, then? You must have had one." + +"I'll tell you--" And Granice began again to rehearse the story of his +failure, of his loathing for life. "Don't say you don't believe me this +time... that this isn't a real reason!" he stammered out piteously as he +ended. + +Denver meditated. "No, I won't say that. I've seen too many queer +things. There's always a reason for wanting to get out of life--the +wonder is that we find so many for staying in!" Granice's heart grew +light. "Then you DO believe me?" he faltered. + +"Believe that you're sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven't the +nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes--that's easy enough, too. But all +that doesn't make you a murderer--though I don't say it proves you could +never have been one." + +"I HAVE been one, Denver--I swear to you." + +"Perhaps." He meditated. "Just tell me one or two things." + +"Oh, go ahead. You won't stump me!" Granice heard himself say with a +laugh. + +"Well--how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your +sister's curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, +remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn't the change in your ways +surprise her?" + +"No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in +the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town +for a night or two before--before I did the job." + +"And that night she went to bed early with a headache?" + +"Yes--blinding. She didn't know anything when she had that kind. And her +room was at the back of the flat." + +Denver again meditated. "And when you got back--she didn't hear you? You +got in without her knowing it?" + +"Yes. I went straight to my work--took it up at the word where I'd left +off--WHY, DENVER, DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" Granice suddenly, passionately +interjected. + +"Remember--?" + +"Yes; how you found me--when you looked in that morning, between two and +three... your usual hour...?" + +"Yes," the editor nodded. + +Granice gave a short laugh. "In my old coat--with my pipe: looked as if +I'd been working all night, didn't I? Well, I hadn't been in my chair +ten minutes!" + +Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. "I didn't know +whether YOU remembered that." + +"What?" + +"My coming in that particular night--or morning." + +Granice swung round in his chair. "Why, man alive! That's why I'm here +now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they +looked round to see what all the old man's heirs had been doing that +night--you who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk +as usual.... I thought THAT would appeal to your journalistic sense if +nothing else would!" + +Denver smiled. "Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible +enough--and the idea's picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who +proved your alibi to establish your guilt." + +"That's it--that's it!" Granice's laugh had a ring of triumph. + +"Well, but how about the other chap's testimony--I mean that young +doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don't you remember my testifying +that I'd met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way +to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: 'All right; you'll find him +in. I passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the +blind, as usual.' And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the +way: she corroborated his statement, you remember." + +"Yes; I remember." + +"Well, then?" + +"Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old +coats and a cushion--something to cast a shadow on the blind. All +you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours--I +counted on that, and knew you'd take any vague outline as mine." + +"Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the +shadow move--you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if you'd +fallen asleep." + +"Yes; and she was right. It DID move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray +must have jolted by the flimsy building--at any rate, something gave my +mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the +table." + +There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing +heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not +sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than +the law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to +allow for the incalculableness of human impulses. + +"Well?" Granice faltered out. + +Denver stood up with a shrug. "Look here, man--what's wrong with you? +Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I'd like to take you +to see a chap I know--an ex-prize-fighter--who's a wonder at pulling +fellows in your state out of their hole--" + +"Oh, oh--" Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed each +other. "You don't believe me, then?" + +"This yarn--how can I? There wasn't a flaw in your alibi." + +"But haven't I filled it full of them now?" + +Denver shook his head. "I might think so if I hadn't happened to know +that you WANTED to. There's the hitch, don't you see?" + +Granice groaned. "No, I didn't. You mean my wanting to be found +guilty--?" + +"Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been +worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn't +do much credit to your ingenuity." + +Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? +But on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. "Look here, +Denver--I daresay you're right. But will you do just one thing to prove +it? Put my statement in the Investigator, just as I've made it. Ridicule +it as much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it--men +who don't know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I +don't care a damn whether YOU believe me--what I want is to convince the +Grand Jury! I oughtn't to have come to a man who knows me--your cursed +incredulity is infectious. I don't put my case well, because I know in +advance it's discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. +That's why I can't convince YOU. It's a vicious circle." He laid a +hand on Denver's arm. "Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the +paper." + +But Denver did not warm to the idea. "My dear fellow, you seem to forget +that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every +possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then +to believe that you murdered old Lenman--you or anybody else. All they +wanted was a murderer--the most improbable would have served. But your +alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you've told me has +shaken it." Denver laid his cool hand over the other's burning fingers. +"Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case--then come in +and submit it to the Investigator." + + + + +IV + + +The perspiration was rolling off Granice's forehead. Every few minutes +he had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his +haggard face. + +For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case +to the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with +Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience +on the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval +between he had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone +forth again at once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the +alienist made it impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it +seemed to him that the only way of averting that hideous peril was by +establishing, in some sane impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even +if he had not been so incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed +now the only alternative to the strait-jacket. + +As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at +his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing +hand. "I don't expect you to believe me now--but can't you put me under +arrest, and have the thing looked into?" + +Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy +face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to +keep watch over impulses not strictly professional. + +"Well, I don't know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I'm +bound to look into your statement--" + +Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn't +have said that if he hadn't believed him! + +"That's all right. Then I needn't detain you. I can be found at any time +at my apartment." He gave the address. + +The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. "What do you say to +leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I'm giving a little supper +at Rector's--quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose--I +think you know her--and a friend or two; and if you'll join us..." + +Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had +made. + + +He waited for four days--four days of concentrated horror. During the +first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham's alienist dogged him; and as +that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal +had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had +been going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from +before now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly +enough how little the story had impressed him! + +Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate +himself. He was chained to life--a "prisoner of consciousness." Where +was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In +the glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited +by a sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable +SELFNESS, keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation +he had ever known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such +intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own +dark windings. Often he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the +feeling that something material was clinging to him, was on his hands +and face, and in his throat--and as his brain cleared he understood that +it was the sense of his own loathed personality that stuck to him like +some thick viscous substance. + +Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of +his window at the awakening activities of the street--at the +street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers +flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of +them--any of them--to take his chance in any of their skins! They were +the toilers--the men whose lot was pitied--the victims wept over and +ranted about by altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have +taken up the load of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off +his own! But, no--the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each +one was hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man +rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, +coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled +or poached that morning? + + +On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the +succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He +hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a +moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: +a policeman, a "secret agent," or some other mysterious emissary of the +law? + +On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! his +master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind an unread +newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + +Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil, "From +the District Attorney's office." He started up with a thumping heart, +and signed an assent to the servant. + +Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty--the kind +of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. "Just the +type of the successful detective," Granice reflected as he shook hands +with his visitor. + +And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. +He had been sent by the District Attorney to have "a quiet talk" with +Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the +Lenman murder. + +His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice's +self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a man who knew +his business--it would be easy enough to make HIM see through that +ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one +himself--to prove his coolness--began again to tell his story. + +He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever +before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener's detached, +impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at +least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of +being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time +his words would certainly carry conviction... + + + + +V + + +Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him +stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too +smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man's nimble glance +followed Granice's. + +"Sure of the number, are you?" he asked briskly. + +"Oh, yes--it was 104." + +"Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up--that's certain." + +He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick +and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of +tottering tenements and stables. + +"Dead sure?" he repeated. + +"Yes," said Granice, discouraged. "And even if I hadn't been, I know the +garage was just opposite Leffler's over there." He pointed across the +street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words +"Livery and Boarding" were still faintly discernible. + +The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. "Well, that's +something--may get a clue there. Leffler's--same name there, anyhow. You +remember that name?" + +"Yes--distinctly." + +Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the +interest of the Explorer's "smartest" reporter. If there were moments +when he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it +seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter +McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired +him with an exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the +case at once, "like a leech," as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled +to it, and settled down to "draw the last drop of fact from it, and +had not let go till he had." No one else had treated Granice in that +way--even Allonby's detective had not taken a single note. And though +a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized official, +nothing had been heard from the District Attorney's office: Allonby had +apparently dropped the matter again. But McCarren wasn't going to drop +it--not he! He positively hung on Granice's footsteps. They had spent +the greater part of the previous day together, and now they were off +again, running down clues. + +But at Leffler's they got none, after all. Leffler's was no longer +a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between +sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a +hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a +blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Flood's garage across +the way--did not even remember what had stood there before the new +flat-house began to rise. + +"Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I've seen harder jobs done," +said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + +As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine +tone: "I'd undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put +me on the track of that cyanide." + +Granice's heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt it from +the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was +strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his +rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + +"Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I'm due at the office now. Besides, it'd be +no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up +tomorrow or next day?" + +He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + +Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in +demeanor. + +"Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the +bard says. Can't get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say +you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?" + +"Yes," said Granice wearily. + +"Who bought it, do you know?" + +Granice wrinkled his brows. "Why, Flood--yes, Flood himself. I sold it +back to him three months later." + +"Flood? The devil! And I've ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of +business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it." + +Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + +"That brings us back to the poison," McCarren continued, his note-book +out. "Just go over that again, will you?" + +And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the +time--and he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he +decided on poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured +chemicals; and there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing +business--just the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that +suspicion might turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided +on a more tortuous course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of +medicine whom irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of +his profession, amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the +exercise of which he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the +habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and +the friends generally sat in Venn's work-shop, at the back of the old +family house in Stuyvesant Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard +of supplies, with its row of deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an +original, a man of restless curious tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, +was often full of visitors: a cheerful crowd of journalists, scribblers, +painters, experimenters in divers forms of expression. Coming and going +among so many, it was easy enough to pass unperceived; and one afternoon +Granice, arriving before Venn had returned home, found himself alone in +the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the cupboard, transferred the +drug to his pocket. + +But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long +since dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the +house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and +the shifting life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every +trace of their obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren +seemed to acknowledge the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that +direction. + +"And there's the third door slammed in our faces." He shut his +note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive +eyes on Granice's furrowed face. + +"Look here, Mr. Granice--you see the weak spot, don't you?" + +The other made a despairing motion. "I see so many!" + +"Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want +this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?" + +Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his +quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life +would believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and +Granice racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw +the reporter's face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + +"Mr. Granice--has the memory of it always haunted you?" + +Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. "That's it--the +memory of it... always..." + +McCarren nodded vehemently. "Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn't let you +sleep? The time came when you HAD to make a clean breast of it?" + +"I had to. Can't you understand?" + +The reporter struck his fist on the table. "God, sir! I don't suppose +there's a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can't +picture the deadly horrors of remorse--" + +The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for +the word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable +motive the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he +said, once one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the +case became so many incentives to effort. + +"Remorse--REMORSE," he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue with +an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and +Granice, perversely, said to himself: "If I could only have struck that +note I should have been running in six theatres at once." + +He saw that from that moment McCarren's professional zeal would be +fanned by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose +that they should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall +or theatre. It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an +object of pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a +kind of gray penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren's attention on his +case; and to feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately +engrossing game. He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out +the meaningless performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense +of the reporter's observation. + +Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: +he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every +physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in +his kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren's +attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing +on his own problem. + +"See that fellow over there--the little dried-up man in the third row, +pulling his moustache? HIS memoirs would be worth publishing," McCarren +said suddenly in the last entr'acte. + +Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby's +office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being +shadowed. + +"Caesar, if HE could talk--!" McCarren continued. "Know who he is, of +course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country--" + +Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. +"THAT man--the fourth from the aisle? You're mistaken. That's not Dr. +Stell." + +McCarren laughed. "Well, I guess I've been in court enough to know Stell +when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they +plead insanity." + +A cold shiver ran down Granice's spine, but he repeated obstinately: +"That's not Dr. Stell." + +"Not Stell? Why, man, I KNOW him. Look--here he comes. If it isn't +Stell, he won't speak to me." + +The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared +McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + +"How'do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain't it?" the reporter +cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of +amicable assent, passed on. + +Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken--the man who +had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: +a physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him +insane, like the others--had regarded his confession as the maundering +of a maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror--he seemed to see +the mad-house gaping for him. + +"Isn't there a man a good deal like him--a detective named J. B. +Hewson?" + +But he knew in advance what McCarren's answer would be. "Hewson? J. +B. Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough--I +guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his +name." + + + + +VI + + +Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District +Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + +But when they were face to face Allonby's jovial countenance showed +no sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned +across his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + +Granice broke out at once: "That detective you sent me the other day--" + +Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + +"--I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?" + +The other's face did not lose its composure. "Because I looked up your +story first--and there's nothing in it." + +"Nothing in it?" Granice furiously interposed. + +"Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don't you bring me +proofs? I know you've been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and +to that little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been +able to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?" + +Granice's lips began to tremble. "Why did you play me that trick?" + +"About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it's part of my business. Stell +IS a detective, if you come to that--every doctor is." + +The trembling of Granice's lips increased, communicating itself in a +long quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry +throat. "Well--and what did he detect?" + +"In you? Oh, he thinks it's overwork--overwork and too much smoking. If +you look in on him some day at his office he'll show you the record of +hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. +It's one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the +same." + +"But, Allonby, I killed that man!" + +The District Attorney's large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an +almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the +call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + +"Sorry, my dear fellow--lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some +morning," Allonby said, shaking hands. + + +McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the +alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting +time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped +back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to +Allonby he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not +Allonby have deceived him as to the alienist's diagnosis? What if he +were really being shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? +To have the truth out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + +The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment +to the conditions of their previous meeting. "We have to do that +occasionally, Mr. Granice; it's one of our methods. And you had given +Allonby a fright." + +Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to +produce the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last +talk with the physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken +for a symptom of derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell's +allusion. + +"You think, then, it's a case of brain-fag--nothing more?" + +"Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a +good deal, don't you?" + +He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or +any form of diversion that did not--that in short-- + +Granice interrupted him impatiently. "Oh, I loathe all that--and I'm +sick of travelling." + +"H'm. Then some larger interest--politics, reform, philanthropy? +Something to take you out of yourself." + +"Yes. I understand," said Granice wearily. + +"Above all, don't lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours," the +doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + +On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like +his--the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his +guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case +like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a +play: the great alienist who couldn't read a man's mind any better than +that! + +Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + +But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness +returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham +he found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been +carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. +Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood +on the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked +himself despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in +the sluggish circle of his consciousness. + +The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh +recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take +it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, +another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire +to establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as +an irresponsible dreamer--even if he had to kill himself in the end, +he would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death +from it. + +He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had +been published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a +brief statement from the District Attorney's office, and the rest of his +communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged +him to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of +his delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread +the reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the +words he kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. +His inner self became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long +hours reciting and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, +which he constantly retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity +languished under the lack of an audience, the sense of being buried +beneath deepening drifts of indifference. In a passion of resentment he +swore that he would prove himself a murderer, even if he had to commit +another crime to do it; and for a sleepless night or two the thought +flamed red on his darkness. But daylight dispelled it. The determining +impulse was lacking and he hated too promiscuously to choose his +victim... So he was thrown back on the unavailing struggle to impose +the truth of his story. As fast as one channel closed on him he tried to +pierce another through the sliding sands of incredulity. But every issue +seemed blocked, and the whole human race leagued together to cheat one +man of the right to die. + +Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last +shred of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really +the victim of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of +holiday-makers jeering at a poor creature in its blind dashes against +the solid walls of consciousness? But, no--men were not so uniformly +cruel: there were flaws in the close surface of their indifference, +cracks of weakness and pity here and there... + +Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to +persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible +conformities of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce +secret deviation. The general tendency was to take for the whole of life +the slit seen between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that +narrow vista Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to +follow his whole orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would +be easier to convince a chance idler in the street than the trained +intelligence hampered by a sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up +in him with the tropic luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he +began to walk the streets, and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses +and bars in his search for the impartial stranger to whom he should +disclose himself. + +At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he +always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that +his first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, +intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he +sought. He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous +motions of the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence +of the average face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a +beginning--once sitting down at a man's side in a basement chop-house, +another day approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both +cases the premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His +dread of being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an +unnatural keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and +he had provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, +trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + +He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at +irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, +and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a +world so remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the +mysterious sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one +identity to another--yet the other as unescapably himself! + +One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in +him. Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing +conditions. He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire +which alone attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not +always, of course--he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. +And he could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and +indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull +brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless +millions paused, listened, believed... + +It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side +docks, looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his +eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the +face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and +not till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the +shabby reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that +morning. Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air--certainly he +felt calmer than for many days... + +He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked +up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him--they +were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in +Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + +At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a +votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, +after all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and +he felt tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted +trees, making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a +girl sat alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made +him stop before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a +girl, had hardly looked at the women's faces as they passed. His case +was man's work: how could a woman help him? But this girl's face was +extraordinary--quiet and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a +hundred images of space, distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as +a boy, quietly berthed by a familiar wharf, but with the breath of far +seas and strange harbours in their shrouds... Certainly this girl would +understand. He went up to her quietly, lifting his hat, observing the +forms--wishing her to see at once that he was "a gentleman." + +"I am a stranger to you," he began, sitting down beside her, "but your +face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face +I've waited for... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you--" + +The girl's eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + +In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by +the arm. + +"Here--wait--listen! Oh, don't scream, you fool!" he shouted out. + +He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. +Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard +within him was loosened and ran to tears. + +"Ah, you know--you KNOW I'm guilty!" + +He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl's +frightened face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It +was the policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, +the crowd at his heels... + + + + +VII + + +In the charming place in which he found himself there were so many +sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty +of making himself heard. + +It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested +for murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he +needed rest, and the time to "review" his statements; it appeared that +reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To +this end he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet +establishment, with an open space and trees about it, where he had +found a number of intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged +in preparing or reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to +lend an interested ear to his own recital. + +For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of +this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part +an encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really +brilliant and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his +old doubts. Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had +less power to aid him than they boasted. His interminable conferences +resulted in nothing, and as the benefit of the long rest made itself +felt, it produced an increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction +more and more unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days +visitors from the outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote +out long and logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively +slipped them into the hands of these messengers of hope. + +This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived +only to watch for the visitors' days, and scan the faces that swept by +him like stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + +Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his +companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, +a kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his "statements" +afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out +into the open seas of life. + +One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, +a pair of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He +sprang up and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + +The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a +startled deprecating, "WHY--?" + +"You didn't know me? I'm so changed?" Granice faltered, feeling the +rebound of the other's wonder. + +"Why, no; but you're looking quieter--smoothed out," McCarren smiled. + +"Yes: that's what I'm here for--to rest. And I've taken the opportunity +to write out a clearer statement--" + +Granice's hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from +his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by +a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild +thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + +"Perhaps your friend--he IS your friend?--would glance over it--or I +could put the case in a few words if you have time?" Granice's voice +shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last +hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the +former glanced at his watch. + +"I'm sorry we can't stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my +friend has an engagement, and we're rather pressed--" + +Granice continued to proffer the paper. "I'm sorry--I think I could have +explained. But you'll take this, at any rate?" + +The stranger looked at him gently. "Certainly--I'll take it." He had his +hand out. "Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," Granice echoed. + +He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light +hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as +they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, +beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement. + + +Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist's +companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred +windows. + +"So that was Granice?" + +"Yes--that was Granice, poor devil," said McCarren. + +"Strange case! I suppose there's never been one just like it? He's still +absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?" + +"Absolutely. Yes." + +The stranger reflected. "And there was no conceivable ground for the +idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of +fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you +ever get the least clue to it?" + +McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in +contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze +on his companion. + +"That was the queer part of it. I've never spoken of it--but I DID get a +clue." + +"By Jove! That's interesting. What was it?" + +McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. "Why--that it wasn't a +delusion." + +He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + +"He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest +accident, when I'd pretty nearly chucked the whole job." + +"He murdered him--murdered his cousin?" + +"Sure as you live. Only don't split on me. It's about the queerest +business I ever ran into... DO ABOUT IT? Why, what was I to do? I +couldn't hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they +collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!" + +The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice's statement in +his hand. + +"Here--take this; it makes me sick," he said abruptly, thrusting the +paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to +the gates. + +The End + + + + + +THE DILETTANTE + +As first published in Harper's Monthly, December 1903 + + +It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself +advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned +as usual into Mrs. Vervain's street. + +The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way +of bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that lay +between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he +instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from +the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending +it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved +dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over +his call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that +episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the +talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, +he had felt the dilettante's irresistible craving to take a last look at +a work of art that was passing out of his possession. + +On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpected +than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things for +granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that she +owed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale had +made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, of +telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. +The latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a +picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: +it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered +with the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the +privilege of loving her is one of the least favors that a charming woman +can accord; and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had +developed a science of evasion in which the woman of the moment became +a mere implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment +to the cultivation of this art. The perils from which it had been his +refuge became naively harmless: was it possible that he who now took his +easy way along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights +of emotion? Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the satisfaction +of feeling that he had entered earlier than most into that chiar'oscuro +of sensation where every half-tone has its value. + +As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable +to Mrs. Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray their +feelings, but he had never before had such fine material to work in. She +had been surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of making +the most awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly +undressing her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline +of his reticences and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and +perhaps more remarkable in that it involved keeping time with any tune +he played and reading at sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + +It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but the +result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had been +perfect: her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he had +announced his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed a +difficulty; a deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent, +it was agreed to see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence +in the completeness of his method. It had been his pride never to put +himself in a position which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back +door; but here, as he perceived, the main portals would have opened +for him of their own accord. All this, and much more, he read in the +finished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He +had never seen a better piece of work: there was no over-eagerness, +no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her art the grace of a +natural quality) there were none of those damnable implications whereby +a woman, in welcoming her friend's betrothed, may keep him on pins +and needles while she laps the lady in complacency. So masterly a +performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset of Miss Gaynor's door-step +words--"To be so kind to me, how she must have liked you!"--though he +caught himself wishing it lay within the bounds of fitness to transmit +them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who was unfailingly +certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps the one drawback to +his new situation that it might develop good things which it would be +impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. + +The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend's +powers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his +distrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her +street instead of going on to the club. He would show her that he knew +how to value her; he would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely +rarer and more delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. +Incidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of time before +dinner: ever since he had seen Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her +return journey to Buffalo, he had been wondering how he should put in +the rest of the afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed the girl.... +Yes, that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at the +bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, if you +like--but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could recall the time +when he had been afraid of being obvious: now he felt that this return +to the primitive emotions might be as restorative as a holiday in +the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by the girl's candor, her +directness, her lack of complications, that he was taken. The sense that +she might say something rash at any moment was positively exhilarating: +if she had thrown her arms about him at the station he would not have +given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It surprised Thursdale to find +what freshness of heart he brought to the adventure; and though his +sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness to any conscious +purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that his sentimental economies +had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. + +Mrs. Vervain was at home--as usual. When one visits the cemetery one +expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as +another proof of his friend's good taste that she had been in no undue +haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on his +coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though +there had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once +enveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. +Vervain imparted to her very furniture. + +It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. +Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + +"You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. + +It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The +difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's balance. + +"Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And as she +made no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one else's?" + +She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. "Mine, merely," +she said. + +"I hope that doesn't mean that you're unwilling to share it?" + +"With you? By no means. You're welcome to my last crust." + +He looked at her reproachfully. "Do you call this the last?" + +She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. "It's a way of +giving it more flavor!" + +He returned the smile. "A visit to you doesn't need such condiments." + +She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. + +"Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste," she +confessed. + +Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into the +imprudence of saying, "Why should you want it to be different from what +was always so perfectly right?" + +She hesitated. "Doesn't the fact that it's the last constitute a +difference?" + +"The last--my last visit to you?" + +"Oh, metaphorically, I mean--there's a break in the continuity." + +Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already! + +"I don't recognize it," he said. "Unless you make me--" he added, with a +note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. + +She turned to him with grave eyes. "You recognize no difference +whatever?" + +"None--except an added link in the chain." + +"An added link?" + +"In having one more thing to like you for--your letting Miss Gaynor +see why I had already so many." He flattered himself that this turn had +taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + +Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. "Was it that you came for?" +she asked, almost gaily. + +"If it is necessary to have a reason--that was one." + +"To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?" + +"To tell you how she talks about you." + +"That will be very interesting--especially if you have seen her since +her second visit to me." + +"Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and +moved to another. "She came to see you again?" + +"This morning, yes--by appointment." + +He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for her?" + +"I didn't have to--she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt you +have seen her since." + +Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his +thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. "I saw her off +just now at the station." + +"And she didn't tell you that she had been here again?" + +"There was hardly time, I suppose--there were people about--" he +floundered. + +"Ah, she'll write, then." + +He regained his composure. "Of course she'll write: very often, I hope. +You know I'm absurdly in love," he cried audaciously. + +She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the +chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a +pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. "Oh, my poor Thursdale!" +she murmured. + +"I suppose it's rather ridiculous," he owned; and as she remained +silent, he added, with a sudden break--"Or have you another reason for +pitying me?" + +Her answer was another question. "Have you been back to your rooms since +you left her?" + +"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here." + +"Ah, yes--you COULD: there was no reason--" Her words passed into a +silent musing. + +Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to tell +me?" + +"Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your +rooms." + +"A letter? What do you mean? A letter from HER? What has happened?" + +His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. "Nothing +has happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always HATED, +you know," she added incoherently, "to have things happen: you never +would let them." + +"And now--?" + +"Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To +know if anything had happened." + +"Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" he said +with a rush of light. + +The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them +that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. + +"You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are +you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?" + +His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. + +Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: "I supposed it might have struck you +that there were times when we presented that appearance." + +He made an impatient gesture. "A man's past is his own!" + +"Perhaps--it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. But +one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is naturally +inexperienced." + +"Of course--but--supposing her act a natural one--" he floundered +lamentably among his innuendoes--"I still don't see--how there was +anything--" + +"Anything to take hold of? There wasn't--" + +"Well, then--?" escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did not +complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: "She can hardly +object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!" + +"But she does," said Mrs. Vervain. + +Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no trace of +jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear the candid +ring of the girl's praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an abyss of +insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, she must at +least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. +The situation seemed one through which one could no longer move in a +penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the direct query: "Won't +you explain what you mean?" + +Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong his +distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it +was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was +the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she had +lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted, +that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. + +At last she said slowly: "She came to find out if you were really free." + +Thursdale colored again. "Free?" he stammered, with a sense of physical +disgust at contact with such crassness. + +"Yes--if I had quite done with you." She smiled in recovered security. +"It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for definitions." + +"Yes--well?" he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + +"Well--and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she wanted +me to define MY status--to know exactly where I had stood all along." + +Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. +"And even when you had told her that--" + +"Even when I had told her that I had HAD no status--that I had +never stood anywhere, in any sense she meant," said Mrs. Vervain, +slowly--"even then she wasn't satisfied, it seems." + +He uttered an uneasy exclamation. "She didn't believe you, you mean?" + +"I mean that she DID believe me: too thoroughly." + +"Well, then--in God's name, what did she want?" + +"Something more--those were the words she used." + +"Something more? Between--between you and me? Is it a conundrum?" He +laughed awkwardly. + +"Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbidden to +contemplate the relation of the sexes." + +"So it seems!" he commented. "But since, in this case, there wasn't +any--" he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. + +"That's just it. The unpardonable offence has been--in our not +offending." + +He flung himself down despairingly. "I give it up!--What did you tell +her?" he burst out with sudden crudeness. + +"The exact truth. If I had only known," she broke off with a beseeching +tenderness, "won't you believe that I would still have lied for you?" + +"Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?" + +"To save you--to hide you from her to the last! As I've hidden you from +myself all these years!" She stood up with a sudden tragic import in +her movement. "You believe me capable of that, don't you? If I had only +guessed--but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth out +of me with a spring." + +"The truth that you and I had never--" + +"Had never--never in all these years! Oh, she knew why--she measured us +both in a flash. She didn't suspect me of having haggled with you--her +words pelted me like hail. 'He just took what he wanted--sifted and +sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap of +cinders. And you let him--you let yourself be cut in bits'--she mixed +her metaphors a little--'be cut in bits, and used or discarded, while +all the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he's +Shylock--and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut out +of you.' But she despises me the most, you know--far the most--" Mrs. +Vervain ended. + +The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they +seemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind +of intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without +perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand +opera-singer had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. + +Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, +but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils of +reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + +His first words were characteristic. "She DOES despise me, then?" he +exclaimed. + +"She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the +heart." + +He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly what she said of me." + +"She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that while +she understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been opened to +the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an +unwillingness to be taken with reservations--she thinks you would have +loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The point of view +is original--she insists on a man with a past!" + +"Oh, a past--if she's serious--I could rake up a past!" he said with a +laugh. + +"So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion of it. +She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had +done to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling +her." + +Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed--your revenge is +complete," he said slowly. + +He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? When I sent for you +to warn you--to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?" + +"You're very good--but it's rather late to talk of saving me." He held +out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + +"How you must care!--for I never saw you so dull," was her answer. +"Don't you see that it's not too late for me to help you?" And as +he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: "Take the rest--in +imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied +to her--she's too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, I +sha'n't have been wasted." + +His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look +back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to +need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept +them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this +contact of naked souls. + +It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but +something in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went +up to his friend and took her hand. + +"You would do it--you would do it!" + +She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + +"Good-by," he said, kissing it. + +"Good-by? You are going--?" + +"To get my letter." + +"Your letter? The letter won't matter, if you will only do what I ask." + +He returned her gaze. "I might, I suppose, without being out of +character. Only, don't you see that if your plan helped me it could only +harm her?" + +"Harm HER?" + +"To sacrifice you wouldn't make me different. I shall go on being what +I have always been--sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want my +punishment to fall on HER?" + +She looked at him long and deeply. "Ah, if I had to choose between +you--!" + +"You would let her take her chance? But I can't, you see. I must take my +punishment alone." + +She drew her hand away, sighing. "Oh, there will be no punishment for +either of you." + +"For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me." + +She shook her head with a slight laugh. "There will be no letter." + +Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. +"No letter? You don't mean--" + +"I mean that she's been with you since I saw her--she's seen you and +heard your voice. If there IS a letter, she has recalled it--from the +first station, by telegraph." + +He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. "But in the +mean while I shall have read it," he said. + +The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness +of the room. + + +The End + + + + + +THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND + +As first published in Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + + + + +I + + +"Above all," the letter ended, "don't leave Siena without seeing Doctor +Lombard's Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or a +madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of the +Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring its +remotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, which +came to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one of +the missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according +to the most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched +example of the best period. + +"Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; but we +struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Siena three +years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may get a peep +at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for I hear he +refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in my monograph on +the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me, and if you +can't persuade him to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at +least jot down a detailed description of the picture and get from him +all the facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments +have offered him a large advance on his purchase, but that he refuses +to sell at any price, though he certainly can't afford such luxuries; in +fact, I don't see where he got enough money to buy the picture. He lives +in the Via Papa Giulio." + +Wyant sat at the table d'hote of his hotel, re-reading his friend's +letter over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena without +having found time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifference +to the opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to +the strange red city and he was still under the spell of its more +conspicuous wonders--the brick palaces flinging out their wrought-iron +torch-holders with a gesture of arrogant suzerainty; the great +council-chamber emblazoned with civic allegories; the pageant of Pope +Julius on the Library walls; the Sodomas smiling balefully through the +dusk of mouldering chapels--and it was only when his first hunger was +appeased that he remembered that one course in the banquet was still +untasted. + +He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a +nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous +eyes and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing +the Fanfulla di Domenica. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned +the nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to +the ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just +restoring the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind +him, and the lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of +the dining-room. + +"Pardon me, sir," he said in measured English, and with an intonation of +exquisite politeness; "you have let this letter fall." + +Wyant, recognizing his friend's note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, +took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he +perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a +gaze of melancholy interrogation. + +"Again pardon me," the young man at length ventured, "but are you by +chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?" + +"No," returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of +foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded +politeness: "Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his +house. I see it is not given here." + +The young man brightened perceptibly. "The number of the house is +thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you--it is well known in Siena. +It is called," he continued after a moment, "the House of the Dead +Hand." + +Wyant stared. "What a queer name!" he said. + +"The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred +years has been above the door." + +Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: +"If you would have the kindness to ring twice." + +"To ring twice?" + +"At the doctor's." The young man smiled. "It is the custom." + +It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the +mid-blue, and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-colored +hills. For nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching the +shadows race across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in the +west; then he decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The +map in his guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of the +streets which radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course, +pausing at every other step to fill his eye with some fresh image of +weather-beaten beauty. The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the +sunshine and hanging like a funereal baldachin above the projecting +cornices of Doctor Lombard's street, and Wyant walked for some distance +in the shade of the beetling palace fronts before his eye fell on +a doorway surmounted by a sallow marble hand. He stood for a moment +staring up at the strange emblem. The hand was a woman's--a dead +drooping hand, which hung there convulsed and helpless, as though it had +been thrust forth in denunciation of some evil mystery within the house, +and had sunk struggling into death. + +A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that the +English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing through +a glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with a +plaster AEsculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing the +AEsculapius was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-rope +he remembered his unknown friend's injunction, and rang twice. + +His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and small +close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, his card, +and his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, cold +ante-chamber floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click down +an interminable corridor, and after some delay she returned and told him +to follow her. + +They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but loftily +vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph of Scipio or +Alexander--martial figures following Wyant with the filmed melancholy +gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he was admitted +to a smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing +more obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry +which had faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that +the young man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. +Against these hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt feet, and +at a table in the window three persons were seated: an elderly lady +who was warming her hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a strip of +needle-work, and an old man. + +As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious of +staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure, +dressed with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, +lean, vulpine, eagle-beaked as that of some art-loving despot of the +Renaissance: a head combining the venerable hair and large prominent +eyes of the humanist with the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant, +in musing on the Italian portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had +often fancied that only in that period of fierce individualism could +types so paradoxical have been produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who +committed them to the bronze had never drawn a face more strangely +stamped with contradictory passions than that of Doctor Lombard. + +"I am glad to see you," he said to Wyant, extending a hand which seemed +a mere framework held together by knotted veins. "We lead a quiet life +here and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clyde's is +welcome." Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he added +dryly: "My wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde." + +"Oh yes--he used to make me such nice toast; they don't understand toast +in Italy," said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice. + +It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard's manner and +appearance to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconsciently +and ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed a +protest against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, with +pale cheeks netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portrait +sustained a bogwood watch-chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a +heap of knitting and an old copy of The Queen. + +The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of her +mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her small head +was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she might have +had a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of her round +mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression implied ill-temper or +apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between the fierce vitality +of the doctor's age and the inanimateness of his daughter's youth. + +Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young man +tried to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some random +remark on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent, +and Doctor Lombard interposed with a smile: "My dear sir, my wife +considers Siena a most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed by +the cheapness of the marketing; but she deplores the total absence of +muffins and cannel coal, and cannot resign herself to the Italian method +of dusting furniture." + +"But they don't, you know--they don't dust it!" Mrs. Lombard protested, +without showing any resentment of her husband's manner. + +"Precisely--they don't dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we have not +once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of the Mangia. Can +you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yet dared to write +it home to her aunts at Bonchurch." + +Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her +views, and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant's embarrassment, +planted himself suddenly before the young man. + +"And now," said he, "do you want to see my Leonardo?" + +"DO I?" cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + +The doctor chuckled. "Ah," he said, with a kind of crooning +deliberation, "that's the way they all behave--that's what they all come +for." He turned to his daughter with another variation of mockery in his +smile. "Don't fancy it's for your beaux yeux, my dear; or for the mature +charms of Mrs. Lombard," he added, glaring suddenly at his wife, who had +taken up her knitting and was softly murmuring over the number of her +stitches. + +Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued, +addressing himself to Wyant: "They all come--they all come; but many are +called and few are chosen." His voice sank to solemnity. "While I live," +he said, "no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But I will +not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would send an +unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the +picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him--if you can." + +Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment to put +in his appeal for a photograph. + +"Well, sir," he said, "you know Clyde wants me to take away all I can of +it." + +Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. "You're welcome to take away all +you can carry," he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter: "That +is, if he has your permission, Sybilla." + +The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a key from +a secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continued in +the same note of grim jocularity: "For you must know that the picture is +not mine--it is my daughter's." + +He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyant +turned on the young girl's impassive figure. + +"Sybilla," he pursued, "is a votary of the arts; she has inherited her +fond father's passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, she also +recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and having seen +the Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyond +my reach, she took a step which deserves to go down to history: she +invested her whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus +enabling me to spend my closing years in communion with one of the +world's masterpieces. My dear sir, could Antigone do more?" + +The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one of the +tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door. + +"Come," said Doctor Lombard, "let us go before the light fails us." + +Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + +"No, no," said his host, "my wife will not come with us. You might +not suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for +art--Italian art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorian +school." + +"Frith's Railway Station, you know," said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. "I like +an animated picture." + +Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry to let +her father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrow +stone passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred, +and Wyant noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fitted +another key into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a small +room. The dark panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams of +yellow light slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in +the central brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded +velvet. + +"A little too bright, Sybilla," said Doctor Lombard. His face had grown +solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew a linen +drapery across the upper part of the window. + +"That will do--that will do." He turned impressively to Wyant. "Do you +see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there--keep your +left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord." + +Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind the +velvet curtain. + +"Ah," said the doctor, "one moment: I should like you, while looking at +the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla--" + +Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptness which +proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began to recite, +in a full round voice like her mother's, St. Bernard's invocation to the +Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise. + +"Thank you, my dear," said her father, drawing a deep breath as she +ended. "That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares one +better than anything I know for the contemplation of the picture." + +As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo appeared +in its frame of tarnished gold: + +From the nature of Miss Lombard's recitation Wyant had expected a sacred +subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the composition was +gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain. + +In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale calcareous +landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucified Christ +hung livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of the foreground, +however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair of marble with +bas-reliefs of dancing maenads. Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled +with minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled +that of Dosso Dossi's Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely +fluted lines from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high +forehead the crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; one +hand drooped on the arm of her chair; the other held up an inverted +human skull, into which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown and sidelong as +the St. John of the Louvre, poured a stream of wine from a high-poised +flagon. At the lady's feet lay the symbols of art and luxury: a flute +and a roll of music, a platter heaped with grapes and roses, the torso +of a Greek statuette, and a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; +behind her, on the chalky hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll +in a corner of the foreground bore the legend: Lux Mundi. + +Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly +toward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her +hand on the cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his +strange Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in +rapt contemplation of his treasure. + +Wyant addressed the young girl. + +"You are fortunate," he said, "to be the possessor of anything so +perfect." + +"It is considered very beautiful," she said coldly. + +"Beautiful--BEAUTIFUL!" the doctor burst out. "Ah, the poor, worn out, +over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the language fresh enough +to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightness has been worn +off by misuse. Think of the things that have been called beautiful, and +then look at THAT!" + +"It is worthy of a new vocabulary," Wyant agreed. + +"Yes," Doctor Lombard continued, "my daughter is indeed fortunate. +She has chosen what Catholics call the higher life--the counsel of +perfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity of +understanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with an +untouched masterpiece of Leonardo's? Think of the happiness of being +always under the influence of such a creation; of living INTO it; of +partaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; +the sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young +life to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, +point out some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will +appreciate them." + +The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing away +from him, she pointed to the canvas. + +"Notice the modeling of the left hand," she began in a monotonous voice; +"it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the naked genius will +remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it is more purely +pagan and is turned a little less to the right. The embroidery on the +cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of this plant have +burst through the vase. This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet's +character in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and +the serpent, emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have not +yet been able to decipher." + +Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + +"And the picture itself?" he said. "How do you explain that? Lux +Mundi--what a curious device to connect with such a subject! What can it +mean?" + +Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not included in +her lesson. + +"What, indeed?" the doctor interposed. "What does life mean? As one +may define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundred +different meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted as +a well-cut diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it she +who is the true Lux Mundi--the light reflected from jewels and young +eyes, from polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is +that the Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is +this lady the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, +with her back turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? +Something of both these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to +me it symbolizes rather the central truth of existence: that all that +is raised in incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love, +religion; that all our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us by +the mysterious genius of a remote and cruel past." + +The doctor's face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten itself +and become taller. + +"Ah," he cried, growing more dithyrambic, "how lightly you ask what +it means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who have +given my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated its +tomb, laid open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle, +bone, and artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poets +and humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled +and doubted with AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed +to its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in +neolithic caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrils +of the arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I +stand abashed and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It means +nothing--it means all things. It may represent the period which saw its +creation; it may represent all ages past and to come. There are volumes +of meaning in the tiniest emblem on the lady's cloak; the blossoms of +its border are rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don't +ask what it means, young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for +having seen it!" + +Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + +"Don't excite yourself, father," she said in the detached tone of a +professional nurse. + +He answered with a despairing gesture. "Ah, it's easy for you to talk. +You have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, and every +moment counts!" + +"It's bad for you," she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + +The doctor's sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He dropped into +a seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drew the +curtain across the picture. + +Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was slipping +from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde's wish for a photograph. He +now understood the meaning of the laugh with which Doctor Lombard had +given him leave to carry away all the details he could remember. The +picture was so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed with elusive and +contradictory suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed +suddenly before it, must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of +confused wonder. Yet how valuable to Clyde the record of such a work +would be! In some ways it seemed to be the summing up of the master's +thought, the key to his enigmatic philosophy. + +The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His +daughter unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to the +room in which they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there, +and he could think of no excuse for lingering. + +He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in the +middle of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + +"It is very good of you," he said, "to allow one even a glimpse of such +a treasure." + +She looked at him with her odd directness. "You will come again?" +she said quickly; and turning to her father she added: "You know what +Professor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the +picture without seeing it again." + +Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a +trance. + +"Eh?" he said, rousing himself with an effort. + +"I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to +tell Professor Clyde about it," Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary +precision of tone. + +Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being +divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. + +"Well, well," the doctor muttered, "I don't say no--I don't say no. I +know what Clyde wants--I don't refuse to help him." He turned to Wyant. +"You may come again--you may make notes," he added with a sudden effort. +"Jot down what occurs to you. I'm willing to concede that." + +Wyant again caught the girl's eye, but its emphatic message perplexed +him. + +"You're very good," he said tentatively, "but the fact is the picture is +so mysterious--so full of complicated detail--that I'm afraid no notes I +could make would serve Clyde's purpose as well as--as a photograph, say. +If you would allow me--" + +Miss Lombard's brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. + +"A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people +have been allowed to set foot in that room! A PHOTOGRAPH?" + +Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. + +"I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having +any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let +me take a photograph for his personal use--not to be reproduced in his +book, but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the +photograph myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you +wished it, only one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde +could return to you when he had done with it." + +Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. "When he had done with it? +Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, +drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by +every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of +every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! I'd as soon give you the picture +itself: why don't you ask for that?" + +"Well, sir," said Wyant calmly, "if you will trust me with it, I'll +engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but +Clyde's see it while it is out of your keeping." + +The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst +into a laugh. + +"Upon my soul!" he said with sardonic good humor. + +It was Miss Lombard's turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words +and her father's unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her +depth. + +"Well, sir, am I to take the picture?" Wyant smilingly pursued. + +"No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind +that,--nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla," he cried with sudden +passion, "swear to me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No +photograph, no sketch--now or afterward. Do you hear me?" + +"Yes, father," said the girl quietly. + +"The vandals," he muttered, "the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it +would ever get into their hands I'd burn it first, by God!" He turned +to Wyant, speaking more quietly. "I said you might come back--I never +retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde +shall see the notes you make." + +Wyant was growing warm. + +"If you won't trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to +show my notes!" he exclaimed. + +The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + +"Humph!" he said; "would they be of much use to anybody?" + +Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience. + +"To Clyde, I hope, at any rate," he answered, holding out his hand. The +doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: "When +shall I come, sir?" + +"To-morrow--to-morrow morning," cried Miss Lombard, speaking suddenly. + +She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + +"The picture is hers," he said to Wyant. + +In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had admitted +him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar the door. As +the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm. + +"You have a letter?" she said in a low tone. + +"A letter?" He stared. "What letter?" + +She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + + + + +II + + +As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at +its scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above +the entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into the +passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning. +But the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about Doctor +Lombard's house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and her +father? Above all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did not +look like a person capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; and +there had been moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + +The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellow +light, and the young man turned his steps toward the church of San +Domenico, in the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodoma's +St. Catherine. + +The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he had to +grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation of the +sunset, the saint's figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk, and +the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to +glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the +accidental collaboration of light and color. + +Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the ground +at his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet of note-paper, +folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearing the +superscription:-- + + +To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + + +Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from? He was +distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air, close +to his feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; then he +turned and looked about the church. There was only one figure in it, +that of a man who knelt near the high altar. + +Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard's maid-servant. +Was this the letter she had asked for? Had he been unconsciously +carrying it about with him all the afternoon? Who was Count Ottaviano +Celsi, and how came Wyant to have been chosen to act as that nobleman's +ambulant letter-box? + +Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to explore +his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the +mystery; but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and +he was reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand +to have bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood +motionless before the picture. + +At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and +turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table d'hote. + +The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + +"I do not intrude?" he inquired suavely. + +Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, +glancing about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + +"I see," he remarked with a smile, "that you know the hour at which our +saint should be visited." + +Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + +The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + +"What grace! What poetry!" he murmured, apostrophizing the St. +Catherine, but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he +spoke. + +Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + +"But it is cold here--mortally cold; you do not find it so?" The +intruder put on his hat. "It is permitted at this hour--when the church +is empty. And you, my dear sir--do you not feel the dampness? You are +an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover the head +when they are engaged in the study of the paintings." + +He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant's hat. + +"Permit me--cover yourself!" he said a moment later, holding out the hat +with an ingratiating gesture. + +A light flashed on Wyant. + +"Perhaps," he said, looking straight at the young man, "you will tell me +your name. My own is Wyant." + +The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted +card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:-- + + + Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. + + +"I am much obliged to you," said Wyant; "and I may as well tell you that +the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat +is not there, but in my pocket." + +He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. + +"And now," Wyant continued, "you will perhaps be good enough to tell me +what all this means." + +There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this +request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. + +"I suppose you know," Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of +the other's discomfiture, "that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. +I don't yet understand what part I have been made to play, but it's +evident that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, +and I propose to know the reason why." + +Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + +"Sir," he pleaded, "you permit me to speak?" + +"I expect you to," cried Wyant. "But not here," he added, hearing the +clank of the verger's keys. "It is growing dark, and we shall be turned +out in a few minutes." + +He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into +the deserted square. + +"Now," said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + +The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to +speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. + +"My dear sir--my dear Mr. Wyant--you find me in an abominable +position--that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have +taken advantage of you--yes! I have counted on your amiability, your +chivalry--too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was to +oblige a lady"--he laid a hand on his heart--"a lady whom I would die +to serve!" He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate English +swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some +difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case. + +Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Siena some +months previously, on business connected with his mother's property; the +paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient city his father +was syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Count had met the +incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with +her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor +Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of settlements +arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was possessed of a small +property in her own right, had a short time before invested the +whole amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo. Thereupon Count +Ottaviano's parents had politely suggested that she should sell the +picture and thus recover her independence; and this proposal being met +by a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent +to their son's marriage. The young lady's attitude had hitherto been one +of passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and would +never venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known to Ottaviano +her intention of not giving him up, of waiting patiently till events +should take a more favorable turn. She seemed hardly aware, the Count +said with a sigh, that the means of escape lay in her own hands; that +she was of age, and had a right to sell the picture, and to marry +without asking her father's consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no +pains to keep himself before her, to remind her that he, too, was +waiting and would never give her up. + +Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade +Sybilla to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or to +correspond; they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and had +several times, the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctor's +visitors as a means of exchanging letters. + +"And you told the visitors to ring twice?" Wyant interposed. + +The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. +Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The +young lady had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of +pledging her unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be +outdone? But his purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely +to reiterate his fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to +induce her to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every +detail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry out +his instructions he would answer for the result. His idea was that she +should secretly retire to a convent of which his aunt was the Mother +Superior, and from that stronghold should transact the sale of the +Leonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; +a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered, considerably in excess of the young +lady's original inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if +necessary, be removed by force from Doctor Lombard's house, and his +daughter, being safely in the convent, would be spared the painful +scenes incidental to the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard were +vindictive enough to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only to +make a sommation respectueuse, and at the end of the prescribed delay no +power on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count Ottaviano. + +Wyant's anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was +absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the +first stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart +whenever he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of +the business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this +new Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part +he had unwittingly performed. + +He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + +"I won't deprive you any longer," he said, "of the pleasure of reading +your letter." + +"Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, +you will take a message from me--the letter she expected this +afternoon?" + +"The letter she expected?" Wyant paused. "No, thank you. I thought +you understood that where I come from we don't do that kind of +thing--knowingly." + +"But, sir, to serve a young lady!" + +"I'm sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true"--the Count's +expressive hands resented the doubt--"but remember that if I am under +obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who has +admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture." + +"HIS picture? Hers!" + +"Well, the house is his, at all events." + +"Unhappily--since to her it is a dungeon!" + +"Why doesn't she leave it, then?" exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + +The Count clasped his hands. "Ah, how you say that--with what force, +with what virility! If you would but say it to HER in that tone--you, +her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; +the father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he +would kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life +while she remains in that house!" + +"Oh, come," said Wyant lightly, "they seem to understand each other well +enough. But in any case, you must see that I can't interfere--at +least you would if you were an Englishman," he added with an escape of +contempt. + + + + +III + + +Wyant's affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with +his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of +Count Ottaviano's story. + +The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account +of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of +distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and +lived either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His +wife owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the +second son, came there from time to time to look into its management. +The eldest son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt +of Count Ottaviano's was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in +Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most +amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the +strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to +the adjustment of the young lady's dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very +properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, +who was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for +coming to Siena to inspect his mother's estate. + +Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano's personality the story had a +tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs +of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another +aspect. It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was +a suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who +could tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering +broken purposes the little drama of Miss Lombard's fate was being played +out? Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the +lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa +with sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + +One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems; +and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant's entrance, raised a placidly +wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had +been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a +cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings. + +"What a nice morning!" she said; "it must be delightful weather at +Bonchurch." + +Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its +threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with +clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond +the opposite houses. + +Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised +at his reappearance he said at once: "I have come back to study Miss +Lombard's picture." + +"Oh, the picture--" Mrs. Lombard's face expressed a gentle +disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter +sensibilities. "It's an original Leonardo, you know," she said +mechanically. + +"And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have +inherited her father's love for art." + +Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: "It's unusual in so +young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later." + +Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. "That's what I say! I was quite +different at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit +of fancy-work. Not that I couldn't sketch, too; I had a master down from +London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room +now--I did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked +a picnic, too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of +my own age. I say it's more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling +for art, and do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up +everything else. I was taught that there were other things." + +Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not +resist another question. "And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else?" + +Her mother looked troubled. + +"Sybilla is so clever--she says I don't understand. You know how +self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of +me, now--he knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very +particular; I was brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always +respected them. He says himself that he wouldn't for the world miss +hearing my opinion on any subject; you may have noticed that he often +refers to my tastes. He has always respected my preference for living +in England; he likes to hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much +interested in my ideas that he often says he knows just what I am going +to say before I speak. But Sybilla does not care for what I think--" + +At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. "The +servant is a fool; she didn't tell me you were here." His eye turned to +his wife. "Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About +the aunts at Bonchurch, I'll be bound!" + +Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his +hooked fingers, with a smile. + +"Mrs. Lombard's aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the +circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from +the curate's wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a +year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets' wives. They +devoted themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think +I may say without boasting that Mrs. Lombard's conversation shows marked +traces of the advantages she enjoyed." + +Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + +"I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular." + +"Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in +anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets +every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the +student of human nature." Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. "But we +are missing an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour." + +Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down +the passageway. + +The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner +radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the lady's +flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like +precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on +the previous day. + +He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic +grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and +seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + +"Now, then," he said, "tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth." + +He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws +of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant's notebook with the obvious +intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch. + +Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations +which Doctor Lombard's strange household excited, sat motionless for a +few minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages +of the note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his +discomfiture at length roused him, and he began to write. + +He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to +unlock it, and his daughter entered. + +She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + +"Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come +back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; +he says he can't wait." + +"The devil!" cried her father impatiently. "Didn't you tell him--" + +"Yes; but he says he can't come back. If you want to see him you must +come now." + +"Then you think there's a chance?--" + +She nodded. + +He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + +"You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment." + +He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + +Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise +at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for +hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her +small face pale and tumultuous. + +"I arranged it--I must speak to you," she gasped. "He'll be back in five +minutes." + +Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + +Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him +at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture +overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a +voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. + +"How can I help you?" he said with a rush of compassion. + +"Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; it's so +difficult--he watches me--he'll be back immediately." + +"Try to tell me what I can do." + +"I don't dare; I feel as if he were behind me." She turned away, fixing +her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. "There he comes, and +I haven't spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be +hurried." + +"I don't hear any one," said Wyant, listening. "Try to tell me." + +"How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain." She +drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--"Will you come here again +this afternoon--at about five?" she whispered. + +"Come here again?" + +"Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will come +with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and lock you +both in"--she gasped. + +"Lock us in?" + +"You see? You understand? It's the only way for me to leave the +house--if I am ever to do it"--She drew another difficult breath. +"The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an hour,--perhaps +sooner--" + +She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for +support. + +"Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + +"I can't, Miss Lombard," he said at length. + +"You can't?" + +"I'm sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--" + +He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit +to pause in its dash for a hole! + +Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + +"I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is +impossible. Can't I talk to you again? Perhaps--" + +"Oh," she cried, starting up, "there he comes!" + +Doctor Lombard's step sounded in the passage. + +Wyant held her fast. "Tell me one thing: he won't let you sell the +picture?" + +"No--hush!" + +"Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that." + +"The future?" + +"In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven't +promised?" + +She shook her head. + +"Don't, then; remember that." + +She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + +As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of +ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange +face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as +part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached +out like the cry of an imprisoned anguish. + +Wyant turned away impatiently. + +"Rubbish!" he said to himself. "SHE isn't walled in; she can get out if +she wants to." + + + + +IV + + +Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard's aid: he was +elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped into +the express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldo +he was convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followed +the only reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that the +priest and the Levite had probably justified themselves in much the same +manner. + +A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly relieved +from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A paragraph in +the morning paper announced the sudden death of Doctor Lombard, the +distinguished English dilettante who had long resided in Siena. Wyant's +justification was complete. Our blindest impulses become evidence of +perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events. + +Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular complications +from which his foresight had probably saved him. The climax was +unexpectedly dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a step which, +whatever its issue, would have burdened her with retrospective +compunction, had been set free before her suitor's ardor could have had +time to cool, and was now doubtless planning a life of domestic felicity +on the proceeds of the Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as +odd--he saw no mention of the sale of the picture. He had scanned the +papers for an immediate announcement of its transfer to one of the +great museums; but presently concluding that Miss Lombard, out of +filial piety, had wished to avoid an appearance of unseemly haste in the +disposal of her treasure, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Other +affairs happened to engage him; the months slipped by, and gradually the +lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in his mind. + +It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him again to +Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He +found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombard's street, +and glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse +of the doctor's house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its +threshold. The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an +admirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombard's +marriage. + +"The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, +signore." + +"Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?" + +"For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the +Maremma." + +"But what happened--why was the marriage broken?" + +The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + +"And Miss Lombard still lives in her father's house?" + +"Yes, signore; she is still there." + +"And the Leonardo--" + +"The Leonardo, also, is still there." + +The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered +Count Ottaviano's injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to +think that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented +the marriage? If Doctor Lombard's death had been long delayed, time +might have acted as a dissolvent, or the young lady's resolve have +failed; but it seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which +Wyant had left the lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + +As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed +a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like +an emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and +imminent which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range. +Wyant could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with +the ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work. + +A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to +the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs. +Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations +of surprise. + +Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might +shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was +still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above +the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of +needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen +her engaged. + +Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, +and learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had +somehow never done so. + +"I am sorry not to see my aunts again," Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; +"but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year." + +"Next year, perhaps," murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to +suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + +She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hair +enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her +cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has +darkened in drying. + +"And Professor Clyde--is he well?" Mrs. Lombard asked affably; +continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: "Surely, Sybilla, +Mr. Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the +Leonardo?" + +Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of +his friend's well-being. + +"Ah--perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena," she said, +sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued +a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: "And you +still have the picture?" + +She raised her eyes and looked at him. "Should you like to see it?" she +asked. + +On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same +secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down +the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making +Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the +curtain back from the picture. + +The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared +to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of +their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to +Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould +of darkness and oblivion. + +He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + +"Ah, I understand--you couldn't part with it, after all!" he cried. + +"No--I couldn't part with it," she answered. + +"It's too beautiful,--too beautiful,"--he assented. + +"Too beautiful?" She turned on him with a curious stare. "I have never +thought it beautiful, you know." + +He gave back the stare. "You have never--" + +She shook her head. "It's not that. I hate it; I've always hated it. But +he wouldn't let me--he will never let me now." + +Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised +him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. +Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the +pronoun not refer to her father? + +"You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the +picture?" + +"No--he prevented me; he will always prevent me." + +There was another pause. "You promised him, then, before his death--" + +"No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me." Her voice +sank to a whisper. "I was free--perfectly free--or I thought I was till +I tried." + +"Till you tried?" + +"To disobey him--to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. I +tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me." + +She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to +Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence. + +"And you can't"--he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the +pitch of hers. + +She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. "I can't lock him out; +I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another +chance." + +Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + +"Oh"--he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + +"It is too late," she said; "but you ought to have helped me that day." + + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith +Wharton, Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + +***** This file should be named 295.txt or 295.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/295/ + +Produced by Judith Boss + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton, Part 1 (of 10) + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Release Date: July 12, 2008 [EBook #295] +[Last Updated: August 22, 2017] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE EARLY SHORT FICTION OF EDITH WHARTON + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + A Ten-Volume Collection + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Volume One + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> KERFOL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> III </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> MRS. MANSTEYS VIEW </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE BOLTED DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> VII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE DILETTANTE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> IV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KERFOL + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribners Magazine, March 1916 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + You ought to buy it, said my host; its just the place for a + solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to own + the most romantic house in Brittany. The present people are dead broke, + and its going for a song—you ought to buy it. + </p> + <p> + It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my friend + Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my unsociable + exterior I have always had secret yearnings for domesticity) that I took + his hint one autumn afternoon and went to Kerfol. My friend was motoring + over to Quimper on business: he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road on + a heath, and said: First turn to the right and second to the left. Then + straight ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, dont ask + your way. They dont understand French, and they would pretend they did + and mix you up. Ill be back for you here by sunset—and dont forget + the tombs in the chapel. + </p> + <p> + I followed Lanrivains directions with the hesitation occasioned by the + usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the first turn to the + right and second to the left, or the contrary. If I had met a peasant I + should certainly have asked, and probably been sent astray; but I had the + desert landscape to myself, and so stumbled on the right turn and walked + on across the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so unlike any other + avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must be <i>the</i> avenue. The + grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great height and then interwove + their pale-grey branches in a long tunnel through which the autumn light + fell faintly. I know most trees by name, but I havent to this day been + able to decide what those trees were. They had the tall curve of elms, the + tenuity of poplars, the ashen colour of olives under a rainy sky; and they + stretched ahead of me for half a mile or more without a break in their + arch. If ever I saw an avenue that unmistakably led to something, it was + the avenue at Kerfol. My heart beat a little as I began to walk down it. + </p> + <p> + Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a long wall. + Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, with other grey + avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were tall slate roofs mossed + with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of a keep. A moat filled with wild + shrubs and brambles surrounded the place; the drawbridge had been replaced + by a stone arch, and the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood for a long + time on the hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and letting the + influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: If I wait long enough, + the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs— and I rather hoped + he wouldnt turn up too soon. + </p> + <p> + I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done it, it + struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with that great blind + house looking down at me, and all the empty avenues converging on me. It + may have been the depth of the silence that made me so conscious of my + gesture. The squeak of my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a + brake, and I almost fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto the + grass. But there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, of + littleness, of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my + cigarette-smoke into the face of such a past. + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol—I was new to Brittany, and + Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day before—but + one couldnt as much as glance at that pile without feeling in it a long + accumulation of history. What kind of history I was not prepared to guess: + perhaps only the sheer weight of many associated lives and deaths which + gives a kind of majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of Kerfol + suggested something more—a perspective of stern and cruel memories + stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of darkness. + </p> + <p> + Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken with the + present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and gables to the sky, + it might have been its own funeral monument. Tombs in the chapel? The + whole place is a tomb! I reflected. I hoped more and more that the + guardian would not come. The details of the place, however striking, would + seem trivial compared with its collective impressiveness; and I wanted + only to sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + </p> + <p> + Its the very place for you! Lanrivain had said; and I was overcome by + the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any living being that + Kerfol was the place for him. Is it possible that any one could <i>not</i> see—? + I wondered. I did not finish the thought: what I meant was undefinable. I + stood up and wandered toward the gate. I was beginning to want to know + more; not to <i>see</i> more—I was by now so sure it was not a question of + seeing—but to feel more: feel all the place had to communicate. But + to get in one will have to rout out the keeper, I thought reluctantly, + and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and tried the iron gate. It + yielded, and I walked under the tunnel formed by the thickness of the + chemin de ronde. At the farther end, a wooden barricade had been laid + across the entrance, and beyond it I saw a court enclosed in noble + architecture. The main building faced me; and I now discovered that one + half was a mere ruined front, with gaping windows through which the wild + growths of the moat and the trees of the park were visible. The rest of + the house was still in its robust beauty. One end abutted on the round + tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, and in an angle of the + building stood a graceful well-head adorned with mossy urns. A few roses + grew against the walls, and on an upper window-sill I remember noticing a + pot of fuchsias. + </p> + <p> + My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my + architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a desire to + explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, wondering in which + corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed open the barrier and went in. As + I did so, a little dog barred my way. He was such a remarkably beautiful + little dog that for a moment he made me forget the splendid place he was + defending. I was not sure of his breed at the time, but have since learned + that it was Chinese, and that he was of a rare variety called the + Sleeve-dog. He was very small and golden brown, with large brown eyes + and a ruffled throat: he looked rather like a large tawny chrysanthemum. I + said to myself: These little beasts always snap and scream, and somebody + will be out in a minute. + </p> + <p> + The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: there was + anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, he came no nearer. + Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell back, and I noticed that another + dog, a vague rough brindled thing, had limped up. Therell be a hubbub + now, I thought; for at the same moment a third dog, a long-haired white + mongrel, slipped out of a doorway and joined the others. All three stood + looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound came from them. As I + advanced they continued to fall back on muffled paws, still watching me. + At a given point, theyll all charge at my ankles: its one of the dodges + that dogs who live together put up on one, I thought. I was not much + alarmed, for they were neither large nor formidable. But they let me + wander about the court as I pleased, following me at a little distance—always + the same distance—and always keeping their eyes on me. Presently I + looked across at the ruined facade, and saw that in one of its + window-frames another dog stood: a large white pointer with one brown ear. + He was an old grave dog, much more experienced than the others; and he + seemed to be observing me with a deeper intentness. + </p> + <p> + Ill hear from <i>him</i>, I said to myself; but he stood in the empty + window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to watch me + without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see if the sense that + he was being watched would not rouse him. Half the width of the court lay + between us, and we stared at each other silently across it. But he did not + stir, and at last I turned away. Behind me I found the rest of the pack, + with a newcomer added: a small black greyhound with pale agate-coloured + eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression was more timid than + that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little behind them. And still + there was not a sound. + </p> + <p> + I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me—waiting, + as they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the little golden-brown + dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I heard myself laugh. The little + dog did not start, or growl, or take his eyes from me—he simply + slipped back about a yard, and then paused and continued to look at me. + Oh, hang it! I exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the + well. + </p> + <p> + As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different corners of + the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a locked door or two, + and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced about toward the chapel. + When I turned I perceived that all the dogs had disappeared except the old + pointer, who still watched me from the empty window-frame. It was rather a + relief to be rid of that cloud of witnesses; and I began to look about me + for a way to the back of the house. Perhaps therell be somebody in the + garden, I thought. I found a way across the moat, scrambled over a wall + smothered in brambles, and got into the garden. A few lean hydrangeas and + geraniums pined in the flower-beds, and the ancient house looked down on + them indifferently. Its garden side was plainer and severer than the + other: the long granite front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked + like a fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some + disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and incredibly + old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one person to slip + through, and its branches met overhead. It was like the ghost of a + box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to the shadowy greyness of the + avenues. I walked on and on, the branches hitting me in the face and + springing back with a dry rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy + top of the chemin de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking + down into the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was in + sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in the + thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged again into + the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden-brown one a little + ahead of the others, the black greyhound shivering in the rear. + </p> + <p> + Oh, hang it—you uncomfortable beasts, you! I exclaimed, my voice + startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood motionless, watching me. I + knew by this time that they would not try to prevent my approaching the + house, and the knowledge left me free to examine them. I had a feeling + that they must be horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet they did + not look hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and they were not + thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if they had lived a + long time with people who never spoke to them or looked at them: as though + the silence of the place had gradually benumbed their busy inquisitive + natures. And this strange passivity, this almost human lassitude, seemed + to me sadder than the misery of starved and beaten animals. I should have + liked to rouse them for a minute, to coax them into a game or a scamper; + but the longer I looked into their fixed and weary eyes the more + preposterous the idea became. With the windows of that house looking down + on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? The dogs knew better: <i>they</i> + knew what the house would tolerate and what it would not. I even fancied + that they knew what was passing through my mind, and pitied me for my + frivolity. But even that feeling probably reached them through a thick fog + of listlessness. I had an idea that their distance from me was as nothing + to my remoteness from them. In the last analysis, the impression they + produced was that of having in common one memory so deep and dark that + nothing that had happened since was worth either a growl or a wag. + </p> + <p> + I say, I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb circle, do + you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? You look as if youd + seen a ghost—thats how you look! I wonder if there <i>is</i> a ghost here, + and nobody but you left for it to appear to? The dogs continued to gaze + at me without moving... + </p> + <p> + It was dark when I saw Lanrivains motor lamps at the cross-roads—and + I wasnt exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense of having escaped from + the loneliest place in the whole world, and of not liking loneliness—to + that degree—as much as I had imagined I should. My friend had + brought his solicitor back from Quimper for the night, and seated beside a + fat and affable stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol... + </p> + <p> + But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted in the + study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Well—are you going to buy Kerfol? she asked, tilting up her gay + chin from her embroidery. + </p> + <p> + I havent decided yet. The fact is, I couldnt get into the house, I + said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and meant to go back for + another look. + </p> + <p> + You couldnt get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to sell the + place, and the old guardian has orders— + </p> + <p> + Very likely. But the old guardian wasnt there. + </p> + <p> + What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter—? + </p> + <p> + There was nobody about. At least I saw no one. + </p> + <p> + How extraordinary! Literally nobody? + </p> + <p> + Nobody but a lot of dogs—a whole pack of them—who seemed to + have the place to themselves. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and folded her + hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + A pack of dogs—you <i>saw</i> them? + </p> + <p> + Saw them? I saw nothing else! + </p> + <p> + How many? She dropped her voice a little. Ive always wondered— + </p> + <p> + I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be familiar to + her. Have you never been to Kerfol? I asked. + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes: often. But never on that day. + </p> + <p> + What day? + </p> + <p> + Id quite forgotten—and so had Herv, Im sure. If wed remembered, + we never should have sent you today—but then, after all, one doesnt + half believe that sort of thing, does one? + </p> + <p> + What sort of thing? I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to the level + of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: I <i>knew</i> there was something... + </p> + <p> + Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring smile. + Didnt Herv tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor of his was mixed + up in it. You know every Breton house has its ghost-story; and some of + them are rather unpleasant. + </p> + <p> + Yes—but those dogs? I insisted. + </p> + <p> + Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the peasants say + theres one day in the year when a lot of dogs appear there; and that day + the keeper and his daughter go off to Morlaix and get drunk. The women in + Brittany drink dreadfully. She stooped to match a silk; then she lifted + her charming inquisitive Parisian face: Did you <i>really</i> see a lot of dogs? + There isnt one at Kerfol, she said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the back of + an upper shelf of his library. + </p> + <p> + Yes—here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the Assizes + of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was written about a + hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I believe the account is + transcribed pretty literally from the judicial records. Anyhow, its queer + reading. And theres a Herv de Lanrivain mixed up in it—not exactly + <i>my</i> style, as youll see. But then hes only a collateral. Here, take the + book up to bed with you. I dont exactly remember the details; but after + youve read it Ill bet anything youll leave your light burning all + night! + </p> + <p> + I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it was chiefly + because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my reading. The account of the + trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of the lord of Kerfol, was long and + closely printed. It was, as my friend had said, probably an almost literal + transcription of what took place in the court-room; and the trial lasted + nearly a month. Besides, the type of the book was detestable... + </p> + <p> + At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But it is full + of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the story are forever + straying off into side issues. So I have tried to disentangle it, and give + it here in a simpler form. At times, however, I have reverted to the text + because no other words could have conveyed so exactly the sense of what I + felt at Kerfol; and nowhere have I added anything of my own. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was in the year 16— that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain of + Kerfol, went to the <i>pardon</i> of Locronan to perform his religious duties. He + was a rich and powerful noble, then in his sixty-second year, but hale and + sturdy, a great horseman and hunter and a pious man. So all his neighbours + attested. In appearance he seems to have been short and broad, with a + swarthy face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a hanging nose and + broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married young and lost his + wife and son soon after, and since then had lived alone at Kerfol. Twice a + year he went to Morlaix, where he had a handsome house by the river, and + spent a week or ten days there; and occasionally he rode to Rennes on + business. Witnesses were found to declare that during these absences he + led a life different from the one he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he + busied himself with his estate, attended mass daily, and found his only + amusement in hunting the wild boar and water-fowl. But these rumours are + not particularly relevant, and it is certain that among people of his own + class in the neighbourhood he passed for a stern and even austere man, + observant of his religious obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. + There was no talk of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though + at that time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some people + said he had never looked at a woman since his wifes death; but such + things are hard to prove, and the evidence on this point was not worth + much. + </p> + <p> + Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the <i>pardon</i> at + Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who had ridden over + pillion behind her father to do her duty to the saint. Her name was Anne + de Barrigan, and she came of good old Breton stock, but much less great + and powerful than that of Yves de Cornault; and her father had squandered + his fortune at cards, and lived almost like a peasant in his little + granite manor on the moors... I have said I would add nothing of my own to + this bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt myself here to + describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate of Locronan at the + very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also dismounting there. I take + my description from a rather rare thing: a faded drawing in red crayon, + sober and truthful enough to be by a late pupil of the Clouets, which + hangs in Lanrivains study, and is said to be a portrait of Anne de + Barrigan. It is unsigned and has no mark of identity but the initials A. + B., and the date 16—, the year after her marriage. It represents a + young woman with a small oval face, almost pointed, yet wide enough for a + full mouth with a tender depression at the corners. The nose is small, and + the eyebrows are set rather high, far apart, and as lightly pencilled as + the eyebrows in a Chinese painting. The forehead is high and serious, and + the hair, which one feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and + lying close like a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel + probably, with a look at once shy and steady. A pair of beautiful long + hands are crossed below the ladys breast... + </p> + <p> + The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when the Baron + came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, ordered another to be + instantly saddled, called to a young page come with him, and rode away + that same evening to the south. His steward followed the next morning with + coffers laden on a pair of pack mules. The following week Yves de Cornault + rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and told them he + was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of Douarnenez. And on + All Saints Day the marriage took place. + </p> + <p> + As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that + they passed happily for the couple. No one was found to say that Yves de + Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it was plain to all that he was + content with his bargain. Indeed, it was admitted by the chaplain and + other witnesses for the prosecution that the young lady had a softening + influence on her husband, and that he became less exacting with his + tenants, less harsh to peasants and dependents, and less subject to the + fits of gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. As to his wife, + the only grievance her champions could call up in her behalf was that + Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her husband was away on business + at Rennes or Morlaix—whither she was never taken—she was not + allowed so much as to walk in the park unaccompanied. But no one asserted + that she was unhappy, though one servant-woman said she had surprised her + crying, and had heard her say that she was a woman accursed to have no + child, and nothing in life to call her own. But that was a natural enough + feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and certainly it must have been + a great grief to Yves de Cornault that she gave him no son. Yet he never + made her feel her childlessness as a reproach—she herself admits + this in her evidence—but seemed to try to make her forget it by + showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though he was, he had never been + open-handed; but nothing was too fine for his wife, in the way of silks or + gems or linen, or whatever else she fancied. Every wandering merchant was + welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was called away he never came back + without bringing his wife a handsome present—something curious and + particular—from Morlaix or Rennes or Quimper. One of the + waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an interesting list of one + years gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a carved ivory junk, with + Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had brought back as a votive + offering for Notre Dame de la Clart, above Ploumanach; from Quimper, an + embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of the Assumption; from Rennes, a + silver rose that opened and showed an amber Virgin with a crown of + garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length of Damascus velvet shot with gold, + bought of a Jew from Syria; and for Michaelmas that same year, from + Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round stones—emeralds and pearls + and rubies—strung like beads on a gold wire. This was the present + that pleased the lady best, the woman said. Later on, as it happened, it + was produced at the trial, and appears to have struck the Judges and the + public as a curious and valuable jewel. + </p> + <p> + The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far + as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder + and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up to + Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting listlessly by the + fire, her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box + in his hand and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the lid and let out + a little golden-brown dog. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded + toward her. Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly! she cried as she + picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at her + with eyes like a Christians. After that she would never have it out of + her sight, and petted and talked to it as if it had been a child—as + indeed it was the nearest thing to a child she was to know. Yves de + Cornault was much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been brought to + him by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the sailor had bought + it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen it from a noblemans + wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to do, since the pilgrim was + a Christian and the nobleman a heathen doomed to hellfire. Yves de + Cornault had paid a long price for the dog, for they were beginning to be + in demand at the French court, and the sailor knew he had got hold of a + good thing; but Annes pleasure was so great that, to see her laugh and + play with the little animal, her husband would doubtless have given twice + the sum. + </p> + <p> + So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain sailing; but + now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to keep as nearly as + possible to Annes own statements; though toward the end, poor thing... + </p> + <p> + Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was brought to + Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found dead at the head of + a narrow flight of stairs leading down from his wifes rooms to a door + opening on the court. It was his wife who found him and gave the alarm, so + distracted, poor wretch, with fear and horror—for his blood was all + over her—that at first the roused household could not make out what + she was saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, sure + enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and head + foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the steps below him. + He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed about the face and throat, as + if with a dull weapon; and one of his legs had a deep tear in it which had + cut an artery, and probably caused his death. But how did he come there, + and who had murdered him? + </p> + <p> + His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and hearing his cry + had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; but this was immediately + questioned. In the first place, it was proved that from her room she could + not have heard the struggle on the stairs, owing to the thickness of the + walls and the length of the intervening passage; then it was evident that + she had not been in bed and asleep, since she was dressed when she roused + the house, and her bed had not been slept in. Moreover, the door at the + bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in the lock; and it was noticed + by the chaplain (an observant man) that the dress she wore was stained + with blood about the knees, and that there were traces of small + blood-stained hands low down on the staircase walls, so that it was + conjectured that she had really been at the postern-door when her husband + fell and, feeling her way up to him in the darkness on her hands and + knees, had been stained by his blood dripping down on her. Of course it + was argued on the other side that the blood-marks on her dress might have + been caused by her kneeling down by her husband when she rushed out of her + room; but there was the open door below, and the fact that the fingermarks + in the staircase all pointed upward. + </p> + <p> + The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in spite of its + improbability; but on the third day word was brought to her that Herv de + Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the neighbourhood, had been arrested for + complicity in the crime. Two or three witnesses thereupon came forward to + say that it was known throughout the country that Lanrivain had formerly + been on good terms with the lady of Cornault; but that he had been absent + from Brittany for over a year, and people had ceased to associate their + names. The witnesses who made this statement were not of a very reputable + sort. One was an old herb-gatherer suspected of witch-craft, another a + drunken clerk from a neighbouring parish, the third a half-witted shepherd + who could be made to say anything; and it was clear that the prosecution + was not satisfied with its case, and would have liked to find more + definite proof of Lanrivains complicity than the statement of the + herb-gatherer, who swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the park + on the night of the murder. One way of patching out incomplete proofs in + those days was to put some sort of pressure, moral or physical, on the + accused person. It is not clear what pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; + but on the third day, when she was brought into court, she appeared weak + and wandering, and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak + the truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she + confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with Herv de + Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been surprised there by the + sound of her husbands fall. That was better; and the prosecution rubbed + its hands with satisfaction. The satisfaction increased when various + dependents living at Kerfol were induced to say—with apparent + sincerity—that during the year or two preceding his death their + master had once more grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the + fits of brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before + his second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not been going + well at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say that there had been + any signs of open disagreement between husband and wife. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down at night + to open the door to Herv de Lanrivain, made an answer which must have + sent a smile around the court. She said it was because she was lonely and + wanted to talk with the young man. Was this the only reason? she was + asked; and replied: Yes, by the Cross over your Lordships heads. But + why at midnight? the court asked. Because I could see him in no other + way. I can see the exchange of glances across the ermine collars under + the Crucifix. + </p> + <p> + Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life had been + extremely lonely: desolate was the word she used. It was true that her + husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there were days when he did not + speak at all. It was true that he had never struck or threatened her; but + he kept her like a prisoner at Kerfol, and when he rode away to Morlaix or + Quimper or Rennes he set so close a watch on her that she could not pick a + flower in the garden without having a waiting-woman at her heels. I am no + Queen, to need such honours, she once said to him; and he had answered + that a man who has a treasure does not leave the key in the lock when he + goes out. Then take me with you, she urged; but to this he said that + towns were pernicious places, and young wives better off at their own + firesides. + </p> + <p> + But what did you want to say to Herv de Lanrivain? the court asked; and + she answered: To ask him to take me away. + </p> + <p> + Ah—you confess that you went down to him with adulterous thoughts? + </p> + <p> + No. + </p> + <p> + Then why did you want him to take you away? + </p> + <p> + Because I was afraid for my life. + </p> + <p> + Of whom were you afraid? + </p> + <p> + Of my husband. + </p> + <p> + Why were you afraid of your husband? + </p> + <p> + Because he had strangled my little dog. + </p> + <p> + Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days when any + nobleman had a right to hang his peasants—and most of them exercised + it—pinching a pet animals wind-pipe was nothing to make a fuss + about. + </p> + <p> + At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a certain + sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be allowed to explain + herself in her own way; and she thereupon made the following statement. + </p> + <p> + The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband had not + been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not have been + unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too much. + </p> + <p> + It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, brought + her a handsome present on his return; but this did not make up for the + loneliness. At least nothing had, till he brought her the little brown dog + from the East: after that she was much less unhappy. Her husband seemed + pleased that she was so fond of the dog; he gave her leave to put her + jewelled bracelet around its neck, and to keep it always with her. + </p> + <p> + One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her feet, as + his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his back. Suddenly she + was waked by her husband: he stood beside her, smiling not unkindly. + </p> + <p> + You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying in the + chapel with her feet on a little dog, he said. + </p> + <p> + The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and answered: Well, + when I am dead you must put me beside her, carved in marble, with my dog + at my feet. + </p> + <p> + Oho—well wait and see, he said, laughing also, but with his black + brows close together. The dog is the emblem of fidelity. + </p> + <p> + And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet? + </p> + <p> + When Im in doubt I find out, he answered. I am an old man, he added, + and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I swear you shall have + your monument if you earn it. + </p> + <p> + And I swear to be faithful, she returned, if only for the sake of + having my little dog at my feet. + </p> + <p> + Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; and while + he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of the duchy, came to + spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the <i>pardon</i> of Ste. Barbe. She was a + woman of great piety and consequence, and much respected by Yves de + Cornault, and when she proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe no + one could object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of the + pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the first time + she talked with Herv de Lanrivain. He had come once or twice to Kerfol + with his father, but she had never before exchanged a dozen words with + him. They did not talk for more than five minutes now: it was under the + chestnuts, as the procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: I + pity you, and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any one + thought her an object of pity. He added: Call for me when you need me, + and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and thought often of the + meeting. + </p> + <p> + She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. How or + where she would not say—one had the impression that she feared to + implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and brief; and at the + last he had told her that he was starting the next day for a foreign + country, on a mission which was not without peril and might keep him for + many months absent. He asked her for a remembrance, and she had none to + give him but the collar about the little dogs neck. She was sorry + afterward that she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she + had not had the courage to refuse. + </p> + <p> + Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days later he + picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its collar was + missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it in the undergrowth of + the park, and that she and her maids had hunted a whole day for it. It was + true, she explained to the court, that she had made the maids search for + the necklet—they all believed the dog had lost it in the park... + </p> + <p> + Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in his + usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. He talked a + good deal, describing what he had seen and done at Rennes; but now and + then he stopped and looked hard at her; and when she went to bed she found + her little dog strangled on her pillow. The little thing was dead, but + still warm; she stooped to lift it, and her distress turned to horror when + she discovered that it had been strangled by twisting twice round its + throat the necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and hid the + necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, then or later, and + he said nothing to her; but that day he had a peasant hanged for stealing + a faggot in the park, and the next day he nearly beat to death a young + horse he was breaking. + </p> + <p> + Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, one by one; + and she heard nothing of Herv de Lanrivain. It might be that her husband + had killed him; or merely that he had been robbed of the necklet. Day + after day by the hearth among the spinning maids, night after night alone + on her bed, she wondered and trembled. Sometimes at table her husband + looked across at her and smiled; and then she felt sure that Lanrivain was + dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for she was sure her husband + would find out if she did: she had an idea that he could find out + anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted seer, and could show you + the whole world in her crystal, came to the castle for a nights shelter, + and the maids flocked to her, Anne held back. The winter was long and + black and rainy. One day, in Yves de Cornaults absence, some gypsies came + to Kerfol with a troop of performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and + cleverest, a white dog with a feathery coat and one blue and one brown + eye. It seemed to have been ill-treated by the gypsies, and clung to her + plaintively when she took it from them. That evening her husband came + back, and when she went to bed she found the dog strangled on her pillow. + </p> + <p> + After that she said to herself that she would never have another dog; but + one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found whining at the + castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the maids to speak of him to + her husband. She hid him in a room that no one went to, smuggled food to + him from her own plate, made him a warm bed to lie on and petted him like + a child. + </p> + <p> + Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the greyhound + strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said nothing, and + resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger she would never bring + him into the castle; but one day she found a young sheep-dog, a brindled + puppy with good blue eyes, lying with a broken leg in the snow of the + park. Yves de Cornault was at Rennes, and she brought the dog in, warmed + and fed it, tied up its leg and hid it in the castle till her husbands + return. The day before, she gave it to a peasant woman who lived a long + way off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say nothing; but that + night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, and when she opened + it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped up on her with little + sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and the next morning was about to + have him taken back to the peasant woman when she heard her husband ride + into the court. She shut the dog in a chest and went down to receive him. + An hour or two later, when she returned to her room, the puppy lay + strangled on her pillow... + </p> + <p> + After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her loneliness + became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she crossed the court of the + castle, and thought no one was looking, she stopped to pat the old pointer + at the gate. But one day as she was caressing him her husband came out of + the chapel; and the next day the old dog was gone... + </p> + <p> + This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, or + received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was plain that the + Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that it did not help the + accused in the eyes of the public. It was an odd tale, certainly; but what + did it prove? That Yves de Cornault disliked dogs, and that his wife, to + gratify her own fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. As for pleading + this trivial disagreement as an excuse for her relations—whatever + their nature—with her supposed accomplice, the argument was so + absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having let her make use of + it, and tried several times to cut short her story. But she went on to the + end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, as though the scenes she evoked + were so real to her that she had forgotten where she was and imagined + herself to be re-living them. + </p> + <p> + At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness to her + said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his row of dozing + colleagues): Then you would have us believe that you murdered your + husband because he would not let you keep a pet dog? + </p> + <p> + I did not murder my husband. + </p> + <p> + Who did, then? Herv de Lanrivain? + </p> + <p> + No. + </p> + <p> + Who then? Can you tell us? + </p> + <p> + Yes, I can tell you. The dogs— At that point she was carried out + of the court in a swoon. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . . . . . . +</pre> + <p> + It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line of + defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed convincing + when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first private colloquy; + but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of judicial scrutiny, and + the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed of it, and would have + sacrificed her without a scruple to save his professional reputation. But + the obstinate Judge—who perhaps, after all, was more inquisitive + than kindly—evidently wanted to hear the story out, and she was + ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition. + </p> + <p> + She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing + particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: she + did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar woman came + to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had no heart for + trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made their choice. And + then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her into buying for + herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent in it—she + had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had no desire + for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The pedlar said + that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; but she did not + really believe that, or care much either. However, she bought the thing + and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it about in her hand. + Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to wonder what kind of + spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey bean rolled in a + strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she knew, and a message + from Herv de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home again and would be at + the door in the court that night after the moon had set... + </p> + <p> + She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and her + husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and there was + nothing to do but to wait... + </p> + <p> + At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even to + the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic + relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message at + night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no means + of sending a warning... + </p> + <p> + She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her + cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, + too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to the + traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had a + strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because he chose + to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate—she + was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling + for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed dishonour. + </p> + <p> + At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the evening + he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to his room. + His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back word that he + was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted + the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his loud regular + breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time + barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing + went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a + sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in the window + watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky was misty and + starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch black. She knew + the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her husbands door—where + she stopped again to listen to his breathing—to the top of the + stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was + following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the darkness. They + were so steep and winding that she had to go very slowly, for fear of + stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to + make his escape, and hasten back to her room. She had tried the bolt + earlier in the evening, and managed to put a little grease on it; but + nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a squeak... not loud, but it made + her heart stop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise... + </p> + <p> + What noise? the prosecution interposed. + </p> + <p> + My husbands voice calling out my name and cursing me. + </p> + <p> + What did you hear after that? + </p> + <p> + A terrible scream and a fall. + </p> + <p> + Where was Herv de Lanrivain at this time? + </p> + <p> + He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the + darkness. I told him for Gods sake to go, and then I pushed the door + shut. + </p> + <p> + What did you do next? + </p> + <p> + I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. + </p> + <p> + What did you hear? + </p> + <p> + I heard dogs snarling and panting. (Visible discouragement of the bench, + boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the defense. + Dogs again—! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.) + </p> + <p> + What dogs? + </p> + <p> + She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her + answer: I dont know. + </p> + <p> + How do you mean—you dont know? + </p> + <p> + I dont know what dogs... + </p> + <p> + The Judge again intervened: Try to tell us exactly what happened. How + long did you remain at the foot of the stairs? + </p> + <p> + Only a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + And what was going on meanwhile overhead? + </p> + <p> + The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I + think he moaned once. Then he was quiet. + </p> + <p> + Then what happened? + </p> + <p> + Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown to + them—gulping and lapping. + </p> + <p> + (There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and another + attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the inquisitive Judge + was still inquisitive.) + </p> + <p> + And all the while you did not go up? + </p> + <p> + Yes—I went up then—to drive them off. + </p> + <p> + The dogs? + </p> + <p> + Yes. + </p> + <p> + Well—? + </p> + <p> + When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husbands flint and steel + and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead. + </p> + <p> + And the dogs? + </p> + <p> + The dogs were gone. + </p> + <p> + Gone—where to? + </p> + <p> + I dont know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at + Kerfol. + </p> + <p> + She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her + head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a + moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard to + say: This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities—and + the prisoners lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and + squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornaults + statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several + months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was no + denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been long + and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead mans wounds. One of + the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The + suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers hurled + tomes of necromancy at each other. + </p> + <p> + At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance + of the same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of + could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did + not. Then the Judge put his final question: If the dogs you think you + heard had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them + by their barking? + </p> + <p> + Yes. + </p> + <p> + Did you recognize them? + </p> + <p> + Yes. + </p> + <p> + What dogs do you take them to have been? + </p> + <p> + My dead dogs, she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, not + to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical + investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed + with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de + Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husbands family, + who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many + years later, a harmless madwoman. + </p> + <p> + So ends her story. As for that of Herv de Lanrivain, I had only to apply + to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The evidence + against the young man being insufficient, and his family influence in the + duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon afterward for Paris. He + was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and he appears to have come + almost immediately under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld dAndilly + and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received into + their Order, and without achieving any particular distinction he followed + its good and evil fortunes till his death some twenty years later. + Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by a pupil of Philippe de + Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Herv de + Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow + effigy, in the dark dress of the Jansenists, I almost found myself envying + his fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had + happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with + Pascal... + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MRS. MANSTEYS VIEW + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribners Magazine, July, 1891 + </h3> + <p> + The view from Mrs. Mansteys window was not a striking one, but to her at + least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back + room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street where + the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement + would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a + large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only + daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long journey + to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might have joined + her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many years apart that + they had ceased to feel any need of each others society, and their + intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of a few perfunctory + letters, written with indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by + Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had she + felt a stronger desire for her daughters companionship, Mrs. Mansteys + increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the three flights of + stairs between her room and the street, would have given her pause on the + eve of undertaking so long a journey; and without perhaps, formulating + these reasons she had long since accepted as a matter of course her + solitary life in New York. + </p> + <p> + She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now + and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. + Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husbands + lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many years + she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a hen-house and + a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast + of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and + animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling so + fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the most optimistic + eye would at first have failed to discover anything admirable. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting bow-window + where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking bulbs), + looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, however, she + could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost + boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year + the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink. + </p> + <p> + But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part + attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness and + fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments and + frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in + the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but + stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in + spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the + clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, + the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the + broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed her; + hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of the + prospect before her. + </p> + <p> + In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white flowers + against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little way down the + line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of wistaria? Farther + still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff and pink blossoms + above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite yard June was sweet + with the breath of a neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in + spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its welfare. + </p> + <p> + But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Mansteys view, there was + much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the + houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored + curtains which had lately been hung in the doctors window opposite; but + she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks + washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often + show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in + sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; she + knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly painted + house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the stray cats at + nightfall, Mrs. Mansteys warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion + her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days + forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs. + Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter, beginning: + Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has been fed, when the + forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of seed in her hand. + </p> + <p> + But in Mrs. Mansteys more meditative moods it was the narrowing + perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at + twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid + yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to Europe, + made years ago, and now reduced in her minds eye to a pale phantasmagoria + of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was + an artist; at all events she was sensible of many changes of color + unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring + was the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the close + of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of March, when patches + of earth showed through the snow, like ink-spots spreading on a sheet of + white blotting-paper; and, better still, the haze of boughs, leafless but + swollen, which replaced the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched + with a certain interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, + and missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and the + smoke disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not + idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view + surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her + rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the + contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain + green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn + into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitors anecdotes + about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Mansteys real friends were the + denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, the + maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his + mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was + the church-spire floating in the sunset. + </p> + <p> + One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside and + eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the door + announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not care for her + landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike resignation. + To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and + the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampsons unsuggestive face, and Mrs. + Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + </p> + <p> + The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson, she + remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the + absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not + likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of + expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she + wished to. + </p> + <p> + The what, Mrs. Manstey? inquired the landlady, glancing about the room + as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Mansteys statement. + </p> + <p> + The magnolia in the next yard—in Mrs. Blacks yard, Mrs. Manstey + repeated. + </p> + <p> + Is it, indeed? I didnt know there was a magnolia there, said Mrs. + Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that + there was a magnolia in the next yard! + </p> + <p> + By the way, Mrs. Sampson continued, speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me + that the work on the extension is to begin next week. + </p> + <p> + The what? it was Mrs. Mansteys turn to ask. + </p> + <p> + The extension, said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of + the ignored magnolia. You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to + build an extension to her house? Yes, maam. I hear it is to run right + back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in + these hard times I dont see; but she always was crazy about building. She + used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly ruined + herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should have + thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess its a disease, + like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady did + not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: Do you + know how high the extension will be? + </p> + <p> + Thats the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right up + to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey paused again. Wont it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. + Sampson? she asked. + </p> + <p> + I should say it would. But theres no help for it; if people have got a + mind to build extensions theres no law to prevent em, that Im aware + of. Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. There is no help for it, + Mrs. Sampson repeated, but if I <i>am</i> a church member, I wouldnt be so + sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; Im glad to + find you so comfortable. + </p> + <p> + So comfortable—so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned + once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky + with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus had + put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, the magnolia + flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the + wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between + her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise; + presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant world be + blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the dinner-tray brought to + her that evening. She lingered in the window until the windy sunset died + in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she lay sleepless all night. + </p> + <p> + Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but even + through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm—and then the + rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that the + ailanthus was growing dusty. + </p> + <p> + Of course I might move, said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the + window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might she + be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. The + room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was as + much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. She + knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light + fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on + their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew which + way to lean to the sun. We are all too old to move, she said. + </p> + <p> + That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared through + torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the + flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the + building of the extension was to begin. + </p> + <p> + On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged + in gathering up the fragments of the boarders dinner in the basement. The + card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Mansteys name. + </p> + <p> + One of Mrs. Sampsons boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can + give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah, said Mrs. Black, tell + the lady Ill be upstairs in a minute. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with + statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down. + </p> + <p> + Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, + Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + </p> + <p> + Im happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please, the landlady + remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to + build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down. + </p> + <p> + Is there anything I can do for you, maam? Mrs. Black continued. My + house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and— + </p> + <p> + It is about the extension that I wish to speak, said Mrs. Manstey, + suddenly. I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a happy + one. I shall have to talk about myself first to—to make you + understand. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis. + </p> + <p> + I never had what I wanted, Mrs. Manstey continued. It was always one + disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. I + dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was no + sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter married + years ago and went away—besides, she never cared for the same + things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen + years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampsons, and I have been there ever + since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I dont get out + often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can understand + my sitting a great deal in my window—the back window on the third + floor— + </p> + <p> + Well, Mrs. Manstey, said Mrs. Black, liberally, I could give you a back + room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex— + </p> + <p> + But I dont want to move; I cant move, said Mrs. Manstey, almost with a + scream. And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I shall + have no view from my window—no view! Do you understand? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had always + heard that lunatics must be humored. + </p> + <p> + Dear me, dear me, she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, + that is too bad, isnt it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, the + extension <i>will</i> interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey. + </p> + <p> + You do understand? Mrs. Manstey gasped. + </p> + <p> + Of course I do. And Im real sorry about it, too. But there, dont you + worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door. + </p> + <p> + What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to + change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I have + two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could + manage, to give you a thousand if— Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears + were rolling down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + There, there, Mrs. Manstey, dont you worry, repeated Mrs. Black, + soothingly. I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I cant stay and + talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with supper + to get— + </p> + <p> + Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized + her wrist. + </p> + <p> + You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you + accept my proposition? + </p> + <p> + Why, Ill think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldnt annoy + you for the world— + </p> + <p> + But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told, Mrs. Manstey persisted. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Black hesitated. It shant begin, I promise you that; Ill send word + to the builder this very night. Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold. + </p> + <p> + You are not deceiving me, are you? she said. + </p> + <p> + No—no, stammered Mrs. Black. How can you think such a thing of + me, Mrs. Manstey? + </p> + <p> + Slowly Mrs. Mansteys clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open + door. One thousand dollars, she repeated, pausing in the hall; then she + let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting + herself on the cast-iron railing. + </p> + <p> + My goodness, exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, + I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and + ladylike, too. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was + awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what haste + she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Blacks yard was full of workmen. + Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, others + beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each + story of Mrs. Blacks house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. + At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a + settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went back to + bed, not caring to see what was going on. + </p> + <p> + Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she rose + and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were stiffer + than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her. + </p> + <p> + When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen had + removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had multiplied + since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated face, picked + a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the ground; the + next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing. + </p> + <p> + Look out, Jim, called one of the men to another who was smoking a pipe, + if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper youll have the + old tinder-box burning down before you know it. And Mrs. Manstey, leaning + forward, perceived that there were several barrels of paper and rubbish + under the wooden balcony. + </p> + <p> + At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and a + roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the west. + When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, in her + usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and lit it + with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf + in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual + peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their + mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening, and Mrs. + Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the table and began to + knit. + </p> + <p> + That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind + was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose + once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing was + discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These + lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their + extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she + merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her + head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the + kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her + pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, and + a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, led + by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom + of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter darkness + of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as there was + less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she contrived to + unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold wind smote her + as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines. + </p> + <p> + That morning at three oclock an alarm of fire brought the engines to Mrs. + Blacks door, and also brought Mrs. Sampsons startled boarders to their + windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Blacks house was ablaze, + and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, + leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + </p> + <p> + The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the + house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that + little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and + smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. + Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not + unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open + window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very + ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctors verdict would be, and + the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampsons table were awestruck + and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. Manstey well; she + kept to herself, as they said, and seemed to fancy herself too good for + them; but then it is always disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house + and, as one lady observed to another: It might just as well have been you + or me, my dear. + </p> + <p> + But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, lonely + if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. Sampson, with + muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed + remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All day she said + nothing; but when she was asked for her daughters address she shook her + head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening + attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she dozed. + </p> + <p> + The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. + Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move. + </p> + <p> + Lift me up—out of bed, she whispered. + </p> + <p> + They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to the + window. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit + there all day, Mrs. Sampson explained. It can do her no harm, I + suppose? + </p> + <p> + Nothing matters now, said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The + dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a + golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in + shadow. In Mrs. Blacks yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the + balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire the + builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few + more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more + difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not + understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating + ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was there—the + spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was + alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mansteys head fell back and smiling she died. + </p> + <p> + That day the building of the extension was resumed. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOLTED DOOR + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Scribners Magazine, March 1909 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, paused + to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + </p> + <p> + Three minutes to eight. + </p> + <p> + In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of + Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of the + flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual—the + suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the + door-bell would be the beginning of the end—after that thered be no + going back, by God—no going back! + </p> + <p> + Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room + opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror above + the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon—saw himself + spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but furrowed, gray + about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a spasmodic + straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted him: a tired + middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + </p> + <p> + As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door opened + and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was only + the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy surface of + the old Turkey rug. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say hes unexpectedly detained and cant + be here till eight-thirty. + </p> + <p> + Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and + harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing + to the servant over his shoulder: Very good. Put off dinner. + </p> + <p> + Down his spine he felt the mans injured stare. Mr. Granice had always + been so mild-spoken to his people—no doubt the odd change in his + manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very + likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table + till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, + propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + </p> + <p> + Another half hour alone with it! + </p> + <p> + He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some + professional matter, no doubt—the punctilious lawyer would have + allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more + especially since Granice, in his note, had said: I shall want a little + business chat afterward. + </p> + <p> + But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional + hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, + after all, Granices note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt + Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since + he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been + perpetually tinkering with his will. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow + temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks + earlier, at the Century Club. Yes—my plays as good as taken. I + shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical + chaps are so slippery—I wont trust anybody but you to tie the knot + for me! That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. + Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh—a queer + stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The + absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed + his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + </p> + <p> + He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the writing-table. + In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound in paper folders, + and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been slipped. Next to + the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a moment at these + oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from under the string + and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment + his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some + relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + </p> + <p> + It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of The + Diversity Theatre. + </p> + <p> + <span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Granice</span>: + </p> + <p> + I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and + its no use—the play wont do. I have talked it over with Miss + Melrose—and you know there isnt a gamer artist on our stage—and + I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isnt the poetry + that scares her—or me either. We both want to do all we can to help + along the poetic drama—we believe the publics ready for it, and + were willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to + give them what they want. <i>But we dont believe they could be made to want + this.</i> The fact is, there isnt enough drama in your play to the allowance + of poetry—the thing drags all through. Youve got a big idea, but + its not out of swaddling clothes. + </p> + <p> + If this was your first play Id say: <i>Try again</i>. But it has been just the + same with all the others youve shown me. And you remember the result of + The Lee Shore, where you carried all the expenses of production + yourself, and we couldnt fill the theatre for a week. Yet The Lee Shore + was a modern problem play—much easier to swing than blank verse. It + isnt as if you hadnt tried all kinds— + </p> + <p> + Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. Why + on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by heart, + when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand out in + letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + </p> + <p> + <i>It has been just the same with all the others youve shown me.</i> + </p> + <p> + That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting work! + </p> + <p> + <i>You remember the result of The Lee Shore.</i> + </p> + <p> + Good God—as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now + in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden + resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his + inheritance on testing his chance of success—the fever of + preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the first night, the flat fall, + the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of + his friends! + </p> + <p> + <i>It isnt as if you hadnt tried all kinds</i>. + </p> + <p> + No—he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the + light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and + the lyrical-romantic—finally deciding that he would no longer + prostitute his talent to win popularity, but would impose on the public + his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had + offered them everything—and always with the same result. + </p> + <p> + Ten years of it—ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The + ten years from forty to fifty—the best ten years of his life! And if + one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, + preparation—then call it half a mans life-time: half a mans + life-time thrown away! + </p> + <p> + And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled that, + thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten minutes past + eight—only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through + his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was + one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown + to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone.... But + why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didnt he cut the knot + himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did + he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living? + </p> + <p> + He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a + small slim ivory toy—just the instrument for a tired sufferer to + give himself a hypodermic with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, + while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, + between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he + had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and + lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand + that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his + arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to + his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet + through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran + down his quivering face... + </p> + <p> + He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented + handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples. It was no + use—he knew he could never do it in that way. His attempts at + self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He couldnt make + himself a real life, and he couldnt get rid of the life he had. And that + was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + </p> + <p> + The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for + his delay. + </p> + <p> + I didnt like to say anything while your man was about—but the fact + is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter— + </p> + <p> + Oh, its all right, said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to feel + the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any + recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into + himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures + than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + </p> + <p> + My dear fellow, its sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting—especially + the production of an artist like yours. Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy + luxuriously. But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me. + </p> + <p> + Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment he + was shaken out of his self-absorption. + </p> + <p> + MRS. ASHGROVE? + </p> + <p> + Ascham smiled. I thought youd be interested; I know your passion for + causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course its out of our + line entirely—we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to + consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wifes. + And, by Jove, it <i>is</i> a queer case! The servant re-entered, and Ascham + snapped his lips shut. + </p> + <p> + Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + </p> + <p> + No—serve it in the library, said Granice, rising. He led the way + back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear + what Ascham had to tell him. + </p> + <p> + While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the + library, glancing at his letters—the usual meaningless notes and + bills—and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline + caught his eye. + </p> +<p class="c"> + ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.<br /> + THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET. + </p> + <p> + He read on with a thumping heart—found the name of a young author he + had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a poetic drama, dance + before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then—she + <i>was</i> game—it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted! + </p> + <p> + Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. I + shant need you this evening, Flint. Ill lock up myself. + </p> + <p> + He fancied the mans acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, + Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? + Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly + felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to + take a light from Aschams cigar. + </p> + <p> + Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove, he said, seeming to himself to speak + stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, theres not much to <i>tell</i>. + </p> + <p> + And you couldnt if there were? Granice smiled. + </p> + <p> + Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice + of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk. + </p> + <p> + And whats your impression, now youve seen her? + </p> + <p> + My impression is, very distinctly, <i>That nothing will ever be known</i>. + </p> + <p> + Ah—? Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + </p> + <p> + Im more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his + business, and will consequently never be found out. Thats a capital cigar + youve given me. + </p> + <p> + You like it? I get them over from Cuba. Granice examined his own + reflectively. Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals + never <i>are</i> caught? + </p> + <p> + Of course I do. Look about you—look back for the last dozen years—none + of the big murder problems are ever solved. The lawyer ruminated behind + his blue cloud. Why, take the instance in your own family: Id forgotten + I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenmans murder—do + you suppose that will ever be explained? + </p> + <p> + As the words dropped from Aschams lips his host looked slowly about the + library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale + unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was + as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat + slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: I could explain + the Lenman murder myself. + </p> + <p> + Aschams eye kindled: he shared Granices interest in criminal cases. + </p> + <p> + By Jove! Youve had a theory all this time? Its odd you never mentioned + it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case + not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help. + </p> + <p> + Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in + which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to + try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills + on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of + life—of performing the same automatic gestures another day—displaced + his fleeting vision. + </p> + <p> + I havent a theory. I <i>know</i> who murdered Joseph Lenman. + </p> + <p> + Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + You <i>know</i>? Well, who did? he laughed. + </p> + <p> + I did, said Granice, rising. + </p> + <p> + He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he + broke into another laugh. + </p> + <p> + Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I + suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all + about it! Confession is good for the soul. + </p> + <p> + Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from + his throat; then he repeated doggedly: I murdered him. + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham + did not laugh. + </p> + <p> + Granice! + </p> + <p> + I murdered him—to get his money, as you say. + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of + amusement, saw his guests look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + </p> + <p> + Whats the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see. + </p> + <p> + Its not a joke. Its the truth. I murdered him. He had spoken painfully + at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated + the words he found they were easier to say. + </p> + <p> + Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + </p> + <p> + Whats the matter? Arent you well? What on earth are you driving at? + </p> + <p> + Im perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want + it known that I murdered him. + </p> + <p> + <i>You want it known</i>? + </p> + <p> + Yes. Thats why I sent for you. Im sick of living, and when I try to + kill myself I funk it. He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in + his throat had been untied. + </p> + <p> + Good Lord—good Lord, the lawyer gasped. + </p> + <p> + But I suppose, Granice continued, theres no doubt this would be murder + in the first degree? Im sure of the chair if I own up? + </p> + <p> + Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: Sit down, Granice. Lets + talk. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + </p> + <p> + He began by a quick survey of his early years—the years of drudgery + and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say no, had so + signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he died + he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin + found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to + support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at + eighteen in a brokers office. He loathed his work, and he was always + poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother died, + but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his hands. His + own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, and work harder + than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for + figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to + travel and write—those were his inmost longings. And as the years + dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or + acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried + writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain + could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat + till after dark, and could only brush up for dinner, and afterward lie + on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned through the evening + paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, + more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what is + known as pleasure. And in summer, when he and Kate went to the sea-side + for a month, he dozed through the days in utter weariness. Once he fell in + love with a charming girl—but what had he to offer her, in Gods + name? She seemed to like him, and in common decency he had to drop out of + the running. Apparently no one replaced him, for she never married, but + grew stoutish, grayish, philanthropic—yet how sweet she had been + when he had first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected... + </p> + <p> + But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his + soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was <i>in him</i>—he could + not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As the + years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession—yet with + every year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt + himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process + in his sisters wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full + of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant—she + had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, + was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the + chance to fulfil! It exasperated him to think of it—and to reflect + that even now a little travel, a little health, a little money, might + transform her, make her young and desirable... The chief fruit of his + experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth—there + is only health as against sickness, wealth as against poverty; and age or + youth as the outcome of the lot one draws. + </p> + <p> + At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean against + the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from his seat, + or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + </p> + <p> + Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old Lenman—my + mothers cousin, as you know. Some of the family always mounted guard over + him—generally a niece or so. But that year they were all scattered, + and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if wed relieve her + of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield + is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family + observances, had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we + should be called on—and there was the saving of rent and the good + air for Kate. So we went. + </p> + <p> + You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or some + primitive organism of that sort, under a Titans microscope. He was large, + undifferentiated, inert—since I could remember him he had done + nothing but take his temperature and read the Churchman. Oh, and cultivate + melons—that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons—his + were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield—his big + kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And + in nearly all of them melons were grown—early melons and late, + French, English, domestic—dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, + colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children—a + staff of trained attendants waited on them. Im not sure they didnt have + a doctor to take their temperature—at any rate the place was full of + thermometers. And they didnt sprawl on the ground like ordinary melons; + they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each melon hung + in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the + sun and air... + </p> + <p> + It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his + own melons—the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and + motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated + atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of his + existence was not to let himself be worried.... I remember his advising + me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kates bad health, + and her need of a change. I never let myself worry, he said + complacently. Its the worst thing for the liver—and you look to me + as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. Youll make + yourself happier and others too. And all he had to do was to write a + cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + </p> + <p> + The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. + The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. + But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kates—and one + could picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us + waiting. I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to + him. + </p> + <p> + Well, I tried to see if I couldnt reach him through his vanity. I + flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was + taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was + driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, + prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When + he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a + hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the + resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldnt eat as much as a + mouthful of his melons—had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. + But, after all, its my only hobby—why shouldnt I indulge it? he + said sentimentally. As if Id ever been able to indulge any of mine! On + the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + </p> + <p> + One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag + herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon + with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon—a day + to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with ones eyes on the sky, and let the + cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the + fact that, as I entered cousin Josephs hideous black walnut library, I + passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who + dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember + thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about the + melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + </p> + <p> + Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his fat + hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the + Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon—the + fattest melon Id ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of + contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself + on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a + favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an + egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering—and without stopping to + greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + </p> + <p> + Look at it, look at it—did you ever see such a beauty? Such + firmness—roundness—such delicious smoothness to the touch? It + was as if he had said she instead of it, and when he put out his + senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + </p> + <p> + Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had + been specially recommended for the melon-houses—though it was + against my cousins principles to employ a Papist—had been assigned + to the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its + existence, as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, + pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be + photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The + Italian had done well—seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And + that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be + shown next day at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to + gaze on its blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned + scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it—drop it crash on the sharp spout + of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale + rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + </p> + <p> + The old mans rage was fearful in its impotence—he shook, + spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had + sacked him on the spot, without wages or character—had threatened to + have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. By God, + and Ill do it—Ill write to Washington—Ill have the pauper + scoundrel deported! Ill show him what money can do! As likely as not + there was some murderous Black-hand business under it—it would be + found that the fellow was a member of a gang. Those Italians would + murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And + then he grew frightened at his own excitement. But I must calm myself, + he said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the + Churchman. He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon + was brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an + hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the + fallen melon. + </p> + <p> + All the while one phrase of the old mans buzzed in my brain like the fly + about the melon. <i>Ill show him what money can do!</i> Good heaven! If I + could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of giving + happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him + something about my situation and Kates—spoke of my ill-health, my + unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself a name—I + stammered out an entreaty for a loan. I can guarantee to repay you, sir—Ive + a half-written play as security... + </p> + <p> + I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as an + egg-shell again—his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels + over a slippery rampart. + </p> + <p> + A half-written play—a play of <i>yours</i> as security? He looked at me + almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. Do you + understand anything of business? he enquired mildly. I laughed and + answered: No, not much. + </p> + <p> + He leaned back with closed lids. All this excitement has been too much + for me, he said. If youll excuse me, Ill prepare for my nap. And I + stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian. + </p> + <p> + Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray + set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of + soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Aschams dead cigar. + </p> + <p> + Better light another, he suggested. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told of + his mounting obsession—how the murderous impulse had waked in him on + the instant of his cousins refusal, and he had muttered to himself: By + God, if you wont, Ill make you. He spoke more tranquilly as the + narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to + act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how the + old man was to be disposed of. Suddenly he remembered the outcry: Those + Italians will murder you for a quarter! But no definite project presented + itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of + the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of the + old mans condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, on getting + home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had + been there again—had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up + to the library, and used threatening language. The house-keeper found + cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing something awful. + The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the police had + ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had nerves, and lost his + taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and the + consultation amused and excited the old man—he became once more an + important figure. The medical men reassured the family—too + completely!—and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: + advised him to take whatever tempted him. And so one day, tremulously, + prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with + ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering + cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + </p> + <p> + But you remember the circumstances, Granice went on; how suspicion + turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given + him he had been seen hanging about the house since the scene. It was + said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest + seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the + explanation he was gone—gone clean out of sight. He had been + warned to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that + no one ever laid eyes on him again. + </p> + <p> + Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyers, and he + sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. + Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange insistent + object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + </p> + <p> + It was I who put the stuff in the melon, he said. And I dont want you + to think Im sorry for it. This isnt remorse, understand. Im glad the + old skin-flint is dead—Im glad the others have their money. But + mines no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. And + Ive never had what I wanted. + </p> + <p> + Ascham continued to stare; then he said: What on earth was your object, + then? + </p> + <p> + Why, to <i>get</i> what I wanted—what I fancied was in reach! I wanted + change, rest, <i>life</i>, for both of us—wanted, above all, for myself, + the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came home to tie + myself up to my work. And Ive slaved at it steadily for ten years without + reward—without the most distant hope of success! Nobody will look at + my stuff. And now Im fifty, and Im beaten, and I know it. His chin + dropped forward on his breast. I want to chuck the whole business, he + ended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + It was after midnight when Ascham left. + </p> + <p> + His hand on Granices shoulder, as he turned to go—District + Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor! he had cried; and so, + with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + </p> + <p> + Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that + Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, + elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail—but + without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyers eye. + </p> + <p> + At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced—but that, as Granice now + perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into + contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met + and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask + suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: By Jove, Granice youll + write a successful play yet. The way youve worked this all out is a + marvel. + </p> + <p> + Granice swung about furiously—that last sneer about the play + inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + </p> + <p> + I did it, I did it, he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself + against the impenetrable surface of the others mockery; and Ascham + answered with a smile: Ever read any of those books on hallucination? + Ive got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two + if you like... + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He + understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + </p> + <p> + Good God—what if they all think me crazy? + </p> + <p> + The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat—he sat there and + shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to + rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how + incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would + believe him. + </p> + <p> + Thats the trouble—Aschams not a criminal lawyer. And then hes a + friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, + hed never let me see it—his instinct would be to cover the whole + thing up... But in that case—if he <i>did</i> believe me—he might + think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum... Granice began to + tremble again. Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert—one of + those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything—their + word always goes. If Ascham drops a hint that Id better be shut up, Ill + be in a strait-jacket by to-morrow! And hed do it from the kindest + motives—be quite right to do it if he thinks Im a murderer! + </p> + <p> + The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting + temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had + not believed his story. + </p> + <p> + But he did—he did! I can see it now—I noticed what a queer + eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do—what shall I do? + </p> + <p> + He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham + should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with + him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the + morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and + the movement started a new train of association. + </p> + <p> + He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his + chair. + </p> + <p> + Give me three-o-ten... yes. + </p> + <p> + The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would act—act + at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself to some + unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through the + meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like coming + out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the + queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced by these + momentary lulls. + </p> + <p> + That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, please... + Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice.... Just caught you? Going straight + home? Can I come and see you... yes, now... have a talk? Its rather + urgent... yes, might give you some first-rate copy.... All right! He + hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call up + the editor of the Investigator—Robert Denver was the very man he + needed... + </p> + <p> + Granice put out the lights in the library—it was odd how the + automatic gestures persisted!—went into the hall, put on his hat and + overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator + boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice + passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a + crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare + stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. + But from Denvers house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as + Granice sprang from his cab the editors electric turned the corner. + </p> + <p> + The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered + Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + </p> + <p> + Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning... but + this is my liveliest hour... you know my habits of old. + </p> + <p> + Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—watched his rise + through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the + Investigators editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling hair + there were few traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his + way home in the small hours, used to bob in on Granice, while the latter + sat grinding at his plays. Denver had to pass Granices flat on the way to + his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and + Granices shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss + the universe. + </p> + <p> + Well—this is like old times—a good old habit reversed. The + editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. Reminds me of the + nights when I used to rout you out... Hows the play, by the way? There <i>is</i> + a play, I suppose? Its as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: + Hows the baby? + </p> + <p> + Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he + had grown. It was evident, even to Granices tortured nerves, that the + words had not been uttered in malice—and the fact gave him a new + measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been a + failure! The fact hurt more than Aschams irony. + </p> + <p> + Come in—come in. The editor led the way into a small cheerful + room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward + his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + </p> + <p> + Now, then—help yourself. And lets hear all about it. + </p> + <p> + He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his + cigar, said to himself: Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them + stupid. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned, and began: Denver, I want to tell you— + </p> + <p> + The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little room was + gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the + editors face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once the + hour struck—then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere + grew denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from + Granices forehead. + </p> + <p> + Do you mind if I open the window? + </p> + <p> + No. It <i>is</i> stuffy in here. Wait—Ill do it myself. Denver pushed + down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. Well—go on, he + said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + </p> + <p> + Theres no use in my going on if you dont believe me. + </p> + <p> + The editor remained unmoved. Who says I dont believe you? And how can I + tell till youve finished? + </p> + <p> + Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. It was simple enough, as youll + see. From the day the old man said to me, Those Italians would murder you + for a quarter, I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It + struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back + in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that + never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, + I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I + wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried + the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for + my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those + no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family + use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked + about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a + foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a + night. I knew the way pretty well, for Id done it often with the same + lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over + ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms + were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + </p> + <p> + Well, then came the report about the Italians threats, and I saw I must + act at once... I meant to break into the old mans room, shoot him, and + get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then + we heard that he was ill—that thered been a consultation. Perhaps + the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only + be!... + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to + have cooled the room. + </p> + <p> + Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up from + my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try a bit of + melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her—all Wrenfield was in + a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of the little + French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato—and the + patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + </p> + <p> + In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew the + ways of the house—I was sure the melon would be brought in over + night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the + ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons didnt lie + around loose in that house—every one was known, numbered, + catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would eat + them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt + pretty sure of my melon... and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It + would have been the devil and all to get into the old mans bedroom + without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break into the + pantry without much trouble. + </p> + <p> + It was a cloudy night, too—everything served me. I dined quietly, + and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to + bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a + sort of disguise—red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them + into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a + half-drunken machinist whom Id never seen before. That served me, too. + They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didnt even + bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going place... + </p> + <p> + Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was + out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp + pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard + and ulster. Then away again—it was just eleven-thirty when I got to + Wrenfield. + </p> + <p> + I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped + through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—I + remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know.... By the stable a + dog came out growling—but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went + back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed + by ten. But there might be a prowling servant—the kitchen-maid might + have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I + crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. + It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the + pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, + and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—and + there was the little French melon... only one. + </p> + <p> + I stopped to listen—I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle + of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. + It was all done inside of three minutes—at ten minutes to twelve I + was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a + back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was + beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the + beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with + and they went down plump, like a dead body—and at two oclock I was + back at my desk. + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his + listener; but Denvers face remained inscrutable. + </p> + <p> + At length he said: Why did you want to tell me this? + </p> + <p> + The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had + explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive + had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight + with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the + subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + </p> + <p> + Why, I—the thing haunts me... remorse, I suppose youd call it... + </p> + <p> + Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + </p> + <p> + Remorse? Bosh! he said energetically. + </p> + <p> + Granices heart sank. You dont believe in—<i>remorse</i>? + </p> + <p> + Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of + remorse proves to me that youre not the man to have planned and put + through such a job. + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. Well—I lied to you about remorse. Ive never felt + any. + </p> + <p> + Denvers lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. What + was your motive, then? You must have had one. + </p> + <p> + Ill tell you— And Granice began again to rehearse the story of + his failure, of his loathing for life. Dont say you dont believe me + this time... that this isnt a real reason! he stammered out piteously as + he ended. + </p> + <p> + Denver meditated. No, I wont say that. Ive seen too many queer things. + Theres always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is + that we find so many for staying in! Granices heart grew light. Then + you <i>do</i> believe me? he faltered. + </p> + <p> + Believe that youre sick of the job? Yes. And that you havent the nerve + to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—thats easy enough, too. But all that + doesnt make you a murderer—though I dont say it proves you could + never have been one. + </p> + <p> + I <i>have</i> been one, Denver—I swear to you. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps. He meditated. Just tell me one or two things. + </p> + <p> + Oh, go ahead. You wont stump me! Granice heard himself say with a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + Well—how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your + sisters curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, + remember. You were very seldom out late. Didnt the change in your ways + surprise her? + </p> + <p> + No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in + the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town + for a night or two before—before I did the job. + </p> + <p> + And that night she went to bed early with a headache? + </p> + <p> + Yes—blinding. She didnt know anything when she had that kind. And + her room was at the back of the flat. + </p> + <p> + Denver again meditated. And when you got back—she didnt hear you? + You got in without her knowing it? + </p> + <p> + Yes. I went straight to my work—took it up at the word where Id + left off—<i>Why, denver, dont you remember</i>? Granice suddenly, + passionately interjected. + </p> + <p> + Remember—? + </p> + <p> + Yes; how you found me—when you looked in that morning, between two + and three... your usual hour...? + </p> + <p> + Yes, the editor nodded. + </p> + <p> + Granice gave a short laugh. In my old coat—with my pipe: looked as + if Id been working all night, didnt I? Well, I hadnt been in my chair + ten minutes! + </p> + <p> + Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. I didnt know + whether <i>you</i> remembered that. + </p> + <p> + What? + </p> + <p> + My coming in that particular night—or morning. + </p> + <p> + Granice swung round in his chair. Why, man alive! Thats why Im here + now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked + round to see what all the old mans heirs had been doing that night—you + who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual.... I + thought <i>that</i> would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else + would! + </p> + <p> + Denver smiled. Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough—and + the ideas picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi + to establish your guilt. + </p> + <p> + Thats it—thats it! Granices laugh had a ring of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Well, but how about the other chaps testimony—I mean that young + doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Dont you remember my testifying + that Id met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to + smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: All right; youll find him in. I + passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as + usual. And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she + corroborated his statement, you remember. + </p> + <p> + Yes; I remember. + </p> + <p> + Well, then? + </p> + <p> + Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old + coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you + fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I + counted on that, and knew youd take any vague outline as mine. + </p> + <p> + Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the + shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if + youd fallen asleep. + </p> + <p> + Yes; and she was right. It <i>did</i> move. I suppose some extra-heavy dray must + have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something gave my + mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half over the + table. + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing + heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not + sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the + law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow + for the incalculableness of human impulses. + </p> + <p> + Well? Granice faltered out. + </p> + <p> + Denver stood up with a shrug. Look here, man—whats wrong with you? + Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? Id like to take you to + see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—whos a wonder at + pulling fellows in your state out of their hole— + </p> + <p> + Oh, oh— Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed + each other. You dont believe me, then? + </p> + <p> + This yarn—how can I? There wasnt a flaw in your alibi. + </p> + <p> + But havent I filled it full of them now? + </p> + <p> + Denver shook his head. I might think so if I hadnt happened to know that + you <i>wanted</i> to. Theres the hitch, dont you see? + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. No, I didnt. You mean my wanting to be found guilty—? + </p> + <p> + Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been + worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesnt + do much credit to your ingenuity. + </p> + <p> + Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? But + on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. Look here, Denver—I + daresay youre right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my + statement in the Investigator, just as Ive made it. Ridicule it as much + as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it—men who + dont know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I dont + care a damn whether <i>you</i> believe me—what I want is to convince the + Grand Jury! I oughtnt to have come to a man who knows me—your + cursed incredulity is infectious. I dont put my case well, because I know + in advance its discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. + Thats why I cant convince <i>you</i>. Its a vicious circle. He laid a hand on + Denvers arm. Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the paper. + </p> + <p> + But Denver did not warm to the idea. My dear fellow, you seem to forget + that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every + possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to + believe that you murdered old Lenman—you or anybody else. All they + wanted was a murderer—the most improbable would have served. But + your alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing youve told me has + shaken it. Denver laid his cool hand over the others burning fingers. + Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case—then come + in and submit it to the Investigator. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The perspiration was rolling off Granices forehead. Every few minutes he + had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his haggard + face. + </p> + <p> + For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case to + the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with + Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience on + the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval between he + had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at + once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it + impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him that the + only way of averting that hideous peril was by establishing, in some sane + impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even if he had not been so + incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed now the only alternative + to the strait-jacket. + </p> + <p> + As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at + his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing + hand. I dont expect you to believe me now—but cant you put me + under arrest, and have the thing looked into? + </p> + <p> + Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy + face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to keep + watch over impulses not strictly professional. + </p> + <p> + Well, I dont know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course Im + bound to look into your statement— + </p> + <p> + Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldnt + have said that if he hadnt believed him! + </p> + <p> + Thats all right. Then I neednt detain you. I can be found at any time + at my apartment. He gave the address. + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. What do you say to + leaving it for an hour or two this evening? Im giving a little supper at + Rectors—quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose—I + think you know her—and a friend or two; and if youll join us... + </p> + <p> + Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made. + </p> + <p> + He waited for four days—four days of concentrated horror. During the + first twenty-four hours the fear of Aschams alienist dogged him; and as + that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal + had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been + going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before + now.... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how + little the story had impressed him! + </p> + <p> + Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate + himself. He was chained to life—a prisoner of consciousness. Where + was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In the + glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a + sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable <i>selfness</i>, + keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever + known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of + self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark windings. Often + he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something + material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—and + as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own + loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance. + </p> + <p> + Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window + at the awakening activities of the street—at the street-cleaners, + the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by + through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of them—any of them—to + take his chance in any of their skins! They were the toilers—the men + whose lot was pitied—the victims wept over and ranted about by + altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load + of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no—the + iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was hand-cuffed to + his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man rather than another? The + only absolute good was not to be... And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, + would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that morning? + </p> + <p> + On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the + succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He + hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a + moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: a + policeman, a secret agent, or some other mysterious emissary of the law? + </p> + <p> + On the third morning Flint, stepping softly—as if, confound it! his + master were ill—entered the library where Granice sat behind an + unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + </p> + <p> + Granice read the name—J. B. Hewson—and underneath, in pencil, + From the District Attorneys office. He started up with a thumping + heart, and signed an assent to the servant. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty—the + kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. Just the + type of the successful detective, Granice reflected as he shook hands + with his visitor. + </p> + <p> + And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. + He had been sent by the District Attorney to have a quiet talk with Mr. + Granice—to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the + Lenman murder. + </p> + <p> + His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granices + self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man—a man who knew his + business—it would be easy enough to make <i>him</i> see through that + ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one + himself—to prove his coolness—began again to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever before. + Practice helped, no doubt; and his listeners detached, impartial attitude + helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at least, had not decided in + advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of being trusted made him more + lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time his words would certainly carry + conviction... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him + stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too + smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young mans nimble glance + followed Granices. + </p> + <p> + Sure of the number, are you? he asked briskly. + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes—it was 104. + </p> + <p> + Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up—thats certain. + </p> + <p> + He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick + and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of + tottering tenements and stables. + </p> + <p> + Dead sure? he repeated. + </p> + <p> + Yes, said Granice, discouraged. And even if I hadnt been, I know the + garage was just opposite Lefflers over there. He pointed across the + street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words + Livery and Boarding were still faintly discernible. + </p> + <p> + The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. Well, thats + something—may get a clue there. Lefflers—same name there, + anyhow. You remember that name? + </p> + <p> + Yes—distinctly. + </p> + <p> + Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the interest + of the Explorers smartest reporter. If there were moments when he + hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed impossible + that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, peering, + listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite + sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, like a + leech, as he phrased it—jumped at it, thrilled to it, and settled + down to draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go till he + had. No one else had treated Granice in that way—even Allonbys + detective had not taken a single note. And though a week had elapsed since + the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been heard from the + District Attorneys office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter + again. But McCarren wasnt going to drop it—not he! He positively + hung on Granices footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the + previous day together, and now they were off again, running down clues. + </p> + <p> + But at Lefflers they got none, after all. Lefflers was no longer a + stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between + sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a hospital + for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a blear-eyed old + woman who knew nothing of Floods garage across the way—did not even + remember what had stood there before the new flat-house began to rise. + </p> + <p> + Well—we may run Leffler down somewhere; Ive seen harder jobs + done, said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + </p> + <p> + As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine tone: + Id undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put me on + the track of that cyanide. + </p> + <p> + Granices heart sank. Yes—there was the weak spot; he had felt it + from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was + strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his + rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + </p> + <p> + Sorry, Mr. Granice, but Im due at the office now. Besides, itd be no + use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up tomorrow + or next day? + </p> + <p> + He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + </p> + <p> + Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in + demeanor. + </p> + <p> + Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the + bard says. Cant get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say + you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too? + </p> + <p> + Yes, said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + Who bought it, do you know? + </p> + <p> + Granice wrinkled his brows. Why, Flood—yes, Flood himself. I sold + it back to him three months later. + </p> + <p> + Flood? The devil! And Ive ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of + business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it. + </p> + <p> + Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + </p> + <p> + That brings us back to the poison, McCarren continued, his note-book + out. Just go over that again, will you? + </p> + <p> + And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the time—and + he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he decided on + poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured chemicals; and + there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing business—just + the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that suspicion might + turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous + course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom + irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his profession, + amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the exercise of which + he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the habit of dropping in to + smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat + in Venns work-shop, at the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant + Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of + deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious + tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a cheerful + crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, experimenters in divers forms + of expression. Coming and going among so many, it was easy enough to pass + unperceived; and one afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned + home, found himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the + cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket. + </p> + <p> + But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long since + dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the house in + Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting + life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their + obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge + the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. + </p> + <p> + And theres the third door slammed in our faces. He shut his note-book, + and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on + Granices furrowed face. + </p> + <p> + Look here, Mr. Granice—you see the weak spot, dont you? + </p> + <p> + The other made a despairing motion. I see so many! + </p> + <p> + Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want + this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose? + </p> + <p> + Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his quick + light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life would + believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and Granice + racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw the + reporters face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Granice—has the memory of it always haunted you? + </p> + <p> + Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. Thats it—the + memory of it... always... + </p> + <p> + McCarren nodded vehemently. Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldnt let you + sleep? The time came when you <i>had</i> to make a clean breast of it? + </p> + <p> + I had to. Cant you understand? + </p> + <p> + The reporter struck his fist on the table. God, sir! I dont suppose + theres a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that cant picture + the deadly horrors of remorse— + </p> + <p> + The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the + word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable motive + the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he said, once + one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the case became so + many incentives to effort. + </p> + <p> + Remorse—<i>remorse</i>, he repeated, rolling the word under his tongue + with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular drama; and + Granice, perversely, said to himself: If I could only have struck that + note I should have been running in six theatres at once. + </p> + <p> + He saw that from that moment McCarrens professional zeal would be fanned + by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose that they + should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall or theatre. + It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an object of + pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a kind of gray + penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarrens attention on his case; and to + feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. + He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the meaningless + performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense of the reporters + observation. + </p> + <p> + Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: + he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every + physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his + kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarrens + attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on + his own problem. + </p> + <p> + See that fellow over there—the little dried-up man in the third + row, pulling his moustache? <i>His</i> memoirs would be worth publishing, + McCarren said suddenly in the last entracte. + </p> + <p> + Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonbys + office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being + shadowed. + </p> + <p> + Caesar, if <i>he</i> could talk—! McCarren continued. Know who he is, of + course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country— + </p> + <p> + Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. <i>That</i> + man—the fourth from the aisle? Youre mistaken. Thats not Dr. + Stell. + </p> + <p> + McCarren laughed. Well, I guess Ive been in court enough to know Stell + when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead + insanity. + </p> + <p> + A cold shiver ran down Granices spine, but he repeated obstinately: + Thats not Dr. Stell. + </p> + <p> + Not Stell? Why, man, I <i>know</i> him. Look—here he comes. If it isnt + Stell, he wont speak to me. + </p> + <p> + The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared + McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + </p> + <p> + Howdo, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, aint it? the reporter + cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of amicable + assent, passed on. + </p> + <p> + Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken—the man who + had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: a + physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him insane, + like the others—had regarded his confession as the maundering of a + maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror—he seemed to see the + mad-house gaping for him. + </p> + <p> + Isnt there a man a good deal like him—a detective named J. B. + Hewson? + </p> + <p> + But he knew in advance what McCarrens answer would be. Hewson? J. B. + Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough—I + guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his + name. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District + Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + </p> + <p> + But when they were face to face Allonbys jovial countenance showed no + sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned across + his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + </p> + <p> + Granice broke out at once: That detective you sent me the other day— + </p> + <p> + Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + </p> + <p> + —I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby? + </p> + <p> + The others face did not lose its composure. Because I looked up your + story first—and theres nothing in it. + </p> + <p> + Nothing in it? Granice furiously interposed. + </p> + <p> + Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce dont you bring me proofs? + I know youve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that + little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been able to make + out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do? + </p> + <p> + Granices lips began to tremble. Why did you play me that trick? + </p> + <p> + About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: its part of my business. Stell <i>is</i> + a detective, if you come to that—every doctor is. + </p> + <p> + The trembling of Granices lips increased, communicating itself in a long + quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry throat. + Well—and what did he detect? + </p> + <p> + In you? Oh, he thinks its overwork—overwork and too much smoking. + If you look in on him some day at his office hell show you the record of + hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. + Its one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the + same. + </p> + <p> + But, Allonby, I killed that man! + </p> + <p> + The District Attorneys large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an + almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the + call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + </p> + <p> + Sorry, my dear fellow—lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some + morning, Allonby said, shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the + alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting + time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped + back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to Allonby + he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have + deceived him as to the alienists diagnosis? What if he were really being + shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth + out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + </p> + <p> + The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment to + the conditions of their previous meeting. We have to do that + occasionally, Mr. Granice; its one of our methods. And you had given + Allonby a fright. + </p> + <p> + Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to produce + the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last talk with the + physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken for a symptom of + derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stells allusion. + </p> + <p> + You think, then, its a case of brain-fag—nothing more? + </p> + <p> + Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a + good deal, dont you? + </p> + <p> + He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or + any form of diversion that did not—that in short— + </p> + <p> + Granice interrupted him impatiently. Oh, I loathe all that—and Im + sick of travelling. + </p> + <p> + Hm. Then some larger interest—politics, reform, philanthropy? + Something to take you out of yourself. + </p> + <p> + Yes. I understand, said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + Above all, dont lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours, the + doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + </p> + <p> + On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like + his—the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his + guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case + like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a play: + the great alienist who couldnt read a mans mind any better than that! + </p> + <p> + Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + </p> + <p> + But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness + returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham he + found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been + carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. + Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood on + the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself + despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in the + sluggish circle of his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh + recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take + it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, + another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire to + establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as an + irresponsible dreamer—even if he had to kill himself in the end, he + would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from + it. + </p> + <p> + He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had been + published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a brief + statement from the District Attorneys office, and the rest of his + communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged him + to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of his + delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread the + reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the words he + kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. His inner self + became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours reciting + and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, which he constantly + retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity languished under the + lack of an audience, the sense of being buried beneath deepening drifts of + indifference. In a passion of resentment he swore that he would prove + himself a murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and + for a sleepless night or two the thought flamed red on his darkness. But + daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse was lacking and he hated + too promiscuously to choose his victim... So he was thrown back on the + unavailing struggle to impose the truth of his story. As fast as one + channel closed on him he tried to pierce another through the sliding sands + of incredulity. But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race + leagued together to cheat one man of the right to die. + </p> + <p> + Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last shred + of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really the victim + of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of holiday-makers jeering + at a poor creature in its blind dashes against the solid walls of + consciousness? But, no—men were not so uniformly cruel: there were + flaws in the close surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and + pity here and there... + </p> + <p> + Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons + more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities + of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation. + The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit seen + between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista + Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole + orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would be easier to convince + a chance idler in the street than the trained intelligence hampered by a + sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up in him with the tropic + luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he began to walk the streets, + and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the + impartial stranger to whom he should disclose himself. + </p> + <p> + At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he + always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that his + first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, + intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he sought. + He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous motions of + the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence of the average + face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a beginning—once + sitting down at a mans side in a basement chop-house, another day + approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both cases the + premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His dread of + being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an unnatural + keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and he had + provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, + trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + </p> + <p> + He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at + irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, + and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a world so + remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the mysterious + sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one identity to + another—yet the other as unescapably himself! + </p> + <p> + One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in him. + Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing conditions. + He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire which alone + attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not always, of + course—he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. And he + could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and + indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull + brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless + millions paused, listened, believed... + </p> + <p> + It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side docks, + looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his + eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the + face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and not + till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the shabby + reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. + Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air—certainly he felt + calmer than for many days... + </p> + <p> + He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked + up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him—they + were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in + Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + </p> + <p> + At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a + votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, after + all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and he felt + tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted trees, + making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat + alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made him stop + before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, had + hardly looked at the womens faces as they passed. His case was mans + work: how could a woman help him? But this girls face was extraordinary—quiet + and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a hundred images of space, + distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed by a + familiar wharf, but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in + their shrouds... Certainly this girl would understand. He went up to her + quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms—wishing her to see at + once that he was a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + I am a stranger to you, he began, sitting down beside her, but your + face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face Ive + waited for... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you— + </p> + <p> + The girls eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + </p> + <p> + In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by the + arm. + </p> + <p> + Here—wait—listen! Oh, dont scream, you fool! he shouted + out. + </p> + <p> + He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. + Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard + within him was loosened and ran to tears. + </p> + <p> + Ah, you know—you <i>know</i> Im guilty! + </p> + <p> + He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girls frightened + face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It was the + policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, the crowd + at his heels... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + In the charming place in which he found himself there were so many + sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty + of making himself heard. + </p> + <p> + It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested for + murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he needed + rest, and the time to review his statements; it appeared that + reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To this end + he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet establishment, + with an open space and trees about it, where he had found a number of + intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged in preparing or + reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to lend an + interested ear to his own recital. + </p> + <p> + For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of + this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part an + encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really brilliant + and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his old doubts. + Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had less power to aid + him than they boasted. His interminable conferences resulted in nothing, + and as the benefit of the long rest made itself felt, it produced an + increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction more and more + unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days visitors from the + outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote out long and + logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively slipped them + into the hands of these messengers of hope. + </p> + <p> + This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived only + to watch for the visitors days, and scan the faces that swept by him like + stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + </p> + <p> + Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his + companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, a + kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his statements + afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out into + the open seas of life. + </p> + <p> + One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, a pair + of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He sprang up + and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + </p> + <p> + The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a + startled deprecating, <i>Why</i>—? + </p> + <p> + You didnt know me? Im so changed? Granice faltered, feeling the + rebound of the others wonder. + </p> + <p> + Why, no; but youre looking quieter—smoothed out, McCarren smiled. + </p> + <p> + Yes: thats what Im here for—to rest. And Ive taken the + opportunity to write out a clearer statement— + </p> + <p> + Granices hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from + his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a + tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild + thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + </p> + <p> + Perhaps your friend—he <i>is</i> your friend?—would glance over it—or + I could put the case in a few words if you have time? Granices voice + shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope + was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former + glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + Im sorry we cant stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend + has an engagement, and were rather pressed— + </p> + <p> + Granice continued to proffer the paper. Im sorry—I think I could + have explained. But youll take this, at any rate? + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at him gently. Certainly—Ill take it. He had + his hand out. Good-bye. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye, Granice echoed. + </p> + <p> + He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light + hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they + were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning + to hope again, already planning a new statement. + </p> + <p> + Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalists + companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred + windows. + </p> + <p> + So that was Granice? + </p> + <p> + Yes—that was Granice, poor devil, said McCarren. + </p> + <p> + Strange case! I suppose theres never been one just like it? Hes still + absolutely convinced that he committed that murder? + </p> + <p> + Absolutely. Yes. + </p> + <p> + The stranger reflected. And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? + No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow + like that—where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever + get the least clue to it? + </p> + <p> + McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in + contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze + on his companion. + </p> + <p> + That was the queer part of it. Ive never spoken of it—but I <i>did</i> + get a clue. + </p> + <p> + By Jove! Thats interesting. What was it? + </p> + <p> + McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. Why—that it wasnt a + delusion. + </p> + <p> + He produced his effect—the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + </p> + <p> + He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest + accident, when Id pretty nearly chucked the whole job. + </p> + <p> + He murdered him—murdered his cousin? + </p> + <p> + Sure as you live. Only dont split on me. Its about the queerest + business I ever ran into... <i>Do about it</i>? Why, what was I to do? I couldnt + hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, + and had him stowed away safe in there! + </p> + <p> + The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granices statement in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + Here—take this; it makes me sick, he said abruptly, thrusting the + paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the + gates. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DILETTANTE + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Harpers Monthly, December 1903 + </h3> + <p> + It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself + advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as + usual into Mrs. Vervains street. + </p> + <p> + The as usual was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way of + bridging the interval—in days and other sequences—that lay + between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he + instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from + the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending + it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved + dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his + call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that + episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the + talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, he + had felt the dilettantes irresistible craving to take a last look at a + work of art that was passing out of his possession. + </p> + <p> + On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpected + than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things for + granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that she + owed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale had + made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, of + telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. The + latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from a + picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: it + was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered with the + debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the privilege of + loving her is one of the least favors that a charming woman can accord; + and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he had developed a + science of evasion in which the woman of the moment became a mere + implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicate enjoyment to the + cultivation of this art. The perils from which it had been his refuge + became naively harmless: was it possible that he who now took his easy way + along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights of emotion? + Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the satisfaction of feeling + that he had entered earlier than most into that chiaroscuro of sensation + where every half-tone has its value. + </p> + <p> + As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable to Mrs. + Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray their feelings, but + he had never before had such fine material to work in. She had been + surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of making the most + awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklessly undressing + her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline of his reticences + and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and perhaps more remarkable + in that it involved keeping time with any tune he played and reading at + sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + </p> + <p> + It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but the + result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had been perfect: + her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he had announced + his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed a difficulty; a + deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent, it was agreed to + see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence in the completeness + of his method. It had been his pride never to put himself in a position + which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; but here, as he + perceived, the main portals would have opened for him of their own accord. + All this, and much more, he read in the finished naturalness with which + Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He had never seen a better piece of + work: there was no over-eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and + this gave her art the grace of a natural quality) there were none of those + damnable implications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friends + betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady in + complacency. So masterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset + of Miss Gaynors door-step words—To be so kind to me, how she must + have liked you!—though he caught himself wishing it lay within the + bounds of fitness to transmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman + he knew who was unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps + the one drawback to his new situation that it might develop good things + which it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. + </p> + <p> + The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friends powers, + the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his distrust of her + efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down her street instead of + going on to the club. He would show her that he knew how to value her; he + would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and more + delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid. Incidentally, he would + also dispose of the interval of time before dinner: ever since he had seen + Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he had + been wondering how he should put in the rest of the afternoon. It was + absurd, how he missed the girl.... Yes, that was it; the desire to talk + about her was, after all, at the bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. + Vervain! It was absurd, if you like—but it was delightfully + rejuvenating. He could recall the time when he had been afraid of being + obvious: now he felt that this return to the primitive emotions might be + as restorative as a holiday in the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by + the girls candor, her directness, her lack of complications, that he was + taken. The sense that she might say something rash at any moment was + positively exhilarating: if she had thrown her arms about him at the + station he would not have given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It + surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of heart he brought to the + adventure; and though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his + intactness to any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that + his sentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain was at home—as usual. When one visits the cemetery one + expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale as + another proof of his friends good taste that she had been in no undue + haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on his + coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as though there + had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at once enveloped + him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted + to her very furniture. + </p> + <p> + It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. + Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + </p> + <p> + You? she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. + </p> + <p> + It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The + difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdales balance. + </p> + <p> + Why not? he said, restoring the book. Isnt it my hour? And as she + made no answer, he added gently, Unless its some one elses? + </p> + <p> + She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. Mine, merely, she + said. + </p> + <p> + I hope that doesnt mean that youre unwilling to share it? + </p> + <p> + With you? By no means. Youre welcome to my last crust. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her reproachfully. Do you call this the last? + </p> + <p> + She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. Its a way of + giving it more flavor! + </p> + <p> + He returned the smile. A visit to you doesnt need such condiments. + </p> + <p> + She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. + </p> + <p> + Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste, she confessed. + </p> + <p> + Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into the + imprudence of saying, Why should you want it to be different from what + was always so perfectly right? + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. Doesnt the fact that its the last constitute a + difference? + </p> + <p> + The last—my last visit to you? + </p> + <p> + Oh, metaphorically, I mean—theres a break in the continuity. + </p> + <p> + Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already! + </p> + <p> + I dont recognize it, he said. Unless you make me— he added, + with a note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. + </p> + <p> + She turned to him with grave eyes. You recognize no difference whatever? + </p> + <p> + None—except an added link in the chain. + </p> + <p> + An added link? + </p> + <p> + In having one more thing to like you for—your letting Miss Gaynor + see why I had already so many. He flattered himself that this turn had + taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. Was it that you came for? + she asked, almost gaily. + </p> + <p> + If it is necessary to have a reason—that was one. + </p> + <p> + To talk to me about Miss Gaynor? + </p> + <p> + To tell you how she talks about you. + </p> + <p> + That will be very interesting—especially if you have seen her since + her second visit to me. + </p> + <p> + Her second visit? Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start and moved + to another. She came to see you again? + </p> + <p> + This morning, yes—by appointment. + </p> + <p> + He continued to look at her blankly. You sent for her? + </p> + <p> + I didnt have to—she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt + you have seen her since. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from his + thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. I saw her off just + now at the station. + </p> + <p> + And she didnt tell you that she had been here again? + </p> + <p> + There was hardly time, I suppose—there were people about— he + floundered. + </p> + <p> + Ah, shell write, then. + </p> + <p> + He regained his composure. Of course shell write: very often, I hope. + You know Im absurdly in love, he cried audaciously. + </p> + <p> + She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against the + chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched a + pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. Oh, my poor Thursdale! she + murmured. + </p> + <p> + I suppose its rather ridiculous, he owned; and as she remained silent, + he added, with a sudden break—Or have you another reason for + pitying me? + </p> + <p> + Her answer was another question. Have you been back to your rooms since + you left her? + </p> + <p> + Since I left her at the station? I came straight here. + </p> + <p> + Ah, yes—you <i>could</i>: there was no reason— Her words passed + into a silent musing. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale moved nervously nearer. You said you had something to tell me? + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at your rooms. + </p> + <p> + A letter? What do you mean? A letter from <i>her</i>? What has happened? + </p> + <p> + His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. Nothing has + happened—perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always <i>hated</i>, you + know, she added incoherently, to have things happen: you never would let + them. + </p> + <p> + And now—? + </p> + <p> + Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. To + know if anything had happened. + </p> + <p> + Had happened? He gazed at her slowly. Between you and me? he said with + a rush of light. + </p> + <p> + The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed between them + that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. + </p> + <p> + You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are + you surprised that such an idea should occur to her? + </p> + <p> + His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: I supposed it might have struck you that + there were times when we presented that appearance. + </p> + <p> + He made an impatient gesture. A mans past is his own! + </p> + <p> + Perhaps—it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. + But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor is + naturally inexperienced. + </p> + <p> + Of course—but—supposing her act a natural one— he + floundered lamentably among his innuendoes—I still dont see—how + there was anything— + </p> + <p> + Anything to take hold of? There wasnt— + </p> + <p> + Well, then—? escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did + not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: She can + hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us! + </p> + <p> + But she does, said Mrs. Vervain. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no trace of + jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear the candid + ring of the girls praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such an abyss of + insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, she must at + least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival for solution. + The situation seemed one through which one could no longer move in a + penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the direct query: Wont you + explain what you mean? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong his + distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it + was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It was + the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she had + lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted, + that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. + </p> + <p> + At last she said slowly: She came to find out if you were really free. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale colored again. Free? he stammered, with a sense of physical + disgust at contact with such crassness. + </p> + <p> + Yes—if I had quite done with you. She smiled in recovered + security. It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for + definitions. + </p> + <p> + Yes—well? he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + </p> + <p> + Well—and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she + wanted me to define <i>my</i> status—to know exactly where I had stood all + along. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. + And even when you had told her that— + </p> + <p> + Even when I had told her that I had <i>had</i> no status—that I had never + stood anywhere, in any sense she meant, said Mrs. Vervain, slowly—even + then she wasnt satisfied, it seems. + </p> + <p> + He uttered an uneasy exclamation. She didnt believe you, you mean? + </p> + <p> + I mean that she <i>did</i> believe me: too thoroughly. + </p> + <p> + Well, then—in Gods name, what did she want? + </p> + <p> + Something more—those were the words she used. + </p> + <p> + Something more? Between—between you and me? Is it a conundrum? He + laughed awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbidden to + contemplate the relation of the sexes. + </p> + <p> + So it seems! he commented. But since, in this case, there wasnt any— + he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. + </p> + <p> + Thats just it. The unpardonable offence has been—in our not + offending. + </p> + <p> + He flung himself down despairingly. I give it up!—What did you tell + her? he burst out with sudden crudeness. + </p> + <p> + The exact truth. If I had only known, she broke off with a beseeching + tenderness, wont you believe that I would still have lied for you? + </p> + <p> + Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us? + </p> + <p> + To save you—to hide you from her to the last! As Ive hidden you + from myself all these years! She stood up with a sudden tragic import in + her movement. You believe me capable of that, dont you? If I had only + guessed—but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth + out of me with a spring. + </p> + <p> + The truth that you and I had never— + </p> + <p> + Had never—never in all these years! Oh, she knew why—she + measured us both in a flash. She didnt suspect me of having haggled with + you—her words pelted me like hail. He just took what he wanted—sifted + and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap of + cinders. And you let him—you let yourself be cut in bits—she + mixed her metaphors a little—be cut in bits, and used or discarded, + while all the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But hes + Shylock—and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut + out of you. But she despises me the most, you know—far the most— + Mrs. Vervain ended. + </p> + <p> + The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: they seemed + out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind of + intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude without + perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grand opera-singer + had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, + but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils of + reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + </p> + <p> + His first words were characteristic. She <i>does</i> despise me, then? he + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the heart. + </p> + <p> + He was excessively pale. Please tell me exactly what she said of me. + </p> + <p> + She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that while she + understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been opened to the + many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an + unwillingness to be taken with reservations—she thinks you would + have loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The point of + view is original—she insists on a man with a past! + </p> + <p> + Oh, a past—if shes serious—I could rake up a past! he said + with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + So I suggested: but she has her eyes on this particular portion of it. She + insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had done to + me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling her. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale drew a difficult breath. I never supposed—your revenge is + complete, he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + He heard a little gasp in her throat. My revenge? When I sent for you to + warn you—to save you from being surprised as I was surprised? + </p> + <p> + Youre very good—but its rather late to talk of saving me. He + held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + </p> + <p> + How you must care!—for I never saw you so dull, was her answer. + Dont you see that its not too late for me to help you? And as he + continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: Take the rest—in + imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied + to her—shes too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, + I shant have been wasted. + </p> + <p> + His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look + back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to + need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept + them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this contact + of naked souls. + </p> + <p> + It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but something + in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went up to his + friend and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + You would do it—you would do it! + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + </p> + <p> + Good-by, he said, kissing it. + </p> + <p> + Good-by? You are going—? + </p> + <p> + To get my letter. + </p> + <p> + Your letter? The letter wont matter, if you will only do what I ask. + </p> + <p> + He returned her gaze. I might, I suppose, without being out of character. + Only, dont you see that if your plan helped me it could only harm her? + </p> + <p> + Harm <i>her</i>? + </p> + <p> + To sacrifice you wouldnt make me different. I shall go on being what I + have always been—sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want + my punishment to fall on <i>her</i>? + </p> + <p> + She looked at him long and deeply. Ah, if I had to choose between you—! + </p> + <p> + You would let her take her chance? But I cant, you see. I must take my + punishment alone. + </p> + <p> + She drew her hand away, sighing. Oh, there will be no punishment for + either of you. + </p> + <p> + For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head with a slight laugh. There will be no letter. + </p> + <p> + Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. No + letter? You dont mean— + </p> + <p> + I mean that shes been with you since I saw her—shes seen you and + heard your voice. If there <i>is</i> a letter, she has recalled it—from the + first station, by telegraph. + </p> + <p> + He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. But in the + mean while I shall have read it, he said. + </p> + <p> + The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness + of the room. + </p> + <p> + The End + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND + </h2> + <h3> + As first published in Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Above all, the letter ended, dont leave Siena without seeing Doctor + Lombards Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a mystic or a + madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout student of the + Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in Italy, exploring its + remotest corners, and has lately picked up an undoubted Leonardo, which + came to light in a farmhouse near Bergamo. It is believed to be one of the + missing pictures mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according to the + most competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched example of the + best period. + </p> + <p> + Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; but we + struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas in Siena three + years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed line you may get a peep + at the Leonardo. Probably not more than a peep, though, for I hear he + refuses to have it reproduced. I want badly to use it in my monograph on + the Windsor drawings, so please see what you can do for me, and if you + cant persuade him to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at least + jot down a detailed description of the picture and get from him all the + facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments have offered + him a large advance on his purchase, but that he refuses to sell at any + price, though he certainly cant afford such luxuries; in fact, I dont + see where he got enough money to buy the picture. He lives in the Via Papa + Giulio. + </p> + <p> + Wyant sat at the table dhote of his hotel, re-reading his friends letter + over a late luncheon. He had been five days in Siena without having found + time to call on Doctor Lombard; not from any indifference to the + opportunity presented, but because it was his first visit to the strange + red city and he was still under the spell of its more conspicuous wonders—the + brick palaces flinging out their wrought-iron torch-holders with a gesture + of arrogant suzerainty; the great council-chamber emblazoned with civic + allegories; the pageant of Pope Julius on the Library walls; the Sodomas + smiling balefully through the dusk of mouldering chapels—and it was + only when his first hunger was appeased that he remembered that one course + in the banquet was still untasted. + </p> + <p> + He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, with a nod + to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man with lustrous eyes + and a low collar, who sat on the other side of the table, perusing the + <i>Fanfulla di Domenica</i>. This gentleman, his daily vis-a-vis, returned the + nod with a Latin eloquence of gesture, and Wyant passed on to the + ante-chamber, where he paused to light a cigarette. He was just restoring + the case to his pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the + lustrous-eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + Pardon me, sir, he said in measured English, and with an intonation of + exquisite politeness; you have let this letter fall. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, recognizing his friends note of introduction to Doctor Lombard, + took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn away when he + perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained fixed on him with a + gaze of melancholy interrogation. + </p> + <p> + Again pardon me, the young man at length ventured, but are you by + chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard? + </p> + <p> + No, returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of foreign + advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded politeness: + Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his house. I see it is + not given here. + </p> + <p> + The young man brightened perceptibly. The number of the house is + thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you—it is well known in + Siena. It is called, he continued after a moment, the House of the Dead + Hand. + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared. What a queer name! he said. + </p> + <p> + The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many hundred + years has been above the door. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other added: If + you would have the kindness to ring twice. + </p> + <p> + To ring twice? + </p> + <p> + At the doctors. The young man smiled. It is the custom. + </p> + <p> + It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the mid-blue, + and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber-colored hills. For + nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, watching the shadows race + across the naked landscape and the thunder blacken in the west; then he + decided to set out for the House of the Dead Hand. The map in his + guidebook showed him that the Via Papa Giulio was one of the streets which + radiate from the Piazza, and thither he bent his course, pausing at every + other step to fill his eye with some fresh image of weather-beaten beauty. + The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the sunshine and hanging like a + funereal baldachin above the projecting cornices of Doctor Lombards + street, and Wyant walked for some distance in the shade of the beetling + palace fronts before his eye fell on a doorway surmounted by a sallow + marble hand. He stood for a moment staring up at the strange emblem. The + hand was a womans—a dead drooping hand, which hung there convulsed + and helpless, as though it had been thrust forth in denunciation of some + evil mystery within the house, and had sunk struggling into death. + </p> + <p> + A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that the + English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing through a + glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted stairway with a plaster + sculapius mouldering in a niche on the landing. Facing the sculapius + was another door, and as Wyant put his hand on the bell-rope he remembered + his unknown friends injunction, and rang twice. + </p> + <p> + His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and small + close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, his card, and + his letter of introduction, left him standing in a high, cold ante-chamber + floored with brick. He heard her wooden pattens click down an interminable + corridor, and after some delay she returned and told him to follow her. + </p> + <p> + They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but loftily + vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph of Scipio or + Alexander—martial figures following Wyant with the filmed melancholy + gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this apartment he was admitted to a + smaller room, with the same atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing more + obvious signs of occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry which had + faded to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that the young + man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. Against these + hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt feet, and at a table in + the window three persons were seated: an elderly lady who was warming her + hands over a brazier, a girl bent above a strip of needle-work, and an old + man. + </p> + <p> + As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious of + staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed figure, dressed + with shabby disorder and surmounted by a wonderful head, lean, vulpine, + eagle-beaked as that of some art-loving despot of the Renaissance: a head + combining the venerable hair and large prominent eyes of the humanist with + the greedy profile of the adventurer. Wyant, in musing on the Italian + portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had often fancied that only in + that period of fierce individualism could types so paradoxical have been + produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who committed them to the bronze had + never drawn a face more strangely stamped with contradictory passions than + that of Doctor Lombard. + </p> + <p> + I am glad to see you, he said to Wyant, extending a hand which seemed a + mere framework held together by knotted veins. We lead a quiet life here + and receive few visitors, but any friend of Professor Clydes is welcome. + Then, with a gesture which included the two women, he added dryly: My + wife and daughter often talk of Professor Clyde. + </p> + <p> + Oh yes—he used to make me such nice toast; they dont understand + toast in Italy, said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive voice. + </p> + <p> + It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombards manner and appearance + to guess his nationality; but his wife was so inconsciently and + ineradicably English that even the silhouette of her cap seemed a protest + against Continental laxities. She was a stout fair woman, with pale cheeks + netted with red lines. A brooch with a miniature portrait sustained a + bogwood watch-chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a heap of + knitting and an old copy of <i>The Queen</i>. + </p> + <p> + The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of her + mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her small head + was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, and she might have had + a kind of transient prettiness but for the sullen droop of her round + mouth. It was hard to say whether her expression implied ill-temper or + apathy; but Wyant was struck by the contrast between the fierce vitality + of the doctors age and the inanimateness of his daughters youth. + </p> + <p> + Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young man tried + to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard some random remark + on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a resigned assent, and Doctor + Lombard interposed with a smile: My dear sir, my wife considers Siena a + most salubrious spot, and is favorably impressed by the cheapness of the + marketing; but she deplores the total absence of muffins and cannel coal, + and cannot resign herself to the Italian method of dusting furniture. + </p> + <p> + But they dont, you know—they dont dust it! Mrs. Lombard + protested, without showing any resentment of her husbands manner. + </p> + <p> + Precisely—they dont dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we have + not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of the Mangia. Can + you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has never yet dared to write it + home to her aunts at Bonchurch. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her views, + and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyants embarrassment, planted + himself suddenly before the young man. + </p> + <p> + And now, said he, do you want to see my Leonardo? + </p> + <p> + <i>Do I</i>? cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + </p> + <p> + The doctor chuckled. Ah, he said, with a kind of crooning deliberation, + thats the way they all behave—thats what they all come for. He + turned to his daughter with another variation of mockery in his smile. + Dont fancy its for your <i>beaux yeux</i>, my dear; or for the mature charms + of Mrs. Lombard, he added, glaring suddenly at his wife, who had taken up + her knitting and was softly murmuring over the number of her stitches. + </p> + <p> + Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he continued, + addressing himself to Wyant: They all come—they all come; but many + are called and few are chosen. His voice sank to solemnity. While I + live, he said, no unworthy eye shall desecrate that picture. But I will + not do my friend Clyde the injustice to suppose that he would send an + unworthy representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the + picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him—if you can. + </p> + <p> + Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment to put in + his appeal for a photograph. + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, he said, you know Clyde wants me to take away all I can of + it. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. Youre welcome to take away all you + can carry, he replied; adding, as he turned to his daughter: That is, if + he has your permission, Sybilla. + </p> + <p> + The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a key from a + secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor continued in the + same note of grim jocularity: For you must know that the picture is not + mine—it is my daughters. + </p> + <p> + He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which Wyant turned + on the young girls impassive figure. + </p> + <p> + Sybilla, he pursued, is a votary of the arts; she has inherited her + fond fathers passion for the unattainable. Luckily, however, she also + recently inherited a tidy legacy from her grandmother; and having seen the + Leonardo, on which its discoverer had placed a price far beyond my reach, + she took a step which deserves to go down to history: she invested her + whole inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus enabling me to + spend my closing years in communion with one of the worlds masterpieces. + My dear sir, could Antigone do more? + </p> + <p> + The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one of the + tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed door. + </p> + <p> + Come, said Doctor Lombard, let us go before the light fails us. + </p> + <p> + Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + </p> + <p> + No, no, said his host, my wife will not come with us. You might not + suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no feeling for art—Italian + art, that is; for no one is fonder of our early Victorian school. + </p> + <p> + Friths Railway Station, you know, said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. I like + an animated picture. + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry to let her + father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down a narrow stone + passage with another door at its end. This door was iron-barred, and Wyant + noticed that it had a complicated patent lock. The girl fitted another key + into the lock, and Doctor Lombard led the way into a small room. The dark + panelling of this apartment was irradiated by streams of yellow light + slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in the central + brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet. + </p> + <p> + A little too bright, Sybilla, said Doctor Lombard. His face had grown + solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his daughter drew a linen + drapery across the upper part of the window. + </p> + <p> + That will do—that will do. He turned impressively to Wyant. Do + you see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself there—keep + your left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw the cord. + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind the + velvet curtain. + </p> + <p> + Ah, said the doctor, one moment: I should like you, while looking at + the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. Sybilla— + </p> + <p> + Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a promptness which + proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss Lombard began to recite, + in a full round voice like her mothers, St. Bernards invocation to the + Virgin, in the thirty-third canto of the Paradise. + </p> + <p> + Thank you, my dear, said her father, drawing a deep breath as she ended. + That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds prepares one better than + anything I know for the contemplation of the picture. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo appeared + in its frame of tarnished gold: + </p> + <p> + From the nature of Miss Lombards recitation Wyant had expected a sacred + subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the composition was + gradually revealed by the widening division of the curtain. + </p> + <p> + In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale calcareous + landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a crucified Christ hung + livid against indigo clouds. The central figure of the foreground, + however, was that of a woman seated in an antique chair of marble with + bas-reliefs of dancing mnads. Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled with + minute wild-flowers, and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled that of + Dosso Dossis Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely fluted lines + from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high forehead the + crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; one hand drooped on + the arm of her chair; the other held up an inverted human skull, into + which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown and sidelong as the St. John of the + Louvre, poured a stream of wine from a high-poised flagon. At the ladys + feet lay the symbols of art and luxury: a flute and a roll of music, a + platter heaped with grapes and roses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and + a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; behind her, on the chalky + hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll in a corner of the foreground + bore the legend: <i>Lux Mundi</i>. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly toward + his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her hand on the + cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange + Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in rapt + contemplation of his treasure. + </p> + <p> + Wyant addressed the young girl. + </p> + <p> + You are fortunate, he said, to be the possessor of anything so + perfect. + </p> + <p> + It is considered very beautiful, she said coldly. + </p> + <p> + Beautiful—<i>beautiful</i>! the doctor burst out. Ah, the poor, worn + out, over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the language fresh + enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all their brightness has been + worn off by misuse. Think of the things that have been called beautiful, + and then look at <i>that</i>! + </p> + <p> + It is worthy of a new vocabulary, Wyant agreed. + </p> + <p> + Yes, Doctor Lombard continued, my daughter is indeed fortunate. She has + chosen what Catholics call the higher life—the counsel of + perfection. What other private person enjoys the same opportunity of + understanding the master? Who else lives under the same roof with an + untouched masterpiece of Leonardos? Think of the happiness of being + always under the influence of such a creation; of living <i>into</i> it; of + partaking of it in daily and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; the + sight of that picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young life + to unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, point out + some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will appreciate them. + </p> + <p> + The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing away from + him, she pointed to the canvas. + </p> + <p> + Notice the modeling of the left hand, she began in a monotonous voice; + it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the naked genius will + remind you of that of the St. John of the Louvre, but it is more purely + pagan and is turned a little less to the right. The embroidery on the + cloak is symbolic: you will see that the roots of this plant have burst + through the vase. This recalls the famous definition of Hamlets character + in Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and the serpent, + emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have not yet been able to + decipher. + </p> + <p> + Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + </p> + <p> + And the picture itself? he said. How do you explain that? <i>Lux Mundi</i>—what + a curious device to connect with such a subject! What can it mean? + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not included in + her lesson. + </p> + <p> + What, indeed? the doctor interposed. What does life mean? As one may + define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a hundred different + meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as many-faceted as a well-cut + diamond. Who, for instance, is that divine lady? Is it she who is the true + <i>Lux Mundi</i>—the light reflected from jewels and young eyes, from + polished marble and clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is that the + Light of the World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is this lady + the Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, with her back + turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? Something of both + these meanings may be traced in the picture; but to me it symbolizes + rather the central truth of existence: that all that is raised in + incorruption is sown in corruption; art, beauty, love, religion; that all + our wine is drunk out of skulls, and poured for us by the mysterious + genius of a remote and cruel past. + </p> + <p> + The doctors face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten itself and + become taller. + </p> + <p> + Ah, he cried, growing more dithyrambic, how lightly you ask what it + means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here am I who have given + my life to the study of the Renaissance; who have violated its tomb, laid + open its dead body, and traced the course of every muscle, bone, and + artery; who have sucked its very soul from the pages of poets and + humanists; who have wept and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled and + doubted with neas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed to + its source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in neolithic + caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding tendrils of the + arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell you that I stand abashed + and ignorant before the mystery of this picture. It means nothing—it + means all things. It may represent the period which saw its creation; it + may represent all ages past and to come. There are volumes of meaning in + the tiniest emblem on the ladys cloak; the blossoms of its border are + rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Dont ask what it means, + young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for having seen it! + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + Dont excite yourself, father, she said in the detached tone of a + professional nurse. + </p> + <p> + He answered with a despairing gesture. Ah, its easy for you to talk. You + have years and years to spend with it; I am an old man, and every moment + counts! + </p> + <p> + Its bad for you, she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + The doctors sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He dropped into a + seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his daughter drew the curtain + across the picture. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was slipping + from him, yet he dared not refer to Clydes wish for a photograph. He now + understood the meaning of the laugh with which Doctor Lombard had given + him leave to carry away all the details he could remember. The picture was + so dazzling, so unexpected, so crossed with elusive and contradictory + suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed suddenly before it, + must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of confused wonder. Yet how + valuable to Clyde the record of such a work would be! In some ways it + seemed to be the summing up of the masters thought, the key to his + enigmatic philosophy. + </p> + <p> + The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His daughter + unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to the room in which + they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no longer there, and he could + think of no excuse for lingering. + </p> + <p> + He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in the middle + of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + </p> + <p> + It is very good of you, he said, to allow one even a glimpse of such a + treasure. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with her odd directness. You will come again? she said + quickly; and turning to her father she added: You know what Professor + Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give him any account of the picture + without seeing it again. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person in a + trance. + </p> + <p> + Eh? he said, rousing himself with an effort. + </p> + <p> + I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he is to + tell Professor Clyde about it, Miss Lombard repeated with extraordinary + precision of tone. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were being + divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no way connected. + </p> + <p> + Well, well, the doctor muttered, I dont say no—I dont say no. I + know what Clyde wants—I dont refuse to help him. He turned to + Wyant. You may come again—you may make notes, he added with a + sudden effort. Jot down what occurs to you. Im willing to concede that. + </p> + <p> + Wyant again caught the girls eye, but its emphatic message perplexed him. + </p> + <p> + Youre very good, he said tentatively, but the fact is the picture is + so mysterious—so full of complicated detail—that Im afraid no + notes I could make would serve Clydes purpose as well as—as a + photograph, say. If you would allow me— + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombards brow darkened, and her father raised his head furiously. + </p> + <p> + A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not ten people + have been allowed to set foot in that room! A <i>photograph</i>? + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to retreat. + </p> + <p> + I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to having any + reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped you might let me take + a photograph for his personal use—not to be reproduced in his book, + but simply to give him something to work by. I should take the photograph + myself, and the negative would of course be yours. If you wished it, only + one impression would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you + when he had done with it. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. When he had done with it? + Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been re-photographed, + drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand to hand, defiled by every + ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by the blundering praise of every + art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! Id as soon give you the picture itself: why + dont you ask for that? + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, said Wyant calmly, if you will trust me with it, Ill engage + to take it safely to England and back, and to let no eye but Clydes see + it while it is out of your keeping. + </p> + <p> + The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he burst + into a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Upon my soul! he said with sardonic good humor. + </p> + <p> + It was Miss Lombards turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His last words + and her fathers unexpected reply had evidently carried her beyond her + depth. + </p> + <p> + Well, sir, am I to take the picture? Wyant smilingly pursued. + </p> + <p> + No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; mind that,—nothing + that can be reproduced. Sybilla, he cried with sudden passion, swear to + me that the picture shall never be reproduced! No photograph, no sketch—now + or afterward. Do you hear me? + </p> + <p> + Yes, father, said the girl quietly. + </p> + <p> + The vandals, he muttered, the desecrators of beauty; if I thought it + would ever get into their hands Id burn it first, by God! He turned to + Wyant, speaking more quietly. I said you might come back—I never + retract what I say. But you must give me your word that no one but Clyde + shall see the notes you make. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was growing warm. + </p> + <p> + If you wont trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me not to show + my notes! he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + </p> + <p> + Humph! he said; would they be of much use to anybody? + </p> + <p> + Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his impatience. + </p> + <p> + To Clyde, I hope, at any rate, he answered, holding out his hand. The + doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and Wyant added: When + shall I come, sir? + </p> + <p> + To-morrow—to-morrow morning, cried Miss Lombard, speaking + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + The picture is hers, he said to Wyant. + </p> + <p> + In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had admitted + him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to unbar the door. As + the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his arm. + </p> + <p> + You have a letter? she said in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + A letter? He stared. What letter? + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up at its + scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically above the + entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed into the + passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its hidden meaning. But + the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious thing about Doctor Lombards + house. What were the relations between Miss Lombard and her father? Above + all, between Miss Lombard and her picture? She did not look like a person + capable of a disinterested passion for the arts; and there had been + moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + </p> + <p> + The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent yellow light, + and the young man turned his steps toward the church of San Domenico, in + the hope of catching the lingering brightness on Sodomas St. Catherine. + </p> + <p> + The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he had to + grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary evocation of the + sunset, the saints figure emerged pale and swooning from the dusk, and + the warm light gave a sensual tinge to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to + glow and heave, the eyelids to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the + accidental collaboration of light and color. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the ground at + his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet of note-paper, + folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, and bearing the + superscription:— + </p> + <p> + To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + </p> + <p> + Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come from? He was + distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through the air, close to his + feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of the chapel; then he turned and + looked about the church. There was only one figure in it, that of a man + who knelt near the high altar. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombards maid-servant. Was + this the letter she had asked for? Had he been unconsciously carrying it + about with him all the afternoon? Who was Count Ottaviano Celsi, and how + came Wyant to have been chosen to act as that noblemans ambulant + letter-box? + </p> + <p> + Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to explore his + pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some clue to the mystery; + but they held nothing which he had not himself put there, and he was + reduced to wondering how the letter, supposing some unknown hand to have + bestowed it on him, had happened to fall out while he stood motionless + before the picture. + </p> + <p> + At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the aisle, and + turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the table dhote. + </p> + <p> + The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + </p> + <p> + I do not intrude? he inquired suavely. + </p> + <p> + Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, glancing + about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + </p> + <p> + I see, he remarked with a smile, that you know the hour at which our + saint should be visited. + </p> + <p> + Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + </p> + <p> + The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + </p> + <p> + What grace! What poetry! he murmured, apostrophizing the St. Catherine, + but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + </p> + <p> + But it is cold here—mortally cold; you do not find it so? The + intruder put on his hat. It is permitted at this hour—when the + church is empty. And you, my dear sir—do you not feel the dampness? + You are an artist, are you not? And to artists it is permitted to cover + the head when they are engaged in the study of the paintings. + </p> + <p> + He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyants hat. + </p> + <p> + Permit me—cover yourself! he said a moment later, holding out the + hat with an ingratiating gesture. + </p> + <p> + A light flashed on Wyant. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, he said, looking straight at the young man, you will tell me + your name. My own is Wyant. + </p> + <p> + The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a coroneted + card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was engraved:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. +</pre> + <p> + I am much obliged to you, said Wyant; and I may as well tell you that + the letter which you apparently expected to find in the lining of my hat + is not there, but in my pocket. + </p> + <p> + He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very pale. + </p> + <p> + And now, Wyant continued, you will perhaps be good enough to tell me + what all this means. + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this + request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. + </p> + <p> + I suppose you know, Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of the + others discomfiture, that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty. I + dont yet understand what part I have been made to play, but its evident + that you have made use of me to serve some purpose of your own, and I + propose to know the reason why. + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + </p> + <p> + Sir, he pleaded, you permit me to speak? + </p> + <p> + I expect you to, cried Wyant. But not here, he added, hearing the + clank of the vergers keys. It is growing dark, and we shall be turned + out in a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out into the + deserted square. + </p> + <p> + Now, said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + </p> + <p> + The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, began to + speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of conciliatory gesture. + </p> + <p> + My dear sir—my dear Mr. Wyant—you find me in an abominable + position—that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have + taken advantage of you—yes! I have counted on your amiability, your + chivalry—too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I do? It was + to oblige a lady—he laid a hand on his heart—a lady whom I + would die to serve! He went on with increasing volubility, his deliberate + English swept away by a torrent of Italian, through which Wyant, with some + difficulty, struggled to a comprehension of the case. + </p> + <p> + Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to Siena some + months previously, on business connected with his mothers property; the + paternal estate being near Orvieto, of which ancient city his father was + syndic. Soon after his arrival in Siena the young Count had met the + incomparable daughter of Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with + her, had prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor + Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of settlements + arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was possessed of a small + property in her own right, had a short time before invested the whole + amount in the purchase of the Bergamo Leonardo. Thereupon Count + Ottavianos parents had politely suggested that she should sell the + picture and thus recover her independence; and this proposal being met by + a curt refusal from Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent to + their sons marriage. The young ladys attitude had hitherto been one of + passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and would never + venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known to Ottaviano her + intention of not giving him up, of waiting patiently till events should + take a more favorable turn. She seemed hardly aware, the Count said with a + sigh, that the means of escape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, + and had a right to sell the picture, and to marry without asking her + fathers consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep himself + before her, to remind her that he, too, was waiting and would never give + her up. + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade Sybilla + to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or to correspond; + they were thus driven to clandestine communication, and had several times, + the Count ingenuously avowed, made use of the doctors visitors as a means + of exchanging letters. + </p> + <p> + And you told the visitors to ring twice? Wyant interposed. + </p> + <p> + The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could Mr. Wyant + blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was enamored! The young lady + had done him the supreme honor of avowing her attachment, of pledging her + unalterable fidelity; should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his + purpose in writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his + fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her to sell + the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every detail was complete; + if she would but have the courage to carry out his instructions he would + answer for the result. His idea was that she should secretly retire to a + convent of which his aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that + stronghold should transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser + ready, who was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano + whispered, considerably in excess of the young ladys original + inheritance; once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by + force from Doctor Lombards house, and his daughter, being safely in the + convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to the removal. + Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough to refuse his consent to + her marriage, she had only to make a <i>sommation respectueuse</i>, and at the + end of the prescribed delay no power on earth could prevent her becoming + the wife of Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + Wyants anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. It was + absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his secrets to the first + stranger he met in the streets, and placed his hand on his heart whenever + he mentioned the name of his betrothed. The easiest way out of the + business was to take it as a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new + Pyramus and Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had + unwittingly performed. + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + </p> + <p> + I wont deprive you any longer, he said, of the pleasure of reading + your letter. + </p> + <p> + Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa Lombard, you + will take a message from me—the letter she expected this afternoon? + </p> + <p> + The letter she expected? Wyant paused. No, thank you. I thought you + understood that where I come from we dont do that kind of thing—knowingly. + </p> + <p> + But, sir, to serve a young lady! + </p> + <p> + Im sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true—the + Counts expressive hands resented the doubt—but remember that if I + am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her father, who + has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to see his picture. + </p> + <p> + <i>His</i> picture? Hers! + </p> + <p> + Well, the house is his, at all events. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily—since to her it is a dungeon! + </p> + <p> + Why doesnt she leave it, then? exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + </p> + <p> + The Count clasped his hands. Ah, how you say that—with what force, + with what virility! If you would but say it to <i>her</i> in that tone—you, + her countryman! She has no one to advise her; the mother is an idiot; the + father is terrible; she is in his power; it is my belief that he would + kill her if she resisted him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she + remains in that house! + </p> + <p> + Oh, come, said Wyant lightly, they seem to understand each other well + enough. But in any case, you must see that I cant interfere—at + least you would if you were an Englishman, he added with an escape of + contempt. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Wyants affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance with his + land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the verification of Count + Ottavianos story. + </p> + <p> + The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct account of + his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was a man of + distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of Orvieto, and lived + either in that town or on his neighboring estate of Mongirone. His wife + owned a large property near Siena, and Count Ottaviano, who was the second + son, came there from time to time to look into its management. The eldest + son was in the army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt of Count + Ottavianos was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in Siena. At + one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who was a most amiable and + accomplished young man, was to marry the daughter of the strange + Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but difficulties having arisen as to the + adjustment of the young ladys dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very + properly broken off the match. It was sad for the young man, however, who + was said to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for coming to + Siena to inspect his mothers estate. + </p> + <p> + Viewed in the light of Count Ottavianos personality the story had a tinge + of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant mounted the stairs of the + House of the Dead Hand, the situation insensibly assumed another aspect. + It was impossible to take Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a + suggestion of fatality in the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could + tell amid what tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken + purposes the little drama of Miss Lombards fate was being played out? + Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the lives + within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a suburban villa with + sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + </p> + <p> + One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful problems; and + that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyants entrance, raised a placidly + wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning was mild, and her chair had + been wheeled into a bar of sunshine near the window, so that she made a + cheerful spot of prose in the poetic gloom of her surroundings. + </p> + <p> + What a nice morning! she said; it must be delightful weather at + Bonchurch. + </p> + <p> + Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its + threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird with + clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had never seen beyond + the opposite houses. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was surprised at + his reappearance he said at once: I have come back to study Miss + Lombards picture. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the picture— Mrs. Lombards face expressed a gentle + disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of acuter + sensibilities. Its an original Leonardo, you know, she said + mechanically. + </p> + <p> + And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to have + inherited her fathers love for art. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: Its unusual in so + young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. Thats what I say! I was quite different + at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a pretty bit of + fancy-work. Not that I couldnt sketch, too; I had a master down from + London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung up in their drawing-room now—I + did a view of Kenilworth which was thought pleasing. But I liked a picnic, + too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I + say its more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and do + crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything else. I was + taught that there were other things. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not + resist another question. And Miss Lombard cares for nothing else? + </p> + <p> + Her mother looked troubled. + </p> + <p> + Sybilla is so clever—she says I dont understand. You know how + self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of me, now—he + knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were very particular; I was + brought up to have opinions, and my husband has always respected them. He + says himself that he wouldnt for the world miss hearing my opinion on any + subject; you may have noticed that he often refers to my tastes. He has + always respected my preference for living in England; he likes to hear me + give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in my ideas that he often + says he knows just what I am going to say before I speak. But Sybilla does + not care for what I think— + </p> + <p> + At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at Wyant. The + servant is a fool; she didnt tell me you were here. His eye turned to + his wife. Well, my dear, what have you been telling Mr. Wyant? About the + aunts at Bonchurch, Ill be bound! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed his + hooked fingers, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombards aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to the + circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly Packet from the + curates wife across the way. They have the rector to tea twice a year, + and keep a page-boy, and are visited by two baronets wives. They devoted + themselves to the education of their orphan niece, and I think I may say + without boasting that Mrs. Lombards conversation shows marked traces of + the advantages she enjoyed. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular. + </p> + <p> + Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in anything + but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and blankets every + spring with her own hands? Both those facts are interesting to the student + of human nature. Doctor Lombard glanced at his watch. But we are missing + an incomparable moment; the light is perfect at this hour. + </p> + <p> + Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door and down + the passageway. + </p> + <p> + The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an inner + radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of the ladys + flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself with jewel-like + precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories which had escaped him on the + previous day. + </p> + <p> + He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his sardonic + grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair forward, and + seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + </p> + <p> + Now, then, he said, tell Clyde what you can; but the letter killeth. + </p> + <p> + He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the claws of + a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyants notebook with the obvious intention + of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious sketch. + </p> + <p> + Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the speculations + which Doctor Lombards strange household excited, sat motionless for a few + minutes, staring first at the picture and then at the blank pages of the + note-book. The thought that Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture + at length roused him, and he began to write. + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard rose to + unlock it, and his daughter entered. + </p> + <p> + She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to come back + this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He is here now; he says + he cant wait. + </p> + <p> + The devil! cried her father impatiently. Didnt you tell him— + </p> + <p> + Yes; but he says he cant come back. If you want to see him you must come + now. + </p> + <p> + Then you think theres a chance?— + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + </p> + <p> + You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment. + </p> + <p> + He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any surprise at + being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be surprised, for hardly + had they heard the key withdrawn when she moved close to him, her small + face pale and tumultuous. + </p> + <p> + I arranged it—I must speak to you, she gasped. Hell be back in + five minutes. + </p> + <p> + Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + </p> + <p> + Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about him at + the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the strange picture + overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl whispering of conspiracies in a + voice meant to exchange platitudes with a curate. + </p> + <p> + How can I help you? he said with a rush of compassion. + </p> + <p> + Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; its so + difficult—he watches me—hell be back immediately. + </p> + <p> + Try to tell me what I can do. + </p> + <p> + I dont dare; I feel as if he were behind me. She turned away, fixing + her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. There he comes, and I + havent spoken! It was my only chance; but it bewilders me so to be + hurried. + </p> + <p> + I dont hear any one, said Wyant, listening. Try to tell me. + </p> + <p> + How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain. She + drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge—Will you come here again + this afternoon—at about five? she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Come here again? + </p> + <p> + Yes—you can ask to see the picture,—make some excuse. He will + come with you, of course; I will open the door for you—and—and + lock you both in—she gasped. + </p> + <p> + Lock us in? + </p> + <p> + You see? You understand? Its the only way for me to leave the house—if + I am ever to do it—She drew another difficult breath. The key will + be returned—by a safe person—in half an hour,—perhaps + sooner— + </p> + <p> + She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the settle for + support. + </p> + <p> + Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + </p> + <p> + I cant, Miss Lombard, he said at length. + </p> + <p> + You cant? + </p> + <p> + Im sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider— + </p> + <p> + He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted rabbit to + pause in its dash for a hole! + </p> + <p> + Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + </p> + <p> + I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this way is + impossible. Cant I talk to you again? Perhaps— + </p> + <p> + Oh, she cried, starting up, there he comes! + </p> + <p> + Doctor Lombards step sounded in the passage. + </p> + <p> + Wyant held her fast. Tell me one thing: he wont let you sell the + picture? + </p> + <p> + No—hush! + </p> + <p> + Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that. + </p> + <p> + The future? + </p> + <p> + In case he should die: your father is an old man. You havent promised? + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + Dont, then; remember that. + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + </p> + <p> + As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of ravaged + brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a strange face, seen + momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself on the brain as part of an + inevitable future. Above the doorway, the marble hand reached out like the + cry of an imprisoned anguish. + </p> + <p> + Wyant turned away impatiently. + </p> + <p> + Rubbish! he said to himself. <i>She</i> isnt walled in; she can get out if + she wants to. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombards aid: he was + elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he stepped into the + express train for Florence. By the time the train reached Certaldo he was + convinced that, in thus hastening his departure, he had followed the only + reasonable course; at Empoli, he began to reflect that the priest and the + Levite had probably justified themselves in much the same manner. + </p> + <p> + A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly relieved + from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A paragraph in the + morning paper announced the sudden death of Doctor Lombard, the + distinguished English dilettante who had long resided in Siena. Wyants + justification was complete. Our blindest impulses become evidence of + perspicacity when they fall in with the course of events. + </p> + <p> + Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular complications from + which his foresight had probably saved him. The climax was unexpectedly + dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink of a step which, whatever its issue, + would have burdened her with retrospective compunction, had been set free + before her suitors ardor could have had time to cool, and was now + doubtless planning a life of domestic felicity on the proceeds of the + Leonardo. One thing, however, struck Wyant as odd—he saw no mention + of the sale of the picture. He had scanned the papers for an immediate + announcement of its transfer to one of the great museums; but presently + concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filial piety, had wished to avoid an + appearance of unseemly haste in the disposal of her treasure, he dismissed + the matter from his mind. Other affairs happened to engage him; the months + slipped by, and gradually the lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in + his mind. + </p> + <p> + It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him again to + Siena, that the recollection started from some inner fold of memory. He + found himself, as it happened, at the head of Doctor Lombards street, and + glancing down that grim thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse of the + doctors house front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its threshold. + The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an admirable + frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss Lombards marriage. + </p> + <p> + The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, signore. + </p> + <p> + Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano? + </p> + <p> + For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady of the + Maremma. + </p> + <p> + But what happened—why was the marriage broken? + </p> + <p> + The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + </p> + <p> + And Miss Lombard still lives in her fathers house? + </p> + <p> + Yes, signore; she is still there. + </p> + <p> + And the Leonardo— + </p> + <p> + The Leonardo, also, is still there. + </p> + <p> + The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he remembered + Count Ottavianos injunction to ring twice, and smiled mournfully to think + that so much subtlety had been vain. But what could have prevented the + marriage? If Doctor Lombards death had been long delayed, time might have + acted as a dissolvent, or the young ladys resolve have failed; but it + seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which Wyant had left the + lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + </p> + <p> + As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place seemed a + reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on him, like an + emanation from some persistent will-power, a something fierce and imminent + which might reduce to impotence every impulse within its range. Wyant + could almost fancy a hand on his shoulder, guiding him upward with the + ironical intent of confronting him with the evidence of its work. + </p> + <p> + A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently introduced to the + tapestried room, where, from their usual seats in the window, Mrs. Lombard + and her daughter advanced to welcome him with faint ejaculations of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits might + shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. Lombard was still + knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her swollen hands above the + brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had laid aside a strip of + needle-work which might have been the same on which Wyant had first seen + her engaged. + </p> + <p> + Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the interval, and + learned that they had thought of returning to England, but had somehow + never done so. + </p> + <p> + I am sorry not to see my aunts again, Mrs. Lombard said resignedly; but + Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go this year. + </p> + <p> + Next year, perhaps, murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which seemed to + suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + </p> + <p> + She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her hair + enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose color of her + cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some pigment which has + darkened in drying. + </p> + <p> + And Professor Clyde—is he well? Mrs. Lombard asked affably; + continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: Surely, Sybilla, Mr. + Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor Clyde to see the + Leonardo? + </p> + <p> + Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder lady of + his friends well-being. + </p> + <p> + Ah—perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena, she said, + sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and there ensued a + pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss Lombard: And you still + have the picture? + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes and looked at him. Should you like to see it? she + asked. + </p> + <p> + On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the same + secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They walked down + the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a grave gesture, making + Wyant pass before her into the room. Then she crossed over and drew the + curtain back from the picture. + </p> + <p> + The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface appeared + to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors had lost none of + their warmth, the outlines none of their pure precision; it seemed to + Wyant like some magical flower which had burst suddenly from the mould of + darkness and oblivion. + </p> + <p> + He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + Ah, I understand—you couldnt part with it, after all! he cried. + </p> + <p> + No—I couldnt part with it, she answered. + </p> + <p> + Its too beautiful,—too beautiful,—he assented. + </p> + <p> + Too beautiful? She turned on him with a curious stare. I have never + thought it beautiful, you know. + </p> + <p> + He gave back the stare. You have never— + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. Its not that. I hate it; Ive always hated it. But + he wouldnt let me—he will never let me now. + </p> + <p> + Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised + him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. + Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the + pronoun not refer to her father? + </p> + <p> + You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the picture? + </p> + <p> + No—he prevented me; he will always prevent me. + </p> + <p> + There was another pause. You promised him, then, before his death— + </p> + <p> + No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me. Her voice sank + to a whisper. I was free—perfectly free—or I thought I was + till I tried. + </p> + <p> + Till you tried? + </p> + <p> + To disobey him—to sell the picture. Then I found it was impossible. + I tried again and again; but he was always in the room with me. + </p> + <p> + She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and to + Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third presence. + </p> + <p> + And you cant—he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to the + pitch of hers. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. I cant lock him out; I can + never lock him out now. I told you I should never have another chance. + </p> + <p> + Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + </p> + <p> + Oh—he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + </p> + <p> + It is too late, she said; but you ought to have helped me that day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Short Fiction of Edith +Wharton, Part 1 (of 10), by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EARLY SHORT FICTION *** + +***** This file should be named 295-h.htm or 295-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/295/ + +Produced by Judith Boss, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + The Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton + A Ten-Volume Collection + Volume One + + + + Contents of Volume One + + Stories + KERFOL.........................March 1916 + MRS. MANSTEY'S VIEW............July 1891 + THE BOLTED DOOR................March 1909 + THE DILETTANTE.................December 1903 + THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND.....August 1904 + + + Verse + THE PARTING DAY................February 1880 + AEROPAGUS......................March 1880 + A FAILURE......................April 1880 + PATIENCE.......................April 1880 + WANTS..........................May 1880 + THE LAST GIUSTIANINI...........October 1889 + EURYALUS.......................December 1889 + HAPPINESS......................December 1889 + + + Bibliography + + EDITH WHARTON BIBLIOGRAPHY: + SHORT STORIES AND POEMS........Judy Boss + + + + +KERFOL +as first published in +Scribner's Magazine, March 1916 + + +I + + +"You ought to buy it," said my host; "it's just the place for a +solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth +while to own the most romantic house in Brittany. The present +people are dead broke, and it's going for a song--you ought to +buy it." + +It was not with the least idea of living up to the character my +friend Lanrivain ascribed to me (as a matter of fact, under my +unsociable exterior I have always had secret yearnings for +domesticity) that I took his hint one autumn afternoon and went +to Kerfol. My friend was motoring over to Quimper on business: +he dropped me on the way, at a cross-road on a heath, and said: +"First turn to the right and second to the left. Then straight +ahead till you see an avenue. If you meet any peasants, don't +ask your way. They don't understand French, and they would +pretend they did and mix you up. I'll be back for you here by +sunset--and don't forget the tombs in the chapel." + +I followed Lanrivain's directions with the hesitation occasioned +by the usual difficulty of remembering whether he had said the +first turn to the right and second to the left, or the contrary. +If I had met a peasant I should certainly have asked, and +probably been sent astray; but I had the desert landscape to +myself, and so stumbled on the right turn and walked on across +the heath till I came to an avenue. It was so unlike any other +avenue I have ever seen that I instantly knew it must be THE +avenue. The grey-trunked trees sprang up straight to a great +height and then interwove their pale-grey branches in a long +tunnel through which the autumn light fell faintly. I know most +trees by name, but I haven't to this day been able to decide what +those trees were. They had the tall curve of elms, the tenuity +of poplars, the ashen colour of olives under a rainy sky; and +they stretched ahead of me for half a mile or more without a +break in their arch. If ever I saw an avenue that unmistakeably +led to something, it was the avenue at Kerfol. My heart beat a +little as I began to walk down it. + +Presently the trees ended and I came to a fortified gate in a +long wall. Between me and the wall was an open space of grass, +with other grey avenues radiating from it. Behind the wall were +tall slate roofs mossed with silver, a chapel belfry, the top of +a keep. A moat filled with wild shrubs and brambles surrounded +the place; the drawbridge had been replaced by a stone arch, and +the portcullis by an iron gate. I stood for a long time on the +hither side of the moat, gazing about me, and letting the +influence of the place sink in. I said to myself: "If I wait +long enough, the guardian will turn up and show me the tombs--" +and I rather hoped he wouldn't turn up too soon. + +I sat down on a stone and lit a cigarette. As soon as I had done +it, it struck me as a puerile and portentous thing to do, with +that great blind house looking down at me, and all the empty +avenues converging on me. It may have been the depth of the +silence that made me so conscious of my gesture. The squeak of +my match sounded as loud as the scraping of a brake, and I almost +fancied I heard it fall when I tossed it onto the grass. But +there was more than that: a sense of irrelevance, of littleness, +of childish bravado, in sitting there puffing my cigarette-smoke +into the face of such a past. + +I knew nothing of the history of Kerfol--I was new to Brittany, +and Lanrivain had never mentioned the name to me till the day +before--but one couldn't as much as glance at that pile without +feeling in it a long accumulation of history. What kind of +history I was not prepared to guess: perhaps only the sheer +weight of many associated lives and deaths which gives a kind of +majesty to all old houses. But the aspect of Kerfol suggested +something more--a perspective of stern and cruel memories +stretching away, like its own grey avenues, into a blur of +darkness. + +Certainly no house had ever more completely and finally broken +with the present. As it stood there, lifting its proud roofs and +gables to the sky, it might have been its own funeral monument. +"Tombs in the chapel? The whole place is a tomb!" I reflected. +I hoped more and more that the guardian would not come. The +details of the place, however striking, would seem trivial +compared with its collective impressiveness; and I wanted only to +sit there and be penetrated by the weight of its silence. + +"It's the very place for you!" Lanrivain had said; and I was +overcome by the almost blasphemous frivolity of suggesting to any +living being that Kerfol was the place for him. "Is it possible +that any one could NOT see--?" I wondered. I did not finish the +thought: what I meant was undefinable. I stood up and wandered +toward the gate. I was beginning to want to know more; not to +SEE more--I was by now so sure it was not a question of seeing-- +but to feel more: feel all the place had to communicate. "But to +get in one will have to rout out the keeper," I thought +reluctantly, and hesitated. Finally I crossed the bridge and +tried the iron gate. It yielded, and I walked under the tunnel +formed by the thickness of the chemin de ronde. At the farther +end, a wooden barricade had been laid across the entrance, and +beyond it I saw a court enclosed in noble architecture. The main +building faced me; and I now discovered that one half was a mere +ruined front, with gaping windows through which the wild growths +of the moat and the trees of the park were visible. The rest of +the house was still in its robust beauty. One end abutted on the +round tower, the other on the small traceried chapel, and in an +angle of the building stood a graceful well-head adorned with +mossy urns. A few roses grew against the walls, and on an upper +window-sill I remember noticing a pot of fuchsias. + +My sense of the pressure of the invisible began to yield to my +architectural interest. The building was so fine that I felt a +desire to explore it for its own sake. I looked about the court, +wondering in which corner the guardian lodged. Then I pushed +open the barrier and went in. As I did so, a little dog barred +my way. He was such a remarkably beautiful little dog that for a +moment he made me forget the splendid place he was defending. I +was not sure of his breed at the time, but have since learned +that it was Chinese, and that he was of a rare variety called the +"Sleeve-dog." He was very small and golden brown, with large +brown eyes and a ruffled throat: he looked rather like a large +tawny chrysanthemum. I said to myself: "These little beasts +always snap and scream, and somebody will be out in a minute." + +The little animal stood before me, forbidding, almost menacing: +there was anger in his large brown eyes. But he made no sound, +he came no nearer. Instead, as I advanced, he gradually fell +back, and I noticed that another dog, a vague rough brindled +thing, had limped up. "There'll be a hubbub now," I thought; for +at the same moment a third dog, a long-haired white mongrel, +slipped out of a doorway and joined the others. All three stood +looking at me with grave eyes; but not a sound came from them. +As I advanced they continued to fall back on muffled paws, still +watching me. "At a given point, they'll all charge at my ankles: +it's one of the dodges that dogs who live together put up on +one," I thought. I was not much alarmed, for they were neither +large nor formidable. But they let me wander about the court as +I pleased, following me at a little distance--always the same +distance--and always keeping their eyes on me. Presently I +looked across at the ruined facade, and saw that in one of its +window-frames another dog stood: a large white pointer with one +brown ear. He was an old grave dog, much more experienced than +the others; and he seemed to be observing me with a deeper +intentness. + +"I'll hear from HIM," I said to myself; but he stood in the empty +window-frame, against the trees of the park, and continued to +watch me without moving. I looked back at him for a time, to see +if the sense that he was being watched would not rouse him. Half +the width of the court lay between us, and we stared at each +other silently across it. But he did not stir, and at last I +turned away. Behind me I found the rest of the pack, with a +newcomer added: a small black greyhound with pale agate-coloured +eyes. He was shivering a little, and his expression was more +timid than that of the others. I noticed that he kept a little +behind them. And still there was not a sound. + +I stood there for fully five minutes, the circle about me-- +waiting, as they seemed to be waiting. At last I went up to the +little golden-brown dog and stooped to pat him. As I did so, I +heard myself laugh. The little dog did not start, or growl, or +take his eyes from me--he simply slipped back about a yard, and +then paused and continued to look at me. "Oh, hang it!" I +exclaimed aloud, and walked across the court toward the well. + +As I advanced, the dogs separated and slid away into different +corners of the court. I examined the urns on the well, tried a +locked door or two, and up and down the dumb facade; then I faced +about toward the chapel. When I turned I perceived that all the +dogs had disappeared except the old pointer, who still watched me +from the empty window-frame. It was rather a relief to be rid of +that cloud of witnesses; and I began to look about me for a way +to the back of the house. "Perhaps there'll be somebody in the +garden," I thought. I found a way across the moat, scrambled +over a wall smothered in brambles, and got into the garden. A +few lean hydrangeas and geraniums pined in the flower-beds, and +the ancient house looked down on them indifferently. Its garden +side was plainer and severer than the other: the long granite +front, with its few windows and steep roof, looked like a +fortress-prison. I walked around the farther wing, went up some +disjointed steps, and entered the deep twilight of a narrow and +incredibly old box-walk. The walk was just wide enough for one +person to slip through, and its branches met overhead. It was +like the ghost of a box-walk, its lustrous green all turning to +the shadowy greyness of the avenues. I walked on and on, the +branches hitting me in the face and springing back with a dry +rattle; and at length I came out on the grassy top of the chemin +de ronde. I walked along it to the gate-tower, looking down into +the court, which was just below me. Not a human being was in +sight; and neither were the dogs. I found a flight of steps in +the thickness of the wall and went down them; and when I emerged +again into the court, there stood the circle of dogs, the golden- +brown one a little ahead of the others, the black greyhound +shivering in the rear. + +"Oh, hang it--you uncomfortable beasts, you!" I exclaimed, my +voice startling me with a sudden echo. The dogs stood +motionless, watching me. I knew by this time that they would not +try to prevent my approaching the house, and the knowledge left +me free to examine them. I had a feeling that they must be +horribly cowed to be so silent and inert. Yet they did not look +hungry or ill-treated. Their coats were smooth and they were not +thin, except the shivering greyhound. It was more as if they had +lived a long time with people who never spoke to them or looked +at them: as though the silence of the place had gradually +benumbed their busy inquisitive natures. And this strange +passivity, this almost human lassitude, seemed to me sadder than +the misery of starved and beaten animals. I should have liked to +rouse them for a minute, to coax them into a game or a scamper; +but the longer I looked into their fixed and weary eyes the more +preposterous the idea became. With the windows of that house +looking down on us, how could I have imagined such a thing? The +dogs knew better: THEY knew what the house would tolerate and +what it would not. I even fancied that they knew what was +passing through my mind, and pitied me for my frivolity. But +even that feeling probably reached them through a thick fog of +listlessness. I had an idea that their distance from me was as +nothing to my remoteness from them. In the last analysis, the +impression they produced was that of having in common one memory +so deep and dark that nothing that had happened since was worth +either a growl or a wag. + +"I say," I broke out abruptly, addressing myself to the dumb +circle, "do you know what you look like, the whole lot of you? +You look as if you'd seen a ghost--that's how you look! I wonder +if there IS a ghost here, and nobody but you left for it to +appear to?" The dogs continued to gaze at me without moving. . . + + +It was dark when I saw Lanrivain's motor lamps at the cross- +roads--and I wasn't exactly sorry to see them. I had the sense +of having escaped from the loneliest place in the whole world, +and of not liking loneliness--to that degree--as much as I had +imagined I should. My friend had brought his solicitor back from +Quimper for the night, and seated beside a fat and affable +stranger I felt no inclination to talk of Kerfol. . . + +But that evening, when Lanrivain and the solicitor were closeted +in the study, Madame de Lanrivain began to question me in the +drawing-room. + +"Well--are you going to buy Kerfol?" she asked, tilting up her +gay chin from her embroidery. + +"I haven't decided yet. The fact is, I couldn't get into the +house," I said, as if I had simply postponed my decision, and +meant to go back for another look. + +"You couldn't get in? Why, what happened? The family are mad to +sell the place, and the old guardian has orders--" + +"Very likely. But the old guardian wasn't there." + +"What a pity! He must have gone to market. But his daughter--?" + +"There was nobody about. At least I saw no one." + +"How extraordinary! Literally nobody?" + +"Nobody but a lot of dogs--a whole pack of them--who seemed to +have the place to themselves." + +Madame de Lanrivain let the embroidery slip to her knee and +folded her hands on it. For several minutes she looked at me +thoughtfully. + +"A pack of dogs--you SAW them?" + +"Saw them? I saw nothing else!" + +"How many?" She dropped her voice a little. "I've always +wondered--" + +I looked at her with surprise: I had supposed the place to be +familiar to her. "Have you never been to Kerfol?" I asked. + +"Oh, yes: often. But never on that day." + +"What day?" + +"I'd quite forgotten--and so had Herve, I'm sure. If we'd +remembered, we never should have sent you today--but then, after +all, one doesn't half believe that sort of thing, does one?" + +"What sort of thing?" I asked, involuntarily sinking my voice to +the level of hers. Inwardly I was thinking: "I KNEW there was +something. . ." + +Madame de Lanrivain cleared her throat and produced a reassuring +smile. "Didn't Herve tell you the story of Kerfol? An ancestor +of his was mixed up in it. You know every Breton house has its +ghost-story; and some of them are rather unpleasant." + +"Yes--but those dogs?" I insisted. + +"Well, those dogs are the ghosts of Kerfol. At least, the +peasants say there's one day in the year when a lot of dogs +appear there; and that day the keeper and his daughter go off to +Morlaix and get drunk. The women in Brittany drink dreadfully." +She stooped to match a silk; then she lifted her charming +inquisitive Parisian face: "Did you REALLY see a lot of dogs? +There isn't one at Kerfol," she said. + + + +II + + +Lanrivain, the next day, hunted out a shabby calf volume from the +back of an upper shelf of his library. + +"Yes--here it is. What does it call itself? A History of the +Assizes of the Duchy of Brittany. Quimper, 1702. The book was +written about a hundred years later than the Kerfol affair; but I +believe the account is transcribed pretty literally from the +judicial records. Anyhow, it's queer reading. And there's a +Herve de Lanrivain mixed up in it--not exactly MY style, as +you'll see. But then he's only a collateral. Here, take the +book up to bed with you. I don't exactly remember the details; +but after you've read it I'll bet anything you'll leave your +light burning all night!" + +I left my light burning all night, as he had predicted; but it +was chiefly because, till near dawn, I was absorbed in my +reading. The account of the trial of Anne de Cornault, wife of +the lord of Kerfol, was long and closely printed. It was, as my +friend had said, probably an almost literal transcription of what +took place in the court-room; and the trial lasted nearly a +month. Besides, the type of the book was detestable. . . + +At first I thought of translating the old record literally. But +it is full of wearisome repetitions, and the main lines of the +story are forever straying off into side issues. So I have tried +to disentangle it, and give it here in a simpler form. At times, +however, I have reverted to the text because no other words could +have conveyed so exactly the sense of what I felt at Kerfol; and +nowhere have I added anything of my own. + + + +III + + +It was in the year 16-- that Yves de Cornault, lord of the domain +of Kerfol, went to the pardon of Locronan to perform his +religious duties. He was a rich and powerful noble, then in his +sixty-second year, but hale and sturdy, a great horseman and +hunter and a pious man. So all his neighbours attested. In +appearance he seems to have been short and broad, with a swarthy +face, legs slightly bowed from the saddle, a hanging nose and +broad hands with black hairs on them. He had married young and +lost his wife and son soon after, and since then had lived alone +at Kerfol. Twice a year he went to Morlaix, where he had a +handsome house by the river, and spent a week or ten days there; +and occasionally he rode to Rennes on business. Witnesses were +found to declare that during these absences he led a life +different from the one he was known to lead at Kerfol, where he +busied himself with his estate, attended mass daily, and found +his only amusement in hunting the wild boar and water-fowl. But +these rumours are not particularly relevant, and it is certain +that among people of his own class in the neighbourhood he passed +for a stern and even austere man, observant of his religious +obligations, and keeping strictly to himself. There was no talk +of any familiarity with the women on his estate, though at that +time the nobility were very free with their peasants. Some +people said he had never looked at a woman since his wife's +death; but such things are hard to prove, and the evidence on +this point was not worth much. + +Well, in his sixty-second year, Yves de Cornault went to the +pardon at Locronan, and saw there a young lady of Douarnenez, who +had ridden over pillion behind her father to do her duty to the +saint. Her name was Anne de Barrigan, and she came of good old +Breton stock, but much less great and powerful than that of Yves +de Cornault; and her father had squandered his fortune at cards, +and lived almost like a peasant in his little granite manor on +the moors. . . I have said I would add nothing of my own to this +bald statement of a strange case; but I must interrupt myself +here to describe the young lady who rode up to the lych-gate of +Locronan at the very moment when the Baron de Cornault was also +dismounting there. I take my description from a rather rare +thing: a faded drawing in red crayon, sober and truthful enough +to be by a late pupil of the Clouets, which hangs in Lanrivain's +study, and is said to be a portrait of Anne de Barrigan. It is +unsigned and has no mark of identity but the initials A. B., and +the date 16--, the year after her marriage. It represents a +young woman with a small oval face, almost pointed, yet wide +enough for a full mouth with a tender depression at the corners. +The nose is small, and the eyebrows are set rather high, far +apart, and as lightly pencilled as the eyebrows in a Chinese +painting. The forehead is high and serious, and the hair, which +one feels to be fine and thick and fair, drawn off it and lying +close like a cap. The eyes are neither large nor small, hazel +probably, with a look at once shy and steady. A pair of +beautiful long hands are crossed below the lady's breast. . . + +The chaplain of Kerfol, and other witnesses, averred that when +the Baron came back from Locronan he jumped from his horse, +ordered another to be instantly saddled, called to a young page +come with him, and rode away that same evening to the south. His +steward followed the next morning with coffers laden on a pair of +pack mules. The following week Yves de Cornault rode back to +Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and told them he was to +be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of Douarnenez. And +on All Saints' Day the marriage took place. + +As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to +show that they passed happily for the couple. No one was found +to say that Yves de Cornault had been unkind to his wife, and it +was plain to all that he was content with his bargain. Indeed, +it was admitted by the chaplain and other witnesses for the +prosecution that the young lady had a softening influence on her +husband, and that he became less exacting with his tenants, less +harsh to peasants and dependents, and less subject to the fits of +gloomy silence which had darkened his widow-hood. As to his +wife, the only grievance her champions could call up in her +behalf was that Kerfol was a lonely place, and that when her +husband was away on business at Rennes or Morlaix--whither she +was never taken--she was not allowed so much as to walk in the +park unaccompanied. But no one asserted that she was unhappy, +though one servant-woman said she had surprised her crying, and +had heard her say that she was a woman accursed to have no child, +and nothing in life to call her own. But that was a natural +enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and certainly +it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that she gave +him no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as a +reproach--she herself admits this in her evidence--but seemed to +try to make her forget it by showering gifts and favours on her. +Rich though he was, he had never been open-handed; but nothing +was too fine for his wife, in the way of silks or gems or linen, +or whatever else she fancied. Every wandering merchant was +welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was called away he never +came back without bringing his wife a handsome present--something +curious and particular--from Morlaix or Rennes or Quimper. One +of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an interesting +list of one year's gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a carved +ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had +brought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarte, +above Ploumanac'h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by +the nuns of the Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that +opened and showed an amber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from +Morlaix, again, a length of Damascus velvet shot with gold, +bought of a Jew from Syria; and for Michaelmas that same year, +from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round stones--emeralds and +pearls and rubies--strung like beads on a gold wire. This was +the present that pleased the lady best, the woman said. Later +on, as it happened, it was produced at the trial, and appears to +have struck the Judges and the public as a curious and valuable +jewel. + +The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time +as far as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife +something even odder and prettier than the bracelet. It was a +winter evening when he rode up to Kerfol and, walking into the +hall, found her sitting listlessly by the fire, her chin on her +hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box in his hand +and, setting it down on the hearth, lifted the lid and let out a +little golden-brown dog. + +Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature +bounded toward her. "Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!" +she cried as she picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her +shoulders and looked at her with eyes "like a Christian's." +After that she would never have it out of her sight, and petted +and talked to it as if it had been a child--as indeed it was the +nearest thing to a child she was to know. Yves de Cornault was +much pleased with his purchase. The dog had been brought to him +by a sailor from an East India merchantman, and the sailor had +bought it of a pilgrim in a bazaar at Jaffa, who had stolen it +from a nobleman's wife in China: a perfectly permissible thing to +do, since the pilgrim was a Christian and the nobleman a heathen +doomed to hellfire. Yves de Cornault had paid a long price for +the dog, for they were beginning to be in demand at the French +court, and the sailor knew he had got hold of a good thing; but +Anne's pleasure was so great that, to see her laugh and play with +the little animal, her husband would doubtless have given twice +the sum. + + +So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain +sailing; but now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to +keep as nearly as possible to Anne's own statements; though +toward the end, poor thing . . . + +Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was +brought to Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found +dead at the head of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from +his wife's rooms to a door opening on the court. It was his wife +who found him and gave the alarm, so distracted, poor wretch, +with fear and horror--for his blood was all over her--that at +first the roused household could not make out what she was +saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, sure +enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and +head foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the +steps below him. He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed +about the face and throat, as if with a dull weapon; and one of +his legs had a deep tear in it which had cut an artery, and +probably caused his death. But how did he come there, and who +had murdered him? + +His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and +hearing his cry had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs; +but this was immediately questioned. In the first place, it was +proved that from her room she could not have heard the struggle +on the stairs, owing to the thickness of the walls and the length +of the intervening passage; then it was evident that she had not +been in bed and asleep, since she was dressed when she roused the +house, and her bed had not been slept in. Moreover, the door at +the bottom of the stairs was ajar, and the key in the lock; and +it was noticed by the chaplain (an observant man) that the dress +she wore was stained with blood about the knees, and that there +were traces of small blood-stained hands low down on the +staircase walls, so that it was conjectured that she had really +been at the postern-door when her husband fell and, feeling her +way up to him in the darkness on her hands and knees, had been +stained by his blood dripping down on her. Of course it was +argued on the other side that the blood-marks on her dress might +have been caused by her kneeling down by her husband when she +rushed out of her room; but there was the open door below, and +the fact that the fingermarks in the staircase all pointed +upward. + +The accused held to her statement for the first two days, in +spite of its improbability; but on the third day word was brought +to her that Herve de Lanrivain, a young nobleman of the +neighbourhood, had been arrested for complicity in the crime. +Two or three witnesses thereupon came forward to say that it was +known throughout the country that Lanrivain had formerly been on +good terms with the lady of Cornault; but that he had been absent +from Brittany for over a year, and people had ceased to associate +their names. The witnesses who made this statement were not of a +very reputable sort. One was an old herb-gatherer suspected of +witch-craft, another a drunken clerk from a neighbouring parish, +the third a half-witted shepherd who could be made to say +anything; and it was clear that the prosecution was not satisfied +with its case, and would have liked to find more definite proof +of Lanrivain's complicity than the statement of the herb- +gatherer, who swore to having seen him climbing the wall of the +park on the night of the murder. One way of patching out +incomplete proofs in those days was to put some sort of pressure, +moral or physical, on the accused person. It is not clear what +pressure was put on Anne de Cornault; but on the third day, when +she was brought into court, she "appeared weak and wandering," +and after being encouraged to collect herself and speak the +truth, on her honour and the wounds of her Blessed Redeemer, she +confessed that she had in fact gone down the stairs to speak with +Herve de Lanrivain (who denied everything), and had been +surprised there by the sound of her husband's fall. That was +better; and the prosecution rubbed its hands with satisfaction. +The satisfaction increased when various dependents living at +Kerfol were induced to say--with apparent sincerity--that during +the year or two preceding his death their master had once more +grown uncertain and irascible, and subject to the fits of +brooding silence which his household had learned to dread before +his second marriage. This seemed to show that things had not +been going well at Kerfol; though no one could be found to say +that there had been any signs of open disagreement between +husband and wife. + +Anne de Cornault, when questioned as to her reason for going down +at night to open the door to Herve de Lanrivain, made an answer +which must have sent a smile around the court. She said it was +because she was lonely and wanted to talk with the young man. +Was this the only reason? she was asked; and replied: "Yes, by +the Cross over your Lordships' heads." "But why at midnight?" +the court asked. "Because I could see him in no other way." I +can see the exchange of glances across the ermine collars under +the Crucifix. + +Anne de Cornault, further questioned, said that her married life +had been extremely lonely: "desolate" was the word she used. It +was true that her husband seldom spoke harshly to her; but there +were days when he did not speak at all. It was true that he had +never struck or threatened her; but he kept her like a prisoner +at Kerfol, and when he rode away to Morlaix or Quimper or Rennes +he set so close a watch on her that she could not pick a flower +in the garden without having a waiting-woman at her heels. "I am +no Queen, to need such honours," she once said to him; and he had +answered that a man who has a treasure does not leave the key in +the lock when he goes out. "Then take me with you," she urged; +but to this he said that towns were pernicious places, and young +wives better off at their own firesides. + +"But what did you want to say to Herve de Lanrivain?" the court +asked; and she answered: "To ask him to take me away." + +"Ah--you confess that you went down to him with adulterous +thoughts?" + +"No." + +"Then why did you want him to take you away?" + +"Because I was afraid for my life." + +"Of whom were you afraid?" + +"Of my husband." + +"Why were you afraid of your husband?" + +"Because he had strangled my little dog." + +Another smile must have passed around the court-room: in days +when any nobleman had a right to hang his peasants--and most of +them exercised it--pinching a pet animal's wind-pipe was nothing +to make a fuss about. + +At this point one of the Judges, who appears to have had a +certain sympathy for the accused, suggested that she should be +allowed to explain herself in her own way; and she thereupon made +the following statement. + +The first years of her marriage had been lonely; but her husband +had not been unkind to her. If she had had a child she would not +have been unhappy; but the days were long, and it rained too +much. + +It was true that her husband, whenever he went away and left her, +brought her a handsome present on his return; but this did not +make up for the loneliness. At least nothing had, till he +brought her the little brown dog from the East: after that she +was much less unhappy. Her husband seemed pleased that she was +so fond of the dog; he gave her leave to put her jewelled +bracelet around its neck, and to keep it always with her. + +One day she had fallen asleep in her room, with the dog at her +feet, as his habit was. Her feet were bare and resting on his +back. Suddenly she was waked by her husband: he stood beside +her, smiling not unkindly. + +"You look like my great-grandmother, Juliane de Cornault, lying +in the chapel with her feet on a little dog," he said. + +The analogy sent a chill through her, but she laughed and +answered: "Well, when I am dead you must put me beside her, +carved in marble, with my dog at my feet." + +"Oho--we'll wait and see," he said, laughing also, but with his +black brows close together. "The dog is the emblem of fidelity." + +"And do you doubt my right to lie with mine at my feet?" + +"When I'm in doubt I find out," he answered. "I am an old man," +he added, "and people say I make you lead a lonely life. But I +swear you shall have your monument if you earn it." + +"And I swear to be faithful," she returned, "if only for the sake +of having my little dog at my feet." + +Not long afterward he went on business to the Quimper Assizes; +and while he was away his aunt, the widow of a great nobleman of +the duchy, came to spend a night at Kerfol on her way to the +pardon of Ste. Barbe. She was a woman of great piety and +consequence, and much respected by Yves de Cornault, and when she +proposed to Anne to go with her to Ste. Barbe no one could +object, and even the chaplain declared himself in favour of the +pilgrimage. So Anne set out for Ste. Barbe, and there for the +first time she talked with Herve de Lanrivain. He had come once +or twice to Kerfol with his father, but she had never before +exchanged a dozen words with him. They did not talk for more +than five minutes now: it was under the chestnuts, as the +procession was coming out of the chapel. He said: "I pity you," +and she was surprised, for she had not supposed that any one +thought her an object of pity. He added: "Call for me when you +need me," and she smiled a little, but was glad afterward, and +thought often of the meeting. + +She confessed to having seen him three times afterward: not more. +How or where she would not say--one had the impression that she +feared to implicate some one. Their meetings had been rare and +brief; and at the last he had told her that he was starting the +next day for a foreign country, on a mission which was not +without peril and might keep him for many months absent. He +asked her for a remembrance, and she had none to give him but the +collar about the little dog's neck. She was sorry afterward that +she had given it, but he was so unhappy at going that she had not +had the courage to refuse. + +Her husband was away at the time. When he returned a few days +later he picked up the little dog to pet it, and noticed that its +collar was missing. His wife told him that the dog had lost it +in the undergrowth of the park, and that she and her maids had +hunted a whole day for it. It was true, she explained to the +court, that she had made the maids search for the necklet--they +all believed the dog had lost it in the park. . . + +Her husband made no comment, and that evening at supper he was in +his usual mood, between good and bad: you could never tell which. +He talked a good deal, describing what he had seen and done at +Rennes; but now and then he stopped and looked hard at her; and +when she went to bed she found her little dog strangled on her +pillow. The little thing was dead, but still warm; she stooped +to lift it, and her distress turned to horror when she discovered +that it had been strangled by twisting twice round its throat the +necklet she had given to Lanrivain. + +The next morning at dawn she buried the dog in the garden, and +hid the necklet in her breast. She said nothing to her husband, +then or later, and he said nothing to her; but that day he had a +peasant hanged for stealing a faggot in the park, and the next +day he nearly beat to death a young horse he was breaking. + +Winter set in, and the short days passed, and the long nights, +one by one; and she heard nothing of Herve de Lanrivain. It +might be that her husband had killed him; or merely that he had +been robbed of the necklet. Day after day by the hearth among +the spinning maids, night after night alone on her bed, she +wondered and trembled. Sometimes at table her husband looked +across at her and smiled; and then she felt sure that Lanrivain +was dead. She dared not try to get news of him, for she was sure +her husband would find out if she did: she had an idea that he +could find out anything. Even when a witch-woman who was a noted +seer, and could show you the whole world in her crystal, came to +the castle for a night's shelter, and the maids flocked to her, +Anne held back. The winter was long and black and rainy. One +day, in Yves de Cornault's absence, some gypsies came to Kerfol +with a troop of performing dogs. Anne bought the smallest and +cleverest, a white dog with a feathery coat and one blue and one +brown eye. It seemed to have been ill-treated by the gypsies, +and clung to her plaintively when she took it from them. That +evening her husband came back, and when she went to bed she found +the dog strangled on her pillow. + +After that she said to herself that she would never have another +dog; but one bitter cold evening a poor lean greyhound was found +whining at the castle-gate, and she took him in and forbade the +maids to speak of him to her husband. She hid him in a room that +no one went to, smuggled food to him from her own plate, made him +a warm bed to lie on and petted him like a child. + +Yves de Cornault came home, and the next day she found the +greyhound strangled on her pillow. She wept in secret, but said +nothing, and resolved that even if she met a dog dying of hunger +she would never bring him into the castle; but one day she found +a young sheep-dog, a brindled puppy with good blue eyes, lying +with a broken leg in the snow of the park. Yves de Cornault was +at Rennes, and she brought the dog in, warmed and fed it, tied up +its leg and hid it in the castle till her husband's return. The +day before, she gave it to a peasant woman who lived a long way +off, and paid her handsomely to care for it and say nothing; but +that night she heard a whining and scratching at her door, and +when she opened it the lame puppy, drenched and shivering, jumped +up on her with little sobbing barks. She hid him in her bed, and +the next morning was about to have him taken back to the peasant +woman when she heard her husband ride into the court. She shut +the dog in a chest and went down to receive him. An hour or two +later, when she returned to her room, the puppy lay strangled on +her pillow. . . + +After that she dared not make a pet of any other dog; and her +loneliness became almost unendurable. Sometimes, when she +crossed the court of the castle, and thought no one was looking, +she stopped to pat the old pointer at the gate. But one day as +she was caressing him her husband came out of the chapel; and the +next day the old dog was gone. . . + +This curious narrative was not told in one sitting of the court, +or received without impatience and incredulous comment. It was +plain that the Judges were surprised by its puerility, and that +it did not help the accused in the eyes of the public. It was an +odd tale, certainly; but what did it prove? That Yves de +Cornault disliked dogs, and that his wife, to gratify her own +fancy, persistently ignored this dislike. As for pleading this +trivial disagreement as an excuse for her relations--whatever +their nature--with her supposed accomplice, the argument was so +absurd that her own lawyer manifestly regretted having let her +make use of it, and tried several times to cut short her story. +But she went on to the end, with a kind of hypnotized insistence, +as though the scenes she evoked were so real to her that she had +forgotten where she was and imagined herself to be re-living +them. + +At length the Judge who had previously shown a certain kindness +to her said (leaning forward a little, one may suppose, from his +row of dozing colleagues): "Then you would have us believe that +you murdered your husband because he would not let you keep a pet +dog?" + +"I did not murder my husband." + +"Who did, then? Herve de Lanrivain?" + +"No." + +"Who then? Can you tell us?" + +"Yes, I can tell you. The dogs--" At that point she was carried +out of the court in a swoon. + + . . . . . . . . + +It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this +line of defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had +seemed convincing when she poured it out to him in the heat of +their first private colloquy; but now that it was exposed to the +cold daylight of judicial scrutiny, and the banter of the town, +he was thoroughly ashamed of it, and would have sacrificed her +without a scruple to save his professional reputation. But the +obstinate Judge--who perhaps, after all, was more inquisitive +than kindly--evidently wanted to hear the story out, and she was +ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition. + +She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog +nothing particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was +much as usual: she did not remember any special incident. But +one evening a pedlar woman came to the castle and was selling +trinkets to the maids. She had no heart for trinkets, but she +stood looking on while the women made their choice. And then, +she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her into buying for +herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent in it-- +she had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She +had no desire for the pomander, and did not know why she had +bought it. The pedlar said that whoever wore it had the power to +read the future; but she did not really believe that, or care +much either. However, she bought the thing and took it up to her +room, where she sat turning it about in her hand. Then the +strange scent attracted her and she began to wonder what kind of +spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey bean rolled +in a strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she knew, +and a message from Herve de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home +again and would be at the door in the court that night after the +moon had set. . . + +She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was +nightfall, and her husband was at home. . . She had no way of +warning Lanrivain, and there was nothing to do but to wait. . . + +At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. +Even to the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a +certain aesthetic relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on +receiving such a message at night-fall from a man living twenty +miles away, to whom she had no means of sending a warning. . . + +She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of +her cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, +that evening, too kind to her husband. She could not ply him +with wine, according to the traditional expedient, for though he +drank heavily at times he had a strong head; and when he drank +beyond its strength it was because he chose to, and not because a +woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate--she was an old +story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling +for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed +dishonour. + +At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in +the evening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall +to go up to his room. His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, +and brought back word that he was sleeping and not to be +disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted the tapestry and +listened at his door, she heard his loud regular breathing. She +thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time barefooted in +the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing went on +too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a +sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in +the window watching the moon set through the trees of the park. +The sky was misty and starless, and after the moon went down the +night was pitch black. She knew the time had come, and stole +along the passage, past her husband's door--where she stopped +again to listen to his breathing--to the top of the stairs. +There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was +following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the +darkness. They were so steep and winding that she had to go very +slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her one thought was to get the +door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to make his escape, and hasten back +to her room. She had tried the bolt earlier in the evening, and +managed to put a little grease on it; but nevertheless, when she +drew it, it gave a squeak . . . not loud, but it made her heart +stop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise. . . + +"What noise?" the prosecution interposed. + +"My husband's voice calling out my name and cursing me." + +"What did you hear after that?" + +"A terrible scream and a fall." + +"Where was Herve de Lanrivain at this time?" + +"He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in +the darkness. I told him for God's sake to go, and then I pushed +the door shut." + +"What did you do next?" + +"I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened." + +"What did you hear?" + +"I heard dogs snarling and panting." (Visible discouragement of +the bench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer +for the defense. Dogs again--! But the inquisitive Judge +insisted.) + +"What dogs?" + +She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to +repeat her answer: "I don't know." + +"How do you mean--you don't know?" + +"I don't know what dogs. . ." + +The Judge again intervened: "Try to tell us exactly what +happened. How long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?" + +"Only a few minutes." + +"And what was going on meanwhile overhead?" + +"The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried +out. I think he moaned once. Then he was quiet." + +"Then what happened?" + +"Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is +thrown to them--gulping and lapping." + +(There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, +and another attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But +the inquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.) + +"And all the while you did not go up?" + +"Yes--I went up then--to drive them off." + +"The dogs?" + +"Yes." + +"Well--?" + +"When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husband's flint +and steel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was +dead." + +"And the dogs?" + +"The dogs were gone." + +"Gone--where to?" + +"I don't know. There was no way out--and there were no dogs at +Kerfol." + +She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above +her head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. +There was a moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on +the bench was heard to say: "This is clearly a case for the +ecclesiastical authorities"--and the prisoner's lawyer doubtless +jumped at the suggestion. + +After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning +and squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne +de Cornault's statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had +been none for several months. The master of the house had taken +a dislike to dogs, there was no denying it. But, on the other +hand, at the inquest, there had been long and bitter discussion +as to the nature of the dead man's wounds. One of the surgeons +called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The +suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers +hurled tomes of necromancy at each other. + +At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court--at the +instance of the same Judge--and asked if she knew where the dogs +she spoke of could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer +she swore that she did not. Then the Judge put his final +question: "If the dogs you think you heard had been known to you, +do you think you would have recognized them by their barking?" + +"Yes." + +"Did you recognize them?" + +"Yes." + +"What dogs do you take them to have been?" + +"My dead dogs," she said in a whisper. . . She was taken out of +court, not to reappear there again. There was some kind of +ecclesiastical investigation, and the end of the business was +that the Judges disagreed with each other, and with the +ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de Cornault was finally +handed over to the keeping of her husband's family, who shut her +up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many +years later, a harmless madwoman. + +So ends her story. As for that of Herve de Lanrivain, I had only +to apply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. +The evidence against the young man being insufficient, and his +family influence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and +left soon afterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a +worldly life, and he appears to have come almost immediately +under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld d'Andilly and the +gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received +into their Order, and without achieving any particular +distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till his death +some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him +by a pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive +mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Herve de Lanrivain: it was a grey +ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the +dark dress of the Jansenists, I almost found myself envying his +fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had +happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have +talked with Pascal. . . + + +The End + + + +MRS. MANSTEY'S VIEW +as first published in +Scribner's Magazine, July, 1891 + + + +The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but +to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey +occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boarding- +house, in a street where the ash-barrels lingered late on the +sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement would have staggered a +Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a large +wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only +daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long +journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, +might have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been +so many years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each +other's society, and their intercourse had long been limited to +the exchange of a few perfunctory letters, written with +indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by Mrs. +Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had +she felt a stronger desire for her daughter's companionship, Mrs. +Manstey's increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the +three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would +have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey; +and without perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since +accepted as a matter of course her solitary life in New York. + +She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled +up now and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the +years went by. Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and +during her husband's lifetime his companionship had been all- +sufficient to her. For many years she had cherished a desire to +live in the country, to have a hen-house and a garden; but this +longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast of the +uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and +animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling +so fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the +most optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover +anything admirable. + +Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting +bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of +unwholesome-looking bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her +own dwelling, of which, however, she could get but a restricted +glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost boughs of the +ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year the +clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink. + +But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the +most part attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of +chronic untidiness and fluttering, on certain days of the week, +with miscellaneous garments and frayed table-cloths. In spite of +this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in the long vista which +she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but stony wastes, +with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in spring +save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the clothes- +lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, +the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; +the broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer +annoyed her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the +pleasanter side of the prospect before her. + +In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white +flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a +little way down the line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac +waves of wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its +candelabra of buff and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage; +while in the opposite yard June was sweet with the breath of a +neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in spite of the +countless obstacles opposed to its welfare. + +But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Manstey's view, +there was much of a more personal character to interest her in +the aspect of the houses and their inmates. She deeply +disapproved of the mustard-colored curtains which had lately been +hung in the doctor's window opposite; but she glowed with +pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks washed +with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often +show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always +in sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater +number; she knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet +cook in the newly painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and +who secretly fed the stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Manstey's +warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion her feelings were +racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days forgot to +feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs. +Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter, +beginning: "Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has +been fed," when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a +cup of seed in her hand. + +But in Mrs. Manstey's more meditative moods it was the narrowing +perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, +at twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in +the fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories +of a trip to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her +mind's eye to a pale phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and +dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at +all events she was sensible of many changes of color unnoticed by +the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring was +the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the +close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of +March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like ink- +spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better +still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced +the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain +interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and +missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and +the smoke disappeared. + +Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, +was not idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless +stockings; but the view surrounded and shaped her life as the sea +does a lonely island. When her rare callers came it was +difficult for her to detach herself from the contemplation of the +opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain green points +in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn into +hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitor's +anecdotes about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Manstey's real +friends were the denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the +magnolia, the green parrot, the maid who fed the cats, the doctor +who studied late behind his mustard-colored curtains; and the +confidant of her tenderer musings was the church-spire floating +in the sunset. + +One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast +aside and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a +knock at the door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. +Manstey did not care for her landlady, but she submitted to her +visits with ladylike resignation. To-day, however, it seemed +harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and the blossoming +magnolia to Mrs. Sampson's unsuggestive face, and Mrs. Manstey +was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so. + +"The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson," +she remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded +to the absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was +a topic not likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she +lacked the power of expression and could not have given utterance +to her feelings had she wished to. + +"The what, Mrs. Manstey?" inquired the landlady, glancing about +the room as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Manstey's +statement. + +"The magnolia in the next yard--in Mrs. Black's yard," Mrs. +Manstey repeated. + +"Is it, indeed? I didn't know there was a magnolia there," said +Mrs. Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did +not know that there was a magnolia in the next yard! + +"By the way," Mrs. Sampson continued, "speaking of Mrs. Black +reminds me that the work on the extension is to begin next week." + +"The what?" it was Mrs. Manstey's turn to ask. + +"The extension," said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the +direction of the ignored magnolia. "You knew, of course, that +Mrs. Black was going to build an extension to her house? Yes, +ma'am. I hear it is to run right back to the end of the yard. +How she can afford to build an extension in these hard times I +don't see; but she always was crazy about building. She used to +keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly +ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I +should have thought that would have cured her of building, but I +guess it's a disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin +on Monday." + +Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the +landlady did not heed the long pause which followed. At last +Mrs. Manstey said: "Do you know how high the extension will be?" + +"That's the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built +right up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?" + +"Mrs. Manstey paused again. "Won't it be a great annoyance to +you, Mrs. Sampson?" she asked. + +"I should say it would. But there's no help for it; if people +have got a mind to build extensions there's no law to prevent +'em, that I'm aware of." Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. +"There is no help for it," Mrs. Sampson repeated, "but if I AM a +church member, I wouldn't be so sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. +Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; I'm glad to find you so +comfortable." + +So comfortable--so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman +turned once more to the window. How lovely the view was that +day! The blue sky with its round clouds shed a brightness over +everything; the ailanthus had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the +hyacinths were budding, the magnolia flowers looked more than +ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the wistaria would +bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between her +eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise; +presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant +world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the +dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the +window until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then, +going to bed, she lay sleepless all night. + +Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, +but even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm-- +and then the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed +the day before that the ailanthus was growing dusty. + +"Of course I might move," said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning +from the window she looked about her room. She might move, of +course; so might she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to +survive either operation. The room, though far less important to +her happiness than the view, was as much a part of her existence. +She had lived in it seventeen years. She knew every stain on the +wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light fell in a certain +way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on their +shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew +which way to lean to the sun. "We are all too old to move," she +said. + +That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared +through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in +the flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on +Monday the building of the extension was to begin. + +On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was +engaged in gathering up the fragments of the boarders' dinner in +the basement. The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Manstey's name. + +"One of Mrs. Sampson's boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, +I can give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah," said +Mrs. Black, "tell the lady I'll be upstairs in a minute." + +Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor +garnished with statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she +could not sit down. + +Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of +dust, Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor. + +"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please," the +landlady remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman +who can afford to build extensions. There was no help for it; +Mrs. Manstey sat down. + +"Is there anything I can do for you, ma'am?" Mrs. Black +continued. "My house is full at present, but I am going to build +an extension, and--" + +"It is about the extension that I wish to speak," said Mrs. +Manstey, suddenly. "I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have +never been a happy one. I shall have to talk about myself first +to--to make you understand." + +Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this +parenthesis. + +"I never had what I wanted," Mrs. Manstey continued. "It was +always one disappointment after another. For years I wanted to +live in the country. I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we +never could manage it. There was no sunny window in our house, +and so all my plants died. My daughter married years ago and +went away--besides, she never cared for the same things. Then my +husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen years ago. +I went to live at Mrs. Sampson's, and I have been there ever +since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I don't get +out often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you +can understand my sitting a great deal in my window--the back +window on the third floor--" + +"Well, Mrs. Manstey," said Mrs. Black, liberally, "I could give +you a back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex--" + +"But I don't want to move; I can't move," said Mrs. Manstey, +almost with a scream. "And I came to tell you that if you build +that extension I shall have no view from my window--no view! Do +you understand?" + +Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she +had always heard that lunatics must be humored. + +"Dear me, dear me," she remarked, pushing her chair back a little +way, "that is too bad, isn't it? Why, I never thought of that. +To be sure, the extension WILL interfere with your view, Mrs. +Manstey." + +"You do understand?" Mrs. Manstey gasped. + +"Of course I do. And I'm real sorry about it, too. But there, +don't you worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all +right." + +Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward +the door. + +"What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce +you to change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, +listen to me. I have two thousand dollars in the bank and I +could manage, I know I could manage, to give you a thousand if--" +Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were rolling down her cheeks. + +"There, there, Mrs. Manstey, don't you worry," repeated Mrs. +Black, soothingly. "I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that +I can't stay and talk about it any longer, but this is such a +busy time of day, with supper to get--" + +Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey +seized her wrist. + +"You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say +that you accept my proposition?" + +"Why, I'll think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I +wouldn't annoy you for the world--" + +"But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told," Mrs. Manstey +persisted. + +Mrs. Black hesitated. "It shan't begin, I promise you that; I'll +send word to the builder this very night." Mrs. Manstey +tightened her hold. + +"You are not deceiving me, are you?" she said. + +"No--no," stammered Mrs. Black. "How can you think such a thing +of me, Mrs. Manstey?" + +Slowly Mrs. Manstey's clutch relaxed, and she passed through the +open door. "One thousand dollars," she repeated, pausing in the +hall; then she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the +steps, supporting herself on the cast-iron railing. + +"My goodness," exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the +hall-door, "I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks +so quiet and ladylike, too." + +Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning +she was awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window +with what haste she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Black's +yard was full of workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from +the kitchen to the yard, others beginning to demolish the old- +fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each story of Mrs. Black's +house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. At first +she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a +settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went +back to bed, not caring to see what was going on. + +Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, +she rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her +hands were stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed +to evade her. + +When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen +had removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks +had multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow +with a bloated face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after +smelling it, threw it to the ground; the next man, carrying a +load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing. + +"Look out, Jim," called one of the men to another who was smoking +a pipe, "if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper +you'll have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it." +And Mrs. Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were +several barrels of paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony. + +At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was +perfect and a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, +lingered late in the west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew +down the shades and proceeded, in her usual methodical manner, to +light her lamp. She always filled and lit it with her own hands, +keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf in a closet. +As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual peaceful +aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their +mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening, +and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the +table and began to knit. + +That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a +wild wind was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven +clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose once or twice and looked out of the +window; but of the view nothing was discernible save a tardy +light or two in the opposite windows. These lights at last went +out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their extinction, +began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she merely +flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her +head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took +out the kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden +matches into her pocket she proceeded, with increasing +precautions, to unlock her door, and a few moments later she was +feeling her way down the dark staircase, led by a glimmer of gas +from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom of the +stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter +darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more +freely, as there was less danger of being overheard; and without +much delay she contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the +yard. A gust of cold wind smote her as she stepped out and +groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines. + +That morning at three o'clock an alarm of fire brought the +engines to Mrs. Black's door, and also brought Mrs. Sampson's +startled boarders to their windows. The wooden balcony at the +back of Mrs. Black's house was ablaze, and among those who +watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, leaning in +her thin dressing-gown from the open window. + +The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants +of the house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn +to find that little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of +window panes and smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief +sufferer by the fire was Mrs. Manstey, who was found in the +morning gasping with pneumonia, a not unnatural result, as +everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open window at +her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very +ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctor's verdict would +be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampson's +table were awestruck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders +knew Mrs. Manstey well; she "kept to herself," as they said, and +seemed to fancy herself too good for them; but then it is always +disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house and, as one lady +observed to another: "It might just as well have been you or me, +my dear." + +But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had +lived, lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, +and Mrs. Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; +but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the +figures in a dream. All day she said nothing; but when she was +asked for her daughter's address she shook her head. At times +the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening attentively for +some sound which did not come; then again she dozed. + +The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called +Mrs. Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her +lips move. + +"Lift me up--out of bed," she whispered. + +They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she +pointed to the window. + +"Oh, the window--she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit +there all day," Mrs. Sampson explained. "It can do her no harm, +I suppose?" + +"Nothing matters now," said the nurse. + +They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her +chair. The dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire +had already caught a golden ray, though the magnolia and horse- +chestnut still slumbered in shadow. In Mrs. Black's yard all was +quiet. The charred timbers of the balcony lay where they had +fallen. It was evident that since the fire the builders had not +returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few more +sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed. + +It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more +difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they +would not understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet +with the penetrating ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; +but the view at least was there--the spire was golden now, the +heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was alight from east +to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun. + +Mrs. Manstey's head fell back and smiling she died. + +That day the building of the extension was resumed. + + +The End + + + +THE BOLTED DOOR +as first published in +Scribner's Magazine, March 1909 + + + +I + + +Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit +library, paused to compare his watch with the clock on the +chimney-piece. + +Three minutes to eight. + +In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal +firm of Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the +door-bell of the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham +was so punctual--the suspense was beginning to make his host +nervous. And the sound of the door-bell would be the beginning +of the end--after that there'd be no going back, by God--no going +back! + +Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the +room opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine +mirror above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at +Dijon--saw himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and +dressed, but furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which +he corrected by a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders +whenever a glass confronted him: a tired middle-aged man, +baffled, beaten, worn out. + +As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the +door opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his +guest. But it was only the man-servant who entered, advancing +silently over the mossy surface of the old Turkey rug. + +"Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained +and can't be here till eight-thirty." + +Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder +and harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his +heel, tossing to the servant over his shoulder: "Very good. Put +off dinner." + +Down his spine he felt the man's injured stare. Mr. Granice had +always been so mild-spoken to his people--no doubt the odd change +in his manner had already been noticed and discussed below +stairs. And very likely they suspected the cause. He stood +drumming on the writing-table till he heard the servant go out; +then he threw himself into a chair, propping his elbows on the +table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + +Another half hour alone with it! + +He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some +professional matter, no doubt--the punctilious lawyer would have +allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more +especially since Granice, in his note, had said: "I shall want a +little business chat afterward." + +But what professional matter could have come up at that +unprofessional hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had +called on the lawyer; and, after all, Granice's note had given no +hint of his own need! No doubt Ascham thought he merely wanted +to make another change in his will. Since he had come into his +little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been perpetually +tinkering with his will. + +Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his +sallow temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer +some six weeks earlier, at the Century Club. "Yes--my play's as +good as taken. I shall be calling on you soon to go over the +contract. Those theatrical chaps are so slippery--I won't trust +anybody but you to tie the knot for me!" That, of course, was +what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice, at the idea, +broke into an audible laugh--a queer stage-laugh, like the cackle +of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the +unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his +lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + +He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the +writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, +bound in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a +letter had been slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small +revolver. Granice stared a moment at these oddly associated +objects; then he took the letter from under the string and slowly +began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment +his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that +letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + +It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "The +Diversity Theatre." + + +"MY DEAR MR. GRANICE: + +"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last +month, and it's no use--the play won't do. I have talked it over +with Miss Melrose--and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our +stage--and I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. +It isn't the poetry that scares her--or me either. We both want +to do all we can to help along the poetic drama--we believe the +public's ready for it, and we're willing to take a big financial +risk in order to be the first to give them what they want. BUT +WE DON'T BELIEVE THEY COULD BE MADE TO WANT THIS. The fact is, +there isn't enough drama in your play to the allowance of poetry-- +the thing drags all through. You've got a big idea, but it's +not out of swaddling clothes. + +"If this was your first play I'd say: TRY AGAIN. But it has been +just the same with all the others you've shown me. And you +remember the result of 'The Lee Shore,' where you carried all the +expenses of production yourself, and we couldn't fill the theatre +for a week. Yet 'The Lee Shore' was a modern problem play--much +easier to swing than blank verse. It isn't as if you hadn't +tried all kinds--" + +Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the +envelope. Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every +phrase in it by heart, when for a month past he had seen it, +night after night, stand out in letters of flame against the +darkness of his sleepless lids? + +"IT HAS BEEN JUST THE SAME WITH ALL THE OTHERS YOU'VE SHOWN ME." + +That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate +unremitting work! + +"YOU REMEMBER THE RESULT OF 'THE LEE SHORE.'" + +Good God--as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all +now in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, +his sudden resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten +thousand dollars of his inheritance on testing his chance of +success--the fever of preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the +"first night," the flat fall, the stupid press, his secret rush +to Europe to escape the condolence of his friends! + +"IT ISN'T AS IF YOU HADN'T TRIED ALL KINDS." + +No--he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the +light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois- +realistic and the lyrical-romantic--finally deciding that he +would no longer "prostitute his talent" to win popularity, but +would impose on the public his own theory of art in the form of +five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had offered them everything-- +and always with the same result. + +Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. +The ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his +life! And if one counted the years before, the silent years of +dreams, assimilation, preparation--then call it half a man's +life-time: half a man's life-time thrown away! + +And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had +settled that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the +clock. Ten minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been +consumed in that stormy rush through his whole past! And he must +wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was one of the worst +symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown to +shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone. . . . +But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn't +he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the +whole business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him +of this nightmare of living? + +He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It +was a small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired +sufferer to give himself a "hypodermic" with. Granice raised it +slowly in one hand, while with the other he felt under the thin +hair at the back of his head, between the ear and the nape. He +knew just where to place the muzzle: he had once got a young +surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and lifted the +revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand +that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated +itself to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a +wave of deadly nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he +sickened at the crash of the bullet through his skull, and a +sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran down his +quivering face. . . + +He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a +cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow +and temples. It was no use--he knew he could never do it in that +way. His attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his +snatches at fame! He couldn't make himself a real life, and he +couldn't get rid of the life he had. And that was why he had +sent for Ascham to help him. . . + +The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse +himself for his delay. + +"I didn't like to say anything while your man was about--but the +fact is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter--" + +"Oh, it's all right," said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning +to feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It +was not any recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a +deeper withdrawal into himself. It was easier to go on +automatically with the social gestures than to uncover to any +human eye the abyss within him. + +"My dear fellow, it's sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting-- +especially the production of an artist like yours." Mr. Ascham +sipped his Burgundy luxuriously. "But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove +sent for me." + +Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a +moment he was shaken out of his self-absorption. + +"MRS. ASHGROVE?" + +Ascham smiled. "I thought you'd be interested; I know your +passion for causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of +course it's out of our line entirely--we never touch criminal +cases. But she wanted to consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a +distant connection of my wife's. And, by Jove, it IS a queer +case!" The servant re-entered, and Ascham snapped his lips shut. + +Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + +"No--serve it in the library," said Granice, rising. He led the +way back to the curtained confidential room. He was really +curious to hear what Ascham had to tell him. + +While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about +the library, glancing at his letters--the usual meaningless notes +and bills--and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a +headline caught his eye. + + + "ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO + PLAY POETRY. + "THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER + POET." + + +He read on with a thumping heart--found the name of a young +author he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poetic +drama," dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, +disgusted. It was true, then--she WAS "game"--it was not the +manner but the matter she mistrusted! + +Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely +lingering. "I shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up +myself." + +He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was +going on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want +him out of the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming +back to see. Granice suddenly felt himself enveloped in a +network of espionage. + +As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned +forward to take a light from Ascham's cigar. + +"Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove," he said, seeming to himself to +speak stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + +"Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there's not much to TELL." + +"And you couldn't if there were?" Granice smiled. + +"Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about +her choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential +in our talk." + +"And what's your impression, now you've seen her?" + +"My impression is, very distinctly, THAT NOTHING WILL EVER BE +KNOWN." + +"Ah--?" Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + +"I'm more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew +his business, and will consequently never be found out. That's a +capital cigar you've given me." + +"You like it? I get them over from Cuba." Granice examined his +own reflectively. "Then you believe in the theory that the +clever criminals never ARE caught?" + +"Of course I do. Look about you--look back for the last dozen +years--none of the big murder problems are ever solved." The +lawyer ruminated behind his blue cloud. "Why, take the instance +in your own family: I'd forgotten I had an illustration at hand! +Take old Joseph Lenman's murder--do you suppose that will ever be +explained?" + +As the words dropped from Ascham's lips his host looked slowly +about the library, and every object in it stared back at him with +a stale unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at +that room! It was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied +of. He cleared his throat slowly; then he turned his head to the +lawyer and said: "I could explain the Lenman murder myself." + +Ascham's eye kindled: he shared Granice's interest in criminal +cases. + +"By Jove! You've had a theory all this time? It's odd you never +mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features +in the Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea +may be a help." + +Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table +drawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. +What if he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he +looked at the notes and bills on the table, and the horror of +taking up again the lifeless routine of life--of performing the +same automatic gestures another day--displaced his fleeting +vision. + +"I haven't a theory. I KNOW who murdered Joseph Lenman." + +Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for +enjoyment. + +"You KNOW? Well, who did?" he laughed. + +"I did," said Granice, rising. + +He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at +him. Then he broke into another laugh. + +"Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit +his money, I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! +Unbosom yourself! Tell me all about it! Confession is good for +the soul." + +Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of +laughter from his throat; then he repeated doggedly: "I murdered +him." + +The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time +Ascham did not laugh. + +"Granice!" + +"I murdered him--to get his money, as you say." + +There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying +sense of amusement, saw his guest's look change from pleasantry +to apprehension. + +"What's the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see." + +"It's not a joke. It's the truth. I murdered him." He had +spoken painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; +but each time he repeated the words he found they were easier to +say. + +Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + +"What's the matter? Aren't you well? What on earth are you +driving at?" + +"I'm perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, +and I want it known that I murdered him." + +"YOU WANT IT KNOWN?" + +"Yes. That's why I sent for you. I'm sick of living, and when I +try to kill myself I funk it." He spoke quite naturally now, as +if the knot in his throat had been untied. + +"Good Lord--good Lord," the lawyer gasped. + +"But I suppose," Granice continued, "there's no doubt this would +be murder in the first degree? I'm sure of the chair if I own +up?" + +Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: "Sit down, +Granice. Let's talk." + + + +II + + +Granice told his story simply, connectedly. + +He began by a quick survey of his early years--the years of +drudgery and privation. His father, a charming man who could +never say "no," had so signally failed to say it on certain +essential occasions that when he died he left an illegitimate +family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin found themselves +hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to support his +mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at +eighteen in a broker's office. He loathed his work, and he was +always poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later +his mother died, but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, +remained on his hands. His own health gave out, and he had to go +away for six months, and work harder than ever when he came back. +He had no knack for business, no head for figures, no dimmest +insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to travel and +write--those were his inmost longings. And as the years dragged +on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or +acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He +tried writing, but he always came home from the office so tired +that his brain could not work. For half the year he did not +reach his dim up-town flat till after dark, and could only "brush +up" for dinner, and afterward lie on the lounge with his pipe, +while his sister droned through the evening paper. Sometimes he +spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, more +rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what +is known as "pleasure." And in summer, when he and Kate went to +the sea-side for a month, he dozed through the days in utter +weariness. Once he fell in love with a charming girl--but what +had he to offer her, in God's name? She seemed to like him, and +in common decency he had to drop out of the running. Apparently +no one replaced him, for she never married, but grew stoutish, +grayish, philanthropic--yet how sweet she had been when he had +first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected. . . + +But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have +sold his soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was IN +HIM--he could not remember when it had not been his deepest- +seated instinct. As the years passed it became a morbid, a +relentless obsession--yet with every year the material conditions +were more and more against it. He felt himself growing middle- +aged, and he watched the reflection of the process in his +sister's wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as +full of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, +insignificant--she had missed her chance of life. And she had no +resources, poor creature, was fashioned simply for the primitive +functions she had been denied the chance to fulfil! It +exasperated him to think of it--and to reflect that even now a +little travel, a little health, a little money, might transform +her, make her young and desirable. . . The chief fruit of his +experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth-- +there is only health as against sickness, wealth as against +poverty; and age or youth as the outcome of the lot one draws. + +At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean +against the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not +moved from his seat, or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated +attention. + +"Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old +Lenman--my mother's cousin, as you know. Some of the family +always mounted guard over him--generally a niece or so. But that +year they were all scattered, and one of the nieces offered to +lend us her cottage if we'd relieve her of duty for two months. +It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield is two hours +from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family observances, +had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we should +be called on--and there was the saving of rent and the good air +for Kate. So we went. + +"You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an +amoeba or some primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan's +microscope. He was large, undifferentiated, inert--since I could +remember him he had done nothing but take his temperature and +read the Churchman. Oh, and cultivate melons--that was his +hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons--his were grown under +glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield--his big kitchen-garden +was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And in +nearly all of them melons were grown--early melons and late, +French, English, domestic--dwarf melons and monsters: every +shape, colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like +children--a staff of trained attendants waited on them. I'm not +sure they didn't have a doctor to take their temperature--at any +rate the place was full of thermometers. And they didn't sprawl +on the ground like ordinary melons; they were trained against the +glass like nectarines, and each melon hung in a net which +sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the sun and +air. . . + +"It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one +of his own melons--the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, +apathetic and motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable +warm ventilated atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. +The cardinal rule of his existence was not to let himself be +'worried.' . . . I remember his advising me to try it myself, one +day when I spoke to him about Kate's bad health, and her need of +a change. 'I never let myself worry,' he said complacently. +'It's the worst thing for the liver--and you look to me as if you +had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You'll make +yourself happier and others too.' And all he had to do was to +write a cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + +"The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us +already. The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for +us and the others. But his life was a good deal sounder than +mine or Kate's--and one could picture him taking extra care of it +for the joke of keeping us waiting. I always felt that the sight +of our hungry eyes was a tonic to him. + +"Well, I tried to see if I couldn't reach him through his vanity. +I flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. +And he was taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. +On fine days he was driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, +and waddled through them, prodding and leering at the fruit, like +a fat Turk in his seraglio. When he bragged to me of the expense +of growing them I was reminded of a hideous old Lothario bragging +of what his pleasures cost. And the resemblance was completed by +the fact that he couldn't eat as much as a mouthful of his +melons--had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. 'But, after +all, it's my only hobby--why shouldn't I indulge it?' he said +sentimentally. As if I'd ever been able to indulge any of mine! +On the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like +gods. . . + +"One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell +to drag herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend +the afternoon with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September +afternoon--a day to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one's eyes +on the sky, and let the cosmic harmonies rush through one. +Perhaps the vision was suggested by the fact that, as I entered +cousin Joseph's hideous black walnut library, I passed one of the +under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who dashed out +in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember +thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about +the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + +"Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened +windows, his fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the +last number of the Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge +dish, a fat melon--the fattest melon I'd ever seen. As I looked +at it I pictured the ecstasy of contemplation from which I must +have roused him, and congratulated myself on finding him in such +a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a favour. Then I +noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an egg- +shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without stopping to +greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + +"'Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such +firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?' It +was as if he had said 'she' instead of 'it,' and when he put out +his senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look +the other way. + +"Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, +who had been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though +it was against my cousin's principles to employ a Papist--had +been assigned to the care of the monster: for it had revealed +itself, early in its existence, as destined to become a monster, +to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at +agricultural shows, and be photographed and celebrated in every +gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done well--seemed +to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning he had +been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at +the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its +blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned +scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp +spout of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its +firm pale rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, +fallen melon? + +"The old man's rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook, +spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up +and had sacked him on the spot, without wages or character--had +threatened to have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling +about Wrenfield. 'By God, and I'll do it--I'll write to +Washington--I'll have the pauper scoundrel deported! I'll show +him what money can do!' As likely as not there was some +murderous Black-hand business under it--it would be found that +the fellow was a member of a 'gang.' Those Italians would murder +you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it. . . +And then he grew frightened at his own excitement. 'But I must +calm myself,' he said. He took his temperature, rang for his +drops, and turned to the Churchman. He had been reading an +article on Nestorianism when the melon was brought in. He asked +me to go on with it, and I read to him for an hour, in the dim +close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the fallen +melon. + +"All the while one phrase of the old man's buzzed in my brain +like the fly about the melon. 'I'LL SHOW HIM WHAT MONEY CAN DO!' +Good heaven! If I could but show the old man! If I could make +him see his power of giving happiness as a new outlet for his +monstrous egotism! I tried to tell him something about my +situation and Kate's--spoke of my ill-health, my unsuccessful +drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself a name--I stammered +out an entreaty for a loan. 'I can guarantee to repay you, sir-- +I've a half-written play as security. . .' + +"I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as +smooth as an egg-shell again--his eyes peered over his fat cheeks +like sentinels over a slippery rampart. + +"'A half-written play--a play of YOURS as security?' He looked +at me almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of +insanity. 'Do you understand anything of business?' he enquired +mildly. I laughed and answered: 'No, not much.' + +"He leaned back with closed lids. 'All this excitement has been +too much for me,' he said. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll prepare +for my nap.' And I stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the +Italian." + +Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to +the tray set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured +himself a tall glass of soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at +Ascham's dead cigar. + +"Better light another," he suggested. + +The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He +told of his mounting obsession--how the murderous impulse had +waked in him on the instant of his cousin's refusal, and he had +muttered to himself: "By God, if you won't, I'll make you." He +spoke more tranquilly as the narrative proceeded, as though his +rage had died down once the resolve to act on it was taken. He +applied his whole mind to the question of how the old man was to +be "disposed of." Suddenly he remembered the outcry: "Those +Italians will murder you for a quarter!" But no definite project +presented itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + +Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the +incident of the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept +them informed of the old man's condition. One day, about three +weeks later, Granice, on getting home, found Kate excited over a +report from Wrenfield. The Italian had been there again--had +somehow slipped into the house, made his way up to the library, +and "used threatening language." The house-keeper found cousin +Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing "something awful." +The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the +police had ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + +But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had "nerves," and lost +his taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a +colleague, and the consultation amused and excited the old man-- +he became once more an important figure. The medical men +reassured the family--too completely!--and to the patient they +recommended a more varied diet: advised him to take whatever +"tempted him." And so one day, tremulously, prayerfully, he +decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with ceremony, +and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering +cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead. . . + +"But you remember the circumstances," Granice went on; "how +suspicion turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint +the police had given him he had been seen hanging about the house +since 'the scene.' It was said that he had tender relations with +the kitchen-maid, and the rest seemed easy to explain. But when +they looked round to ask him for the explanation he was gone-- +gone clean out of sight. He had been 'warned' to leave +Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that no one +ever laid eyes on him again." + +Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the +lawyer's, and he sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking +about the familiar room. Everything in it had grown grimacing +and alien, and each strange insistent object seemed craning +forward from its place to hear him. + +"It was I who put the stuff in the melon," he said. "And I don't +want you to think I'm sorry for it. This isn't 'remorse,' +understand. I'm glad the old skin-flint is dead--I'm glad the +others have their money. But mine's no use to me any more. My +sister married miserably, and died. And I've never had what I +wanted." + +Ascham continued to stare; then he said: "What on earth was your +object, then?" + +"Why, to GET what I wanted--what I fancied was in reach! I +wanted change, rest, LIFE, for both of us--wanted, above all, for +myself, the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, +and came home to tie myself up to my work. And I've slaved at it +steadily for ten years without reward--without the most distant +hope of success! Nobody will look at my stuff. And now I'm +fifty, and I'm beaten, and I know it." His chin dropped forward +on his breast. "I want to chuck the whole business," he ended. + + + +III + + +It was after midnight when Ascham left. + +His hand on Granice's shoulder, as he turned to go--"District +Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!" he had cried; +and so, with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and +departed. + +Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to +him that Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he +had explained, elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over +every detail--but without once breaking down the iron incredulity +of the lawyer's eye. + +At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced--but that, as Granice +now perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap +him into contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when +Granice triumphantly met and refuted each disconcerting question, +the lawyer dropped the mask suddenly, and said with a good- +humoured laugh: "By Jove, Granice you'll write a successful play +yet. The way you've worked this all out is a marvel." + +Granice swung about furiously--that last sneer about the play +inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his +failure? + +"I did it, I did it," he muttered sullenly, his rage spending +itself against the impenetrable surface of the other's mockery; +and Ascham answered with a smile: "Ever read any of those books +on hallucination? I've got a fairly good medico-legal library. +I could send you one or two if you like. . ." + + +Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing- +table. He understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + +"Good God--what if they all think me crazy?" + +The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat--he sat there +and shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as +he began to rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw +again how incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any +criminal lawyer would believe him. + +"That's the trouble--Ascham's not a criminal lawyer. And then +he's a friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if +he did believe me, he'd never let me see it--his instinct would +be to cover the whole thing up. . . But in that case--if he DID +believe me--he might think it a kindness to get me shut up in an +asylum. . ." Granice began to tremble again. "Good heaven! If +he should bring in an expert--one of those damned alienists! +Ascham and Pettilow can do anything--their word always goes. If +Ascham drops a hint that I'd better be shut up, I'll be in a +strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he'd do it from the kindest +motives--be quite right to do it if he thinks I'm a murderer!" + +The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his +bursting temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped +that Ascham had not believed his story. + +"But he did--he did! I can see it now--I noticed what a queer +eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do--what shall I +do?" + +He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if +Ascham should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and +come back with him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden +gesture brushed the morning paper from the table. Mechanically +he stooped to pick it up, and the movement started a new train of +association. + +He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack +by his chair. + +"Give me three-o-ten . . . yes." + +The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He +would act--act at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, +committing himself to some unavoidable line of conduct, that he +could pull himself through the meaningless days. Each time he +reached a fresh decision it was like coming out of a foggy +weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the +queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced +by these momentary lulls. + +"That the office of the Investigator? Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, +please. . . Hallo, Denver. . . Yes, Hubert Granice. . . . Just +caught you? Going straight home? Can I come and see you . . . +yes, now . . . have a talk? It's rather urgent . . . yes, might +give you some first-rate 'copy.' . . . All right!" He hung up +the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought to call +up the editor of the Investigator--Robert Denver was the very man +he needed. . . + +Granice put out the lights in the library--it was odd how the +automatic gestures persisted!--went into the hall, put on his hat +and overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a +sleepy elevator boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on +his folded arms. Granice passed out into the street. At the +corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a crawling cab, and called out +an up-town address. The long thoroughfare stretched before him, +dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. But from +Denver's house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as +Granice sprang from his cab the editor's electric turned the +corner. + +The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, +ushered Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + +"Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow +morning . . . but this is my liveliest hour . . . you know my +habits of old." + +Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years--watched his +rise through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian +pinnacle of the Investigator's editorial office. In the thick- +set man with grizzling hair there were few traces left of the +hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his way home in the small +hours, used to "bob in" on Granice, while the latter sat grinding +at his plays. Denver had to pass Granice's flat on the way to +his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, +and Granice's shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, +and discuss the universe. + +"Well--this is like old times--a good old habit reversed." The +editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. "Reminds me +of the nights when I used to rout you out. . . How's the play, +by the way? There IS a play, I suppose? It's as safe to ask you +that as to say to some men: 'How's the baby?'" + +Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and +heavy he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice's tortured +nerves, that the words had not been uttered in malice--and the +fact gave him a new measure of his insignificance. Denver did +not even know that he had been a failure! The fact hurt more +than Ascham's irony. + +"Come in--come in." The editor led the way into a small cheerful +room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm- +chair toward his visitor, and dropped into another with a +comfortable groan. + +"Now, then--help yourself. And let's hear all about it." + +He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting +his cigar, said to himself: "Success makes men comfortable, but +it makes them stupid." + +Then he turned, and began: "Denver, I want to tell you--" + +The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The little +room was gradually filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and +through them the editor's face came and went like the moon +through a moving sky. Once the hour struck--then the rhythmical +ticking began again. The atmosphere grew denser and heavier, and +beads of perspiration began to roll from Granice's forehead. + +"Do you mind if I open the window?" + +"No. It IS stuffy in here. Wait--I'll do it myself." Denver +pushed down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. "Well--go +on," he said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated +Granice. + +"There's no use in my going on if you don't believe me." + +The editor remained unmoved. "Who says I don't believe you? And +how can I tell till you've finished?" + +Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. "It was simple enough, +as you'll see. From the day the old man said to me, 'Those +Italians would murder you for a quarter,' I dropped everything +and just worked at my scheme. It struck me at once that I must +find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back in a night--and that +led to the idea of a motor. A motor--that never occurred to you? +You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, I had a +thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I +wanted--a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I +tried the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and +I bought it for my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in +one of those no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors +that are not for family use. I had a lively cousin who had put +me up to that dodge, and I looked about till I found a queer hole +where they took in my car like a baby in a foundling asylum. . . +Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a night. I +knew the way pretty well, for I'd done it often with the same +lively cousin--and in the small hours, too. The distance is over +ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. +But my arms were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next +morning. . . + +"Well, then came the report about the Italian's threats, and I +saw I must act at once. . . I meant to break into the old man's +room, shoot him, and get away again. It was a big risk, but I +thought I could manage it. Then we heard that he was ill--that +there'd been a consultation. Perhaps the fates were going to do +it for me! Good Lord, if that could only be! . . ." + +Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not +seem to have cooled the room. + +"Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I +came up from my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that +he was to try a bit of melon. The house-keeper had just +telephoned her--all Wrenfield was in a flutter. The doctor +himself had picked out the melon, one of the little French ones +that are hardly bigger than a large tomato--and the patient was +to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + +"In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But +I knew the ways of the house--I was sure the melon would be +brought in over night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there +were only one melon in the ice-box I could be fairly sure it was +the one I wanted. Melons didn't lie around loose in that house-- +every one was known, numbered, catalogued. The old man was beset +by the dread that the servants would eat them, and he took a +hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt pretty sure +of my melon . . . and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It +would have been the devil and all to get into the old man's +bedroom without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to +break into the pantry without much trouble. + +"It was a cloudy night, too--everything served me. I dined +quietly, and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual +headaches, and went to bed early. As soon as she was gone I +slipped out. I had got together a sort of disguise--red beard +and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them into a bag, and went +round to the garage. There was no one there but a half-drunken +machinist whom I'd never seen before. That served me, too. They +were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn't even +bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy- +going place. . . + +"Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon +as I was out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to +strike a sharp pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second +and got into the beard and ulster. Then away again--it was just +eleven-thirty when I got to Wrenfield. + +"I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and +slipped through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at +me through the dark--I remember thinking that they knew what I +wanted to know. . . . By the stable a dog came out growling--but +he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went back. . . The house was +as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed by ten. But +there might be a prowling servant--the kitchen-maid might have +come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. +I crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I +listened. It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the +house, pried open the pantry window and climbed in. I had a +little electric lamp in my pocket, and shielding it with my cap I +groped my way to the ice-box, opened it--and there was the little +French melon . . . only one. + +"I stopped to listen--I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my +bottle of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the +melon a hypodermic. It was all done inside of three minutes--at +ten minutes to twelve I was back in the car. I got out of the +lane as quietly as I could, struck a back road that skirted the +village, and let the car out as soon as I was beyond the last +houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the beard and +ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with +and they went down plump, like a dead body--and at two o'clock I +was back at my desk." + +Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his +listener; but Denver's face remained inscrutable. + +At length he said: "Why did you want to tell me this?" + +The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he +had explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if +his motive had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry +much less weight with Denver. Both were successful men, and +success does not understand the subtle agony of failure. Granice +cast about for another reason. + +"Why, I--the thing haunts me . . . remorse, I suppose you'd call +it. . ." + +Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + +"Remorse? Bosh!" he said energetically. + +Granice's heart sank. "You don't believe in--REMORSE?" + +"Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your +talking of remorse proves to me that you're not the man to have +planned and put through such a job." + +Granice groaned. "Well--I lied to you about remorse. I've never +felt any." + +Denver's lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled +pipe. "What was your motive, then? You must have had one." + +"I'll tell you--" And Granice began again to rehearse the story +of his failure, of his loathing for life. "Don't say you don't +believe me this time . . . that this isn't a real reason!" he +stammered out piteously as he ended. + +Denver meditated. "No, I won't say that. I've seen too many +queer things. There's always a reason for wanting to get out of +life--the wonder is that we find so many for staying in!" +Granice's heart grew light. "Then you DO believe me?" he +faltered. + +"Believe that you're sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven't +the nerve to pull the trigger? Oh, yes--that's easy enough, too. +But all that doesn't make you a murderer--though I don't say it +proves you could never have been one." + +"I HAVE been one, Denver--I swear to you." + +"Perhaps." He meditated. "Just tell me one or two things." + +"Oh, go ahead. You won't stump me!" Granice heard himself say +with a laugh. + +"Well--how did you make all those trial trips without exciting +your sister's curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at +that time, remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn't the +change in your ways surprise her?" + +"No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several +visits in the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and +was only in town for a night or two before--before I did the job." + +"And that night she went to bed early with a headache?" + +"Yes--blinding. She didn't know anything when she had that kind. +And her room was at the back of the flat." + +Denver again meditated. "And when you got back--she didn't hear +you? You got in without her knowing it?" + +"Yes. I went straight to my work--took it up at the word where +I'd left off--WHY, DENVER, DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" Granice suddenly, +passionately interjected. + +"Remember--?" + +"Yes; how you found me--when you looked in that morning, between +two and three . . . your usual hour . . .?" + +"Yes," the editor nodded. + +Granice gave a short laugh. "In my old coat--with my pipe: +looked as if I'd been working all night, didn't I? Well, I +hadn't been in my chair ten minutes!" + +Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. "I didn't +know whether YOU remembered that." + +"What?" + +"My coming in that particular night--or morning." + +Granice swung round in his chair. "Why, man alive! That's why +I'm here now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the +inquest, when they looked round to see what all the old man's +heirs had been doing that night--you who testified to having +dropped in and found me at my desk as usual. . . . I thought +THAT would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing else +would!" + +Denver smiled. "Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible +enough--and the idea's picturesque, I grant you: asking the man +who proved your alibi to establish your guilt." + +"That's it--that's it!" Granice's laugh had a ring of triumph. + +"Well, but how about the other chap's testimony--I mean that +young doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don't you remember +my testifying that I'd met him at the elevated station, and told +him I was on my way to smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: +'All right; you'll find him in. I passed the house two hours +ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as usual.' And the +lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she +corroborated his statement, you remember." + +"Yes; I remember." + +Well, then?" + +"Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin +with old coats and a cushion--something to cast a shadow on the +blind. All you fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in +the small hours--I counted on that, and knew you'd take any vague +outline as mine." + +"Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw +the shadow move--you remember she said she saw you sink forward, +as if you'd fallen asleep." + +"Yes; and she was right. It DID move. I suppose some extra- +heavy dray must have jolted by the flimsy building--at any rate, +something gave my mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had +sunk forward, half over the table." + +There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a +throbbing heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at +any rate, did not sneer and flout him. After all, journalism +gave a deeper insight than the law into the fantastic +possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow for the +incalculableness of human impulses. + +"Well?" Granice faltered out. + +Denver stood up with a shrug. "Look here, man--what's wrong with +you? Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I'd like +to take you to see a chap I know--an ex-prize-fighter--who's a +wonder at pulling fellows in your state out of their hole--" + +"Oh, oh--" Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men +eyed each other. "You don't believe me, then?" + +"This yarn--how can I? There wasn't a flaw in your alibi." + +"But haven't I filled it full of them now?" + +Denver shook his head. "I might think so if I hadn't happened to +know that you WANTED to. There's the hitch, don't you see?" + +Granice groaned. "No, I didn't. You mean my wanting to be found +guilty--?" + +"Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might +have been worth looking into. As it is, a child could have +invented it. It doesn't do much credit to your ingenuity." + +Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of +arguing? But on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. +"Look here, Denver--I daresay you're right. But will you do just +one thing to prove it? Put my statement in the Investigator, +just as I've made it. Ridicule it as much as you like. Only +give the other fellows a chance at it--men who don't know +anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I don't +care a damn whether YOU believe me--what I want is to convince +the Grand Jury! I oughtn't to have come to a man who knows me-- +your cursed incredulity is infectious. I don't put my case well, +because I know in advance it's discredited, and I almost end by +not believing it myself. That's why I can't convince YOU. It's +a vicious circle." He laid a hand on Denver's arm. "Send a +stenographer, and put my statement in the paper. + +But Denver did not warm to the idea. "My dear fellow, you seem +to forget that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at +the time, every possible clue followed up. The public would have +been ready enough then to believe that you murdered old Lenman-- +you or anybody else. All they wanted was a murderer--the most +improbable would have served. But your alibi was too +confoundedly complete. And nothing you've told me has shaken +it." Denver laid his cool hand over the other's burning fingers. +"Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case--then +come in and submit it to the Investigator." + + + +IV + + +The perspiration was rolling off Granice's forehead. Every few +minutes he had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture +from his haggard face. + +For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his +case to the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking +acquaintance with Allonby, and had obtained, without much +difficulty, a private audience on the very day after his talk +with Robert Denver. In the interval between he had hurried home, +got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at once into +the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it +impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him +that the only way of averting that hideous peril was by +establishing, in some sane impartial mind, the proof of his +guilt. Even if he had not been so incurably sick of life, the +electric chair seemed now the only alternative to the strait- +jacket. + +As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney +glance at his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice +lifted an appealing hand. "I don't expect you to believe me now-- +but can't you put me under arrest, and have the thing looked into?" + +Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had +a ruddy face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional +eyes seemed to keep watch over impulses not strictly +professional. + +"Well, I don't know that we need lock you up just yet. But of +course I'm bound to look into your statement--" + +Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby +wouldn't have said that if he hadn't believed him! + +"That's all right. Then I needn't detain you. I can be found at +any time at my apartment." He gave the address. + +The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. "What do you +say to leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I'm giving a +little supper at Rector's--quiet, little affair, you understand: +just Miss Melrose--I think you know her--and a friend or two; and +if you'll join us. . ." + +Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he +had made. + + +He waited for four days--four days of concentrated horror. +During the first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham's alienist +dogged him; and as that subsided, it was replaced by the +exasperating sense that his avowal had made no impression on the +District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been going to look into +the case, Allonby would have been heard from before now. . . . +And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how +little the story had impressed him! + +Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to +inculpate himself. He was chained to life--a "prisoner of +consciousness." Where was it he had read the phrase? Well, he +was learning what it meant. In the glaring night-hours, when his +brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a sense of his fixed +identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable SELFNESS, keener, more +insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever +known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such +intricacies of self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its +own dark windings. Often he woke from his brief snatches of +sleep with the feeling that something material was clinging to +him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat--and as his +brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own +loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous +substance. + +Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of +his window at the awakening activities of the street--at the +street-cleaners, the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy +workers flitting hurriedly by through the sallow winter light. +Oh, to be one of them--any of them--to take his chance in any of +their skins! They were the toilers--the men whose lot was +pitied--the victims wept over and ranted about by altruists and +economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load of any +one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no-- +the iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was +hand-cuffed to his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man +rather than another? The only absolute good was not to be . . . +And Flint, coming in to draw his bath, would ask if he preferred +his eggs scrambled or poached that morning? + + +On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and +for the succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for +an answer. He hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of +missing the letter by a moment; but would the District Attorney +write, or send a representative: a policeman, a "secret agent," +or some other mysterious emissary of the law? + +On the third morning Flint, stepping softly--as if, confound it! +his master were ill--entered the library where Granice sat behind +an unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + +Granice read the name--J. B. Hewson--and underneath, in pencil, +"From the District Attorney's office." He started up with a +thumping heart, and signed an assent to the servant. + +Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty-- +the kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any +crowd. "Just the type of the successful detective," Granice +reflected as he shook hands with his visitor. + +And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced +himself. He had been sent by the District Attorney to have "a +quiet talk" with Mr. Granice--to ask him to repeat the statement +he had made about the Lenman murder. + +His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that +Granice's self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man--a +man who knew his business--it would be easy enough to make HIM +see through that ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a +cigar, and lighting one himself--to prove his coolness--began +again to tell his story. + +He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever +before. Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener's detached, +impartial attitude helped still more. He could see that Hewson, +at least, had not decided in advance to disbelieve him, and the +sense of being trusted made him more lucid and more consecutive. +Yes, this time his words would certainly carry conviction. . . + + + +V + + +Despairingly, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. +Beside him stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth +but not too smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young +man's nimble glance followed Granice's. + +"Sure of the number, are you?" he asked briskly. + +"Oh, yes--it was 104." + +"Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up--that's +certain." + +He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a +brick and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance +above a row of tottering tenements and stables. + +"Dead sure?" he repeated. + +"Yes," said Granice, discouraged. "And even if I hadn't been, I +know the garage was just opposite Leffler's over there." He +pointed across the street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched +sign on which the words "Livery and Boarding" were still faintly +discernible. + +The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. "Well, +that's something--may get a clue there. Leffler's--same name +there, anyhow. You remember that name?" + +"Yes--distinctly." + +Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the +interest of the Explorer's "smartest" reporter. If there were +moments when he hardly believed his own story, there were others +when it seemed impossible that every one should not believe it; +and young Peter McCarren, peering, listening, questioning, +jotting down notes, inspired him with an exquisite sense of +security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, "like a +leech," as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled to it, and +settled down to "draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not +let go till he had." No one else had treated Granice in that +way--even Allonby's detective had not taken a single note. And +though a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized +official, nothing had been heard from the District Attorney's +office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter again. But +McCarren wasn't going to drop it--not he! He positively hung on +Granice's footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the +previous day together, and now they were off again, running down +clues. + +But at Leffler's they got none, after all. Leffler's was no +longer a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the +respite between sentence and execution it had become a vague +place of storage, a hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, +presided over by a blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of +Flood's garage across the way--did not even remember what had +stood there before the new flat-house began to rise. + +"Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I've seen harder jobs +done," said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + +As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less +sanguine tone: "I'd undertake now to put the thing through if you +could only put me on the track of that cyanide." + +Granice's heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt +it from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that +his case was strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter +to come back to his rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + +"Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I'm due at the office now. Besides, +it'd be no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I +call you up tomorrow or next day?" + +He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately +after him. + +Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less +jaunty in demeanor. + +"Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, +as the bard says. Can't get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler +either. And you say you bought the motor through Flood, and sold +it through him, too?" + +"Yes," said Granice wearily. + +"Who bought it, do you know?" + +Granice wrinkled his brows. "Why, Flood--yes, Flood himself. I +sold it back to him three months later." + +"Flood? The devil! And I've ransacked the town for Flood. That +kind of business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it." + +Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + +"That brings us back to the poison," McCarren continued, his +note-book out. "Just go over that again, will you?" + +And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the +time--and he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As +soon as he decided on poison he looked about for an acquaintance +who manufactured chemicals; and there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard +classmate, in the dyeing business--just the man. But at the last +moment it occurred to him that suspicion might turn toward so +obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous course. +Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom +irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his +profession, amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for +the exercise of which he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice +had the habit of dropping in to smoke a cigar with him on Sunday +afternoons, and the friends generally sat in Venn's work-shop, at +the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant Square. Off this +work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of deadly +bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious +tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a +cheerful crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, +experimenters in divers forms of expression. Coming and going +among so many, it was easy enough to pass unperceived; and one +afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned home, found +himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the +cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket. + +But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was +long since dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was +dead, too, the house in Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a +boarding-house, and the shifting life of New York had passed its +rapid sponge over every trace of their obscure little history. +Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge the +hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. + +"And there's the third door slammed in our faces." He shut his +note-book, and throwing back his head, rested his bright +inquisitive eyes on Granice's furrowed face. + +"Look here, Mr. Granice--you see the weak spot, don't you?" + +The other made a despairing motion. "I see so many!" + +"Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do +you want this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into +the noose?" + +Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of +his quick light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful +animal life would believe in the craving for death as a +sufficient motive; and Granice racked his brain for one more +convincing. But suddenly he saw the reporter's face soften, and +melt to a naive sentimentalism. + +"Mr. Granice--has the memory of it always haunted you?" + +Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. "That's +it--the memory of it . . . always . . ." + +McCarren nodded vehemently. "Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn't +let you sleep? The time came when you HAD to make a clean breast +of it?" + +"I had to. Can't you understand?" + +The reporter struck his fist on the table. "God, sir! I don't +suppose there's a human being with a drop of warm blood in him +that can't picture the deadly horrors of remorse--" + +The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him +for the word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a +conceivable motive the Irish reporter seized on as the most +adequate; and, as he said, once one could find a convincing +motive, the difficulties of the case became so many incentives to +effort. + +"Remorse--REMORSE," he repeated, rolling the word under his +tongue with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the +popular drama; and Granice, perversely, said to himself: "If I +could only have struck that note I should have been running in +six theatres at once." + +He saw that from that moment McCarren's professional zeal would +be fanned by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to +propose that they should dine together, and go on afterward to +some music-hall or theatre. It was becoming necessary to Granice +to feel himself an object of pre-occupation, to find himself in +another mind. He took a kind of gray penumbral pleasure in +riveting McCarren's attention on his case; and to feign the +grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. +He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the +meaningless performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the +sense of the reporter's observation. + +Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the +audience: he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain +from every physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had +lost all interest in his kind, but he knew that he was himself +the real centre of McCarren's attention, and that every word the +latter spoke had an indirect bearing on his own problem. + +"See that fellow over there--the little dried-up man in the third +row, pulling his moustache? HIS memoirs would be worth +publishing," McCarren said suddenly in the last entr'acte. + +Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from +Allonby's office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that +he was being shadowed. + +"Caesar, if HE could talk--!" McCarren continued. "Know who he +is, of course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the +country--" + +Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of +him. "THAT man--the fourth from the aisle? You're mistaken. +That's not Dr. Stell." + +McCarren laughed. "Well, I guess I've been in court enough to +know Stell when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big +cases where they plead insanity." + +A cold shiver ran down Granice's spine, but he repeated +obstinately: "That's not Dr. Stell." + +"Not Stell? Why, man, I KNOW him. Look--here he comes. If it +isn't Stell, he won't speak to me." + +The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he +neared McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + +"How'do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain't it?" the reporter +cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of +amicable assent, passed on. + +Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken--the man +who had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see +him: a physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had +thought him insane, like the others--had regarded his confession +as the maundering of a maniac. The discovery froze Granice with +horror--he seemed to see the mad-house gaping for him. + +"Isn't there a man a good deal like him--a detective named J. B. +Hewson?" + +But he knew in advance what McCarren's answer would be. "Hewson? +J. B. Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast +enough--I guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he +answered to his name." + + + +VI + + +Some days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the +District Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + +But when they were face to face Allonby's jovial countenance +showed no sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a +chair, and leaned across his desk with the encouraging smile of a +consulting physician. + +Granice broke out at once: "That detective you sent me the other +day--" + +Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + +"--I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, +Allonby?" + +The other's face did not lose its composure. "Because I looked +up your story first--and there's nothing in it." + +"Nothing in it?" Granice furiously interposed. + +"Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don't you bring +me proofs? I know you've been talking to Peter Ascham, and to +Denver, and to that little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have +any of them been able to make out a case for you? No. Well, +what am I to do?" + +Granice's lips began to tremble. "Why did you play me that +trick?" + +"About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it's part of my +business. Stell IS a detective, if you come to that--every +doctor is." + +The trembling of Granice's lips increased, communicating itself +in a long quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh +through his dry throat. "Well--and what did he detect?" + +"In you? Oh, he thinks it's overwork--overwork and too much +smoking. If you look in on him some day at his office he'll show +you the record of hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you +what treatment to follow. It's one of the commonest forms of +hallucination. Have a cigar, all the same." + +"But, Allonby, I killed that man!" + +The District Attorney's large hand, outstretched on his desk, had +an almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an +answer to the call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from +the outer office. + +"Sorry, my dear fellow--lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell +some morning," Allonby said, shaking hands. + + +McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw +in the alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously +forbade his wasting time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to +frequent Granice, who dropped back into a deeper isolation. For +a day or two after his visit to Allonby he continued to live in +dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have deceived him as +to the alienist's diagnosis? What if he were really being +shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the +truth out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + +The physician received him kindly, and reverted without +embarrassment to the conditions of their previous meeting. "We +have to do that occasionally, Mr. Granice; it's one of our +methods. And you had given Allonby a fright." + +Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, +to produce the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since +his last talk with the physician; but he feared his eagerness +might be taken for a symptom of derangement, and he affected to +smile away Dr. Stell's allusion. + +"You think, then, it's a case of brain-fag--nothing more?" + +"Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. +You smoke a good deal, don't you?" + +He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, +travel, or any form of diversion that did not--that in short-- + +Granice interrupted him impatiently. "Oh, I loathe all that--and +I'm sick of travelling." + +"H'm. Then some larger interest--politics, reform, philanthropy? +Something to take you out of yourself." + +"Yes. I understand," said Granice wearily. + +"Above all, don't lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like +yours," the doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + +On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of +cases like his--the case of a man who had committed a murder, who +confessed his guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there +had never been a case like it in the world. What a good figure +Stell would have made in a play: the great alienist who couldn't +read a man's mind any better than that! + +Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + +But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of +listlessness returned on him. For the first time since his +avowal to Peter Ascham he found himself without an occupation, +and understood that he had been carried through the past weeks +only by the necessity of constant action. Now his life had once +more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood on the street +corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself +despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in +the sluggish circle of his consciousness. + +The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his +flesh recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he +could never take it from his own. And, aside from his +insuperable physical reluctance, another motive restrained him. +He was possessed by the dogged desire to establish the truth of +his story. He refused to be swept aside as an irresponsible +dreamer--even if he had to kill himself in the end, he would not +do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from it. + +He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first +had been published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled +by a brief statement from the District Attorney's office, and the +rest of his communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to +see him, and begged him to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and +tried to joke him out of his delusion; till Granice, mistrustful +of their motives, began to dread the reappearance of Dr. Stell, +and set a guard on his lips. But the words he kept back +engendered others and still others in his brain. His inner self +became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours +reciting and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, +which he constantly retouched and developed. Then gradually his +activity languished under the lack of an audience, the sense of +being buried beneath deepening drifts of indifference. In a +passion of resentment he swore that he would prove himself a +murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and +for a sleepless night or two the thought flamed red on his +darkness. But daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse +was lacking and he hated too promiscuously to choose his victim. . . +So he was thrown back on the unavailing struggle to impose +the truth of his story. As fast as one channel closed on him he +tried to pierce another through the sliding sands of incredulity. +But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race leagued +together to cheat one man of the right to die. + +Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his +last shred of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he +were really the victim of some mocking experiment, the centre of +a ring of holiday-makers jeering at a poor creature in its blind +dashes against the solid walls of consciousness? But, no--men +were not so uniformly cruel: there were flaws in the close +surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and pity here +and there. . . + +Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to +persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the +visible conformities of his life seemed a final disproof of its +one fierce secret deviation. The general tendency was to take +for the whole of life the slit seen between the blinders of +habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista Granice cut a +correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole +orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would be easier to +convince a chance idler in the street than the trained +intelligence hampered by a sense of his antecedents. This idea +shot up in him with the tropic luxuriance of each new seed of +thought, and he began to walk the streets, and to frequent out- +of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the impartial +stranger to whom he should disclose himself. + +At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial +moment he always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so +essential that his first choice should be decisive. He dreaded +stupidity, timidity, intolerance. The imaginative eye, the +furrowed brow, were what he sought. He must reveal himself only +to a heart versed in the tortuous motions of the human will; and +he began to hate the dull benevolence of the average face. Once +or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a beginning--once +sitting down at a man's side in a basement chop-house, another +day approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both +cases the premonition of failure checked him on the brink of +avowal. His dread of being taken for a man in the clutch of a +fixed idea gave him an unnatural keenness in reading the +expression of his interlocutors, and he had provided himself in +advance with a series of verbal alternatives, trap-doors of +evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + +He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home +at irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his +apartment, and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was +spent in a world so remote from this familiar setting that he +sometimes had the mysterious sense of a living metempsychosis, a +furtive passage from one identity to another--yet the other as +unescapably himself! + +One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived +in him. Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with +existing conditions. He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed +unwavering desire which alone attains its end. And still the end +eluded him! It would not always, of course--he had full faith in +the dark star of his destiny. And he could prove it best by +repeating his story, persistently and indefatigably, pouring it +into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull brains, till at +last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless millions +paused, listened, believed. . . + +It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west- +side docks, looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in +physiognomies: his eagerness no longer made rash darts and +awkward recoils. He knew now the face he needed, as clearly as +if it had come to him in a vision; and not till he found it would +he speak. As he walked eastward through the shabby reeking +streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. +Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air--certainly he +felt calmer than for many days. . . + +He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and +walked up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always +allured him--they were less hurried than in Broadway, less +enclosed and classified than in Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, +watching for his face. + +At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, +like a votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. +Perhaps, after all, he should never find his face. . . The air +was languid, and he felt tired. He walked between the bald +grass-plots and the twisted trees, making for an empty seat. +Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat alone, and +something as definite as the twitch of a cord made him stop +before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, +had hardly looked at the women's faces as they passed. His case +was man's work: how could a woman help him? But this girl's face +was extraordinary--quiet and wide as a clear evening sky. It +suggested a hundred images of space, distance, mystery, like +ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed by a familiar wharf, +but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in their +shrouds. . . Certainly this girl would understand. He went up +to her quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms--wishing her +to see at once that he was "a gentleman." + +"I am a stranger to you," he began, sitting down beside her, "but +your face is so extremely intelligent that I feel. . . I feel it +is the face I've waited for . . . looked for everywhere; and I +want to tell you--" + +The girl's eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping +him! + +In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her +roughly by the arm. + +"Here--wait--listen! Oh, don't scream, you fool!" he shouted +out. + +He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. +Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something +hard within him was loosened and ran to tears. + +"Ah, you know--you KNOW I'm guilty!" + +He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl's +frightened face had disappeared. But what did he care about her +face? It was the policeman who had really understood him. He +turned and followed, the crowd at his heels. . . + + + +VII + + +In the charming place in which he found himself there were so +many sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of +the certainty of making himself heard. + +It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been +arrested for murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, +explained that he needed rest, and the time to "review" his +statements; it appeared that reiteration had made them a little +confused and contradictory. To this end he had willingly +acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet establishment, with an +open space and trees about it, where he had found a number of +intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged in preparing +or reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to lend +an interested ear to his own recital. + +For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil +current of this existence; but although his auditors gave him for +the most part an encouraging attention, which, in some, went the +length of really brilliant and helpful suggestion, he gradually +felt a recurrence of his old doubts. Either his hearers were not +sincere, or else they had less power to aid him than they +boasted. His interminable conferences resulted in nothing, and +as the benefit of the long rest made itself felt, it produced an +increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction more and more +unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days +visitors from the outer world were admitted to his retreat; and +he wrote out long and logically constructed relations of his +crime, and furtively slipped them into the hands of these +messengers of hope. + +This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now +lived only to watch for the visitors' days, and scan the faces +that swept by him like stars seen and lost in the rifts of a +hurrying sky. + +Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those +of his companions. But they represented his last means of access +to the world, a kind of subterranean channel on which he could +set his "statements" afloat, like paper boats which the +mysterious current might sweep out into the open seas of life. + +One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar +contour, a pair of bright prominent eyes, and a chin +insufficiently shaved. He sprang up and stood in the path of +Peter McCarren. + +The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand +with a startled deprecating, "WHY--?" + +"You didn't know me? I'm so changed?" Granice faltered, feeling +the rebound of the other's wonder. + +"Why, no; but you're looking quieter--smoothed out," McCarren +smiled. + +"Yes: that's what I'm here for--to rest. And I've taken the +opportunity to write out a clearer statement--" + +Granice's hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded +paper from his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter +was accompanied by a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It +came to Granice in a wild thrill of conviction that this was the +face he had waited for. . . + +"Perhaps your friend--he IS your friend?--would glance over it-- +or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?" +Granice's voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him +he felt that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger +looked at each other, and the former glanced at his watch. + +"I'm sorry we can't stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but +my friend has an engagement, and we're rather pressed--" + +Granice continued to proffer the paper. "I'm sorry--I think I +could have explained. But you'll take this, at any rate?" + +The stranger looked at him gently. "Certainly--I'll take it." +He had his hand out. "Good-bye." + +"Good-bye," Granice echoed. + +He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long +light hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But +as soon as they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily +toward his room, beginning to hope again, already planning a new +statement. + + +Outside the building the two men stood still, and the +journalist's companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous +rows of barred windows. + +"So that was Granice?" + +"Yes--that was Granice, poor devil," said McCarren. + +"Strange case! I suppose there's never been one just like it? +He's still absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?" + +"Absolutely. Yes." + +The stranger reflected. "And there was no conceivable ground for +the idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet +conventional sort of fellow like that--where do you suppose he +got such a delusion? Did you ever get the least clue to it?" + +McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked +up in contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his +bright hard gaze on his companion. + +"That was the queer part of it. I've never spoken of it--but I +DID get a clue." + +"By Jove! That's interesting. What was it?" + +McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. "Why--that it +wasn't a delusion." + +He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid +stare. + +"He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the +merest accident, when I'd pretty nearly chucked the whole job." + +"He murdered him--murdered his cousin?" + +"Sure as you live. Only don't split on me. It's about the +queerest business I ever ran into. . . DO ABOUT IT? Why, what +was I to do? I couldn't hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but +I was glad when they collared him, and had him stowed away safe +in there!" + +The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice's +statement in his hand. + +"Here--take this; it makes me sick," he said abruptly, thrusting +the paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in +silence to the gates. + + +The End + + + +THE DILETTANTE +as first published in +Harper's Monthly, December 1903 + + +It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found +himself advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the +club, turned as usual into Mrs. Vervain's street. + +The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenient +way of bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that +lay between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of +him that he instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, +with Ruth Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: +the special conditions attending it had made it no more like a +visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved dinner invitation is like +a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his call with Miss +Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that episode; +and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the +talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her +corner, he had felt the dilettante's irresistible craving to take +a last look at a work of art that was passing out of his +possession. + +On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the +unexpected than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of +taking things for granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride +in the thought that she owed her excellence to his training. +Early in his career Thursdale had made the mistake, at the outset +of his acquaintance with a lady, of telling her that he loved her +and exacting the same avowal in return. The latter part of that +episode had been like the long walk back from a picnic, when one +has to carry all the crockery one has finished using: it was the +last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumbered with +the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that the +privilege of loving her is one of the least favors that a +charming woman can accord; and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls +of sentiment he had developed a science of evasion in which the +woman of the moment became a mere implement of the game. He owed +a great deal of delicate enjoyment to the cultivation of this +art. The perils from which it had been his refuge became naively +harmless: was it possible that he who now took his easy way along +the levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw heights of +emotion? Youth is a high-colored season; but he had the +satisfaction of feeling that he had entered earlier than most +into that chiar'oscuro of sensation where every half-tone has its +value. + +As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable +to Mrs. Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray +their feelings, but he had never before had such fine material to +work in. She had been surprisingly crude when he first knew her; +capable of making the most awkward inferences, of plunging +through thin ice, of recklessly undressing her emotions; but she +had acquired, under the discipline of his reticences and +evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, and perhaps more +remarkable in that it involved keeping time with any tune he +played and reading at sight some uncommonly difficult passages. + +It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but +the result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had +been perfect: her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret +that he had announced his engagement by letter. It was an +evasion that confessed a difficulty; a deviation implying an +obstacle, where, by common consent, it was agreed to see none; it +betrayed, in short, a lack of confidence in the completeness of +his method. It had been his pride never to put himself in a +position which had to be quitted, as it were, by the back door; +but here, as he perceived, the main portals would have opened for +him of their own accord. All this, and much more, he read in the +finished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. +He had never seen a better piece of work: there was no over- +eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her art +the grace of a natural quality) there were none of those damnable +implications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend's +betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles while she laps the +lady in complacency. So masterly a performance, indeed, hardly +needed the offset of Miss Gaynor's door-step words--"To be so +kind to me, how she must have liked you!"--though he caught +himself wishing it lay within the bounds of fitness to transmit +them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who was +unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps the +one drawback to his new situation that it might develop good +things which it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret +Vervain. + +The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend's +powers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed his +distrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning +down her street instead of going on to the club. He would show +her that he knew how to value her; he would ask her to achieve +with him a feat infinitely rarer and more delicate than the one +he had appeared to avoid. Incidentally, he would also dispose of +the interval of time before dinner: ever since he had seen Miss +Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he +had been wondering how he should put in the rest of the +afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed the girl. . . . Yes, +that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at the +bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, if +you like--but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could recall +the time when he had been afraid of being obvious: now he felt +that this return to the primitive emotions might be as +restorative as a holiday in the Canadian woods. And it was +precisely by the girl's candor, her directness, her lack of +complications, that he was taken. The sense that she might say +something rash at any moment was positively exhilarating: if she +had thrown her arms about him at the station he would not have +given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It surprised Thursdale +to find what freshness of heart he brought to the adventure; and +though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness +to any conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that +his sentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to +draw upon. + +Mrs. Vervain was at home--as usual. When one visits the cemetery +one expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck +Thursdale as another proof of his friend's good taste that she +had been in no undue haste to change her habits. The whole house +appeared to count on his coming; the footman took his hat and +overcoat as naturally as though there had been no lapse in his +visits; and the drawing-room at once enveloped him in that +atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted to +her very furniture. + +It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, +Mrs. Vervain should herself sound the first false note. + +"You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her +hand. + +It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest +art. The difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's +balance. + +"Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And +as she made no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one +else's?" + +She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. "Mine, +merely," she said. + +"I hope that doesn't mean that you're unwilling to share it?" + +"With you? By no means. You're welcome to my last crust." + +He looked at her reproachfully. "Do you call this the last?" + +She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. "It's +a way of giving it more flavor!" + +He returned the smile. "A visit to you doesn't need such +condiments." + +She took this with just the right measure of retrospective +amusement. + +"Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste," she +confessed. + +Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him +into the imprudence of saying, "Why should you want it to be +different from what was always so perfectly right?" + +She hesitated. "Doesn't the fact that it's the last constitute a +difference?" + +"The last--my last visit to you?" + +"Oh, metaphorically, I mean--there's a break in the continuity." + +Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts +already! + +"I don't recognize it," he said. "Unless you make me--" he +added, with a note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid +attention. + +She turned to him with grave eyes. "You recognize no difference +whatever?" + +"None--except an added link in the chain." + +"An added link?" + +"In having one more thing to like you for--your letting Miss +Gaynor see why I had already so many." He flattered himself that +this turn had taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. + +Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. "Was it that you +came for?" she asked, almost gaily. + +"If it is necessary to have a reason--that was one." + +"To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?" + +"To tell you how she talks about you." + +"That will be very interesting--especially if you have seen her +since her second visit to me." + +"Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start +and moved to another. "She came to see you again?" + +"This morning, yes--by appointment." + +He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for her?" + +"I didn't have to--she wrote and asked me last night. But no +doubt you have seen her since." + +Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from +his thoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. "I saw +her off just now at the station." + +"And she didn't tell you that she had been here again?" + +"There was hardly time, I suppose--there were people about--" he +floundered. + +"Ah, she'll write, then." + +He regained his composure. "Of course she'll write: very often, +I hope. You know I'm absurdly in love," he cried audaciously. + +She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against +the chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the +attitude touched a pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. +"Oh, my poor Thursdale!" she murmured. + +"I suppose it's rather ridiculous," he owned; and as she remained +silent, he added, with a sudden break--"Or have you another +reason for pitying me?" + +Her answer was another question. "Have you been back to your +rooms since you left her?" + +"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here." + +"Ah, yes--you COULD: there was no reason--" Her words passed +into a silent musing. + +Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to +tell me?" + +"Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at +your rooms." + +"A letter? What do you mean? A letter from HER? What has +happened?" + +His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. +"Nothing has happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You +always HATED, you know," she added incoherently, "to have things +happen: you never would let them." + +"And now--?" + +"Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had +guessed. To know if anything had happened." + +"Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" +he said with a rush of light. + +The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed +between them that the color rose to her face; but she held his +startled gaze. + +"You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to +be. Are you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?" + +His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to +him. + +Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: "I supposed it might have struck +you that there were times when we presented that appearance." + +He made an impatient gesture. "A man's past is his own!" + +"Perhaps--it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared +it. But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss +Gaynor is naturally inexperienced." + +"Of course--but--supposing her act a natural one--" he floundered +lamentably among his innuendoes--"I still don't see--how there +was anything--" + +"Anything to take hold of? There wasn't--" + +"Well, then--?" escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she +did not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: +"She can hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship +between us!" + +"But she does," said Mrs. Vervain. + +Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no +trace of jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still +hear the candid ring of the girl's praise of Mrs. Vervain. If +she were such an abyss of insincerity as to dissemble distrust +under such frankness, she must at least be more subtle than to +bring her doubts to her rival for solution. The situation seemed +one through which one could no longer move in a penumbra, and he +let in a burst of light with the direct query: "Won't you explain +what you mean?" + +Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong +his distress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had +taught her, it was difficult to find words robust enough to meet +his challenge. It was the first time he had ever asked her to +explain anything; and she had lived so long in dread of offering +elucidations which were not wanted, that she seemed unable to +produce one on the spot. + +At last she said slowly: "She came to find out if you were really +free." + +Thursdale colored again. "Free?" he stammered, with a sense of +physical disgust at contact with such crassness. + +"Yes--if I had quite done with you." She smiled in recovered +security. "It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion +for definitions." + +"Yes--well?" he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. + +"Well--and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, she +wanted me to define MY status--to know exactly where I had stood +all along." + +Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the +clue. "And even when you had told her that--" + +"Even when I had told her that I had HAD no status--that I had +never stood anywhere, in any sense she meant," said Mrs. Vervain, +slowly--"even then she wasn't satisfied, it seems." + +He uttered an uneasy exclamation. "She didn't believe you, you +mean?" + +"I mean that she DID believe me: too thoroughly." + +"Well, then--in God's name, what did she want?" + +"Something more--those were the words she used." + +"Something more? Between--between you and me? Is it a +conundrum?" He laughed awkwardly. + +"Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer +forbidden to contemplate the relation of the sexes." + +"So it seems!" he commented. "But since, in this case, there +wasn't any--" he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in +her gaze. + +"That's just it. The unpardonable offence has been--in our not +offending." + +He flung himself down despairingly. "I give it up!--What did you +tell her?" he burst out with sudden crudeness. + +"The exact truth. If I had only known," she broke off with a +beseeching tenderness, "won't you believe that I would still have +lied for you?" + +"Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of +us?" + +"To save you--to hide you from her to the last! As I've hidden +you from myself all these years!" She stood up with a sudden +tragic import in her movement. "You believe me capable of that, +don't you? If I had only guessed--but I have never known a girl +like her; she had the truth out of me with a spring." + +"The truth that you and I had never--" + +"Had never--never in all these years! Oh, she knew why--she +measured us both in a flash. She didn't suspect me of having +haggled with you--her words pelted me like hail. 'He just took +what he wanted--sifted and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt +out the gold and left a heap of cinders. And you let him--you +let yourself be cut in bits'--she mixed her metaphors a little-- +'be cut in bits, and used or discarded, while all the while every +drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he's Shylock--and you +have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cut out of you.' +But she despises me the most, you know--far the most--" Mrs. +Vervain ended. + +The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: +they seemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon +intimacy, the kind of intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor +might intrude without perceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It +was as though a grand opera-singer had strained the acoustics of +a private music-room. + +Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was +between them, but they seemed to stare close at each other now +that the veils of reticence and ambiguity had fallen. + +His first words were characteristic. "She DOES despise me, +then?" he exclaimed. + +"She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near the +heart." + +He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly what she said +of me." + +"She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that +while she understands love or indifference, her eyes have never +been opened to the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any +rate, she expressed an unwillingness to be taken with +reservations--she thinks you would have loved her better if you +had loved some one else first. The point of view is original-- +she insists on a man with a past!" + +"Oh, a past--if she's serious--I could rake up a past!" he said +with a laugh. + +"So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion +of it. She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know +what you had done to me; and before I could guess her drift I +blundered into telling her." + +Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed--your +revenge is complete," he said slowly. + +He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? When I sent +for you to warn you--to save you from being surprised as I was +surprised?" + +"You're very good--but it's rather late to talk of saving me." +He held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. + +"How you must care!--for I never saw you so dull," was her +answer. "Don't you see that it's not too late for me to help +you?" And as he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: +"Take the rest--in imagination! Let it at least be of that much +use to you. Tell her I lied to her--she's too ready to believe +it! And so, after all, in a sense, I sha'n't have been wasted." + +His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave +the look back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient +were too simple to need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary +how a few words had swept them from an atmosphere of the most +complex dissimulations to this contact of naked souls. + +It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but +something in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. +He went up to his friend and took her hand. + +"You would do it--you would do it!" + +She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. + +"Good-by," he said, kissing it. + +"Good-by? You are going--?" + +"To get my letter." + +"Your letter? The letter won't matter, if you will only do what +I ask." + +He returned her gaze. "I might, I suppose, without being out of +character. Only, don't you see that if your plan helped me it +could only harm her?" + +"Harm HER?" + +"To sacrifice you wouldn't make me different. I shall go on +being what I have always been--sifting and sorting, as she calls +it. Do you want my punishment to fall on HER?" + +She looked at him long and deeply. "Ah, if I had to choose +between you--!" + +"You would let her take her chance? But I can't, you see. +I must take my punishment alone." + +She drew her hand away, sighing. "Oh, there will be no +punishment for either of you." + +"For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me." + +She shook her head with a slight laugh. "There will be no +letter." + +Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his +look. "No letter? You don't mean--" + +"I mean that she's been with you since I saw her--she's seen you +and heard your voice. If there IS a letter, she has recalled it-- +from the first station, by telegraph." + +He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. "But +in the mean while I shall have read it," he said. + +The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful +emptiness of the room. + + +The End + + + +THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD HAND +as first published in +Atlantic Monthly, August 1904 + + + +I + + +"Above all," the letter ended, "don't leave Siena without seeing +Doctor Lombard's Leonardo. Lombard is a queer old Englishman, a +mystic or a madman (if the two are not synonymous), and a devout +student of the Italian Renaissance. He has lived for years in +Italy, exploring its remotest corners, and has lately picked up +an undoubted Leonardo, which came to light in a farmhouse near +Bergamo. It is believed to be one of the missing pictures +mentioned by Vasari, and is at any rate, according to the most +competent authorities, a genuine and almost untouched example of +the best period. + +"Lombard is a queer stick, and jealous of showing his treasures; +but we struck up a friendship when I was working on the Sodomas +in Siena three years ago, and if you will give him the enclosed +line you may get a peep at the Leonardo. Probably not more than +a peep, though, for I hear he refuses to have it reproduced. I +want badly to use it in my monograph on the Windsor drawings, so +please see what you can do for me, and if you can't persuade him +to let you take a photograph or make a sketch, at least jot down +a detailed description of the picture and get from him all the +facts you can. I hear that the French and Italian governments +have offered him a large advance on his purchase, but that he +refuses to sell at any price, though he certainly can't afford +such luxuries; in fact, I don't see where he got enough money to +buy the picture. He lives in the Via Papa Giulio." + +Wyant sat at the table d'hote of his hotel, re-reading his +friend's letter over a late luncheon. He had been five days in +Siena without having found time to call on Doctor Lombard; not +from any indifference to the opportunity presented, but because +it was his first visit to the strange red city and he was still +under the spell of its more conspicuous wonders--the brick +palaces flinging out their wrought-iron torch-holders with a +gesture of arrogant suzerainty; the great council-chamber +emblazoned with civic allegories; the pageant of Pope Julius on +the Library walls; the Sodomas smiling balefully through the dusk +of mouldering chapels--and it was only when his first hunger was +appeased that he remembered that one course in the banquet was +still untasted. + +He put the letter in his pocket and turned to leave the room, +with a nod to its only other occupant, an olive-skinned young man +with lustrous eyes and a low collar, who sat on the other side of +the table, perusing the Fanfulla di Domenica. This gentleman, +his daily vis-a-vis, returned the nod with a Latin eloquence of +gesture, and Wyant passed on to the ante-chamber, where he paused +to light a cigarette. He was just restoring the case to his +pocket when he heard a hurried step behind him, and the lustrous- +eyed young man advanced through the glass doors of the dining- +room. + +"Pardon me, sir," he said in measured English, and with an +intonation of exquisite politeness; "you have let this letter +fall." + +Wyant, recognizing his friend's note of introduction to Doctor +Lombard, took it with a word of thanks, and was about to turn +away when he perceived that the eyes of his fellow diner remained +fixed on him with a gaze of melancholy interrogation. + +"Again pardon me," the young man at length ventured, "but are you +by chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?" + +"No," returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust +of foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with +a guarded politeness: "Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the +number of his house. I see it is not given here." + +The young man brightened perceptibly. "The number of the house +is thirteen; but any one can indicate it to you--it is well known +in Siena. It is called," he continued after a moment, "the House +of the Dead Hand." + +Wyant stared. "What a queer name!" he said. + +"The name comes from an antique hand of marble which for many +hundred years has been above the door." + +Wyant was turning away with a gesture of thanks, when the other +added: "If you would have the kindness to ring twice." + +"To ring twice?" + +"At the doctor's." The young man smiled. "It is the custom." + +It was a dazzling March afternoon, with a shower of sun from the +mid-blue, and a marshalling of slaty clouds behind the umber- +colored hills. For nearly an hour Wyant loitered on the Lizza, +watching the shadows race across the naked landscape and the +thunder blacken in the west; then he decided to set out for the +House of the Dead Hand. The map in his guidebook showed him that +the Via Papa Giulio was one of the streets which radiate from the +Piazza, and thither he bent his course, pausing at every other +step to fill his eye with some fresh image of weather-beaten +beauty. The clouds had rolled upward, obscuring the sunshine and +hanging like a funereal baldachin above the projecting cornices +of Doctor Lombard's street, and Wyant walked for some distance in +the shade of the beetling palace fronts before his eye fell on a +doorway surmounted by a sallow marble hand. He stood for a +moment staring up at the strange emblem. The hand was a woman's-- +a dead drooping hand, which hung there convulsed and helpless, +as though it had been thrust forth in denunciation of some evil +mystery within the house, and had sunk struggling into death. + +A girl who was drawing water from the well in the court said that +the English doctor lived on the first floor, and Wyant, passing +through a glazed door, mounted the damp degrees of a vaulted +stairway with a plaster AEsculapius mouldering in a niche on the +landing. Facing the AEsculapius was another door, and as Wyant +put his hand on the bell-rope he remembered his unknown friend's +injunction, and rang twice. + +His ring was answered by a peasant woman with a low forehead and +small close-set eyes, who, after a prolonged scrutiny of himself, +his card, and his letter of introduction, left him standing in a +high, cold ante-chamber floored with brick. He heard her wooden +pattens click down an interminable corridor, and after some delay +she returned and told him to follow her. + +They passed through a long saloon, bare as the ante-chamber, but +loftily vaulted, and frescoed with a seventeenth-century Triumph +of Scipio or Alexander--martial figures following Wyant with the +filmed melancholy gaze of shades in limbo. At the end of this +apartment he was admitted to a smaller room, with the same +atmosphere of mortal cold, but showing more obvious signs of +occupancy. The walls were covered with tapestry which had faded +to the gray-brown tints of decaying vegetation, so that the young +man felt as though he were entering a sunless autumn wood. +Against these hangings stood a few tall cabinets on heavy gilt +feet, and at a table in the window three persons were seated: an +elderly lady who was warming her hands over a brazier, a girl +bent above a strip of needle-work, and an old man. + +As the latter advanced toward Wyant, the young man was conscious +of staring with unseemly intentness at his small round-backed +figure, dressed with shabby disorder and surmounted by a +wonderful head, lean, vulpine, eagle-beaked as that of some art- +loving despot of the Renaissance: a head combining the venerable +hair and large prominent eyes of the humanist with the greedy +profile of the adventurer. Wyant, in musing on the Italian +portrait-medals of the fifteenth century, had often fancied that +only in that period of fierce individualism could types so +paradoxical have been produced; yet the subtle craftsmen who +committed them to the bronze had never drawn a face more +strangely stamped with contradictory passions than that of Doctor +Lombard. + +"I am glad to see you," he said to Wyant, extending a hand which +seemed a mere framework held together by knotted veins. "We lead +a quiet life here and receive few visitors, but any friend of +Professor Clyde's is welcome." Then, with a gesture which +included the two women, he added dryly: "My wife and daughter +often talk of Professor Clyde." + +"Oh yes--he used to make me such nice toast; they don't +understand toast in Italy," said Mrs. Lombard in a high plaintive +voice. + +It would have been difficult, from Doctor Lombard's manner and +appearance to guess his nationality; but his wife was so +inconsciently and ineradicably English that even the silhouette +of her cap seemed a protest against Continental laxities. She +was a stout fair woman, with pale cheeks netted with red lines. +A brooch with a miniature portrait sustained a bogwood watch- +chain upon her bosom, and at her elbow lay a heap of knitting and +an old copy of The Queen. + +The young girl, who had remained standing, was a slim replica of +her mother, with an apple-cheeked face and opaque blue eyes. Her +small head was prodigally laden with braids of dull fair hair, +and she might have had a kind of transient prettiness but for the +sullen droop of her round mouth. It was hard to say whether her +expression implied ill-temper or apathy; but Wyant was struck by +the contrast between the fierce vitality of the doctor's age and +the inanimateness of his daughter's youth. + +Seating himself in the chair which his host advanced, the young +man tried to open the conversation by addressing to Mrs. Lombard +some random remark on the beauties of Siena. The lady murmured a +resigned assent, and Doctor Lombard interposed with a smile: "My +dear sir, my wife considers Siena a most salubrious spot, and is +favorably impressed by the cheapness of the marketing; but she +deplores the total absence of muffins and cannel coal, and cannot +resign herself to the Italian method of dusting furniture." + +"But they don't, you know--they don't dust it!" Mrs. Lombard +protested, without showing any resentment of her husband's +manner. + +"Precisely--they don't dust it. Since we have lived in Siena we +have not once seen the cobwebs removed from the battlements of +the Mangia. Can you conceive of such housekeeping? My wife has +never yet dared to write it home to her aunts at Bonchurch." + +Mrs. Lombard accepted in silence this remarkable statement of her +views, and her husband, with a malicious smile at Wyant's +embarrassment, planted himself suddenly before the young man. + +"And now," said he, "do you want to see my Leonardo?" + +"DO I?" cried Wyant, on his feet in a flash. + +The doctor chuckled. "Ah," he said, with a kind of crooning +deliberation, "that's the way they all behave--that's what they +all come for." He turned to his daughter with another variation +of mockery in his smile. "Don't fancy it's for your beaux yeux, +my dear; or for the mature charms of Mrs. Lombard," he added, +glaring suddenly at his wife, who had taken up her knitting and +was softly murmuring over the number of her stitches. + +Neither lady appeared to notice his pleasantries, and he +continued, addressing himself to Wyant: "They all come--they all +come; but many are called and few are chosen." His voice sank to +solemnity. "While I live," he said, "no unworthy eye shall +desecrate that picture. But I will not do my friend Clyde the +injustice to suppose that he would send an unworthy +representative. He tells me he wishes a description of the +picture for his book; and you shall describe it to him--if you +can." + +Wyant hesitated, not knowing whether it was a propitious moment +to put in his appeal for a photograph. + +"Well, sir," he said, "you know Clyde wants me to take away all I +can of it." + +Doctor Lombard eyed him sardonically. "You're welcome to take +away all you can carry," he replied; adding, as he turned to his +daughter: "That is, if he has your permission, Sybilla." + +The girl rose without a word, and laying aside her work, took a +key from a secret drawer in one of the cabinets, while the doctor +continued in the same note of grim jocularity: "For you must know +that the picture is not mine--it is my daughter's." + +He followed with evident amusement the surprised glance which +Wyant turned on the young girl's impassive figure. + +"Sybilla," he pursued, "is a votary of the arts; she has +inherited her fond father's passion for the unattainable. +Luckily, however, she also recently inherited a tidy legacy from +her grandmother; and having seen the Leonardo, on which its +discoverer had placed a price far beyond my reach, she took a +step which deserves to go down to history: she invested her whole +inheritance in the purchase of the picture, thus enabling me to +spend my closing years in communion with one of the world's +masterpieces. My dear sir, could Antigone do more?" + +The object of this strange eulogy had meanwhile drawn aside one +of the tapestry hangings, and fitted her key into a concealed +door. + +"Come," said Doctor Lombard, "let us go before the light fails +us." + +Wyant glanced at Mrs. Lombard, who continued to knit impassively. + +"No, no," said his host, "my wife will not come with us. You +might not suspect it from her conversation, but my wife has no +feeling for art--Italian art, that is; for no one is fonder of +our early Victorian school." + +"Frith's Railway Station, you know," said Mrs. Lombard, smiling. +"I like an animated picture." + +Miss Lombard, who had unlocked the door, held back the tapestry +to let her father and Wyant pass out; then she followed them down +a narrow stone passage with another door at its end. This door +was iron-barred, and Wyant noticed that it had a complicated +patent lock. The girl fitted another key into the lock, and +Doctor Lombard led the way into a small room. The dark panelling +of this apartment was irradiated by streams of yellow light +slanting through the disbanded thunder clouds, and in the central +brightness hung a picture concealed by a curtain of faded velvet. + +"A little too bright, Sybilla," said Doctor Lombard. His face +had grown solemn, and his mouth twitched nervously as his +daughter drew a linen drapery across the upper part of the +window. + +"That will do--that will do." He turned impressively to Wyant. +"Do you see the pomegranate bud in this rug? Place yourself +there--keep your left foot on it, please. And now, Sybilla, draw +the cord." + +Miss Lombard advanced and placed her hand on a cord hidden behind +the velvet curtain. + +"Ah," said the doctor, "one moment: I should like you, while +looking at the picture, to have in mind a few lines of verse. +Sybilla--" + +Without the slightest change of countenance, and with a +promptness which proved her to be prepared for the request, Miss +Lombard began to recite, in a full round voice like her mother's, +St. Bernard's invocation to the Virgin, in the thirty-third canto +of the Paradise. + +"Thank you, my dear," said her father, drawing a deep breath as +she ended. "That unapproachable combination of vowel sounds +prepares one better than anything I know for the contemplation of +the picture." + +As he spoke the folds of velvet slowly parted, and the Leonardo +appeared in its frame of tarnished gold: + +From the nature of Miss Lombard's recitation Wyant had expected a +sacred subject, and his surprise was therefore great as the +composition was gradually revealed by the widening division of +the curtain. + +In the background a steel-colored river wound through a pale +calcareous landscape; while to the left, on a lonely peak, a +crucified Christ hung livid against indigo clouds. The central +figure of the foreground, however, was that of a woman seated in +an antique chair of marble with bas-reliefs of dancing maenads. +Her feet rested on a meadow sprinkled with minute wild-flowers, +and her attitude of smiling majesty recalled that of Dosso +Dossi's Circe. She wore a red robe, flowing in closely fluted +lines from under a fancifully embroidered cloak. Above her high +forehead the crinkled golden hair flowed sideways beneath a veil; +one hand drooped on the arm of her chair; the other held up an +inverted human skull, into which a young Dionysus, smooth, brown +and sidelong as the St. John of the Louvre, poured a stream of +wine from a high-poised flagon. At the lady's feet lay the +symbols of art and luxury: a flute and a roll of music, a platter +heaped with grapes and roses, the torso of a Greek statuette, and +a bowl overflowing with coins and jewels; behind her, on the +chalky hilltop, hung the crucified Christ. A scroll in a corner +of the foreground bore the legend: Lux Mundi. + +Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned +inquiringly toward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss +Lombard stood with her hand on the cord, her lids lowered, her +mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange Thoth-like profile turned +toward his guest, was still lost in rapt contemplation of his +treasure. + +Wyant addressed the young girl. + +"You are fortunate," he said, "to be the possessor of anything so +perfect." + +"It is considered very beautiful," she said coldly. + +"Beautiful--BEAUTIFUL!" the doctor burst out. "Ah, the poor, +worn out, over-worked word! There are no adjectives in the +language fresh enough to describe such pristine brilliancy; all +their brightness has been worn off by misuse. Think of the +things that have been called beautiful, and then look at THAT!" + +"It is worthy of a new vocabulary," Wyant agreed. + +"Yes," Doctor Lombard continued, "my daughter is indeed +fortunate. She has chosen what Catholics call the higher life-- +the counsel of perfection. What other private person enjoys the +same opportunity of understanding the master? Who else lives +under the same roof with an untouched masterpiece of Leonardo's? +Think of the happiness of being always under the influence of +such a creation; of living INTO it; of partaking of it in daily +and hourly communion! This room is a chapel; the sight of that +picture is a sacrament. What an atmosphere for a young life to +unfold itself in! My daughter is singularly blessed. Sybilla, +point out some of the details to Mr. Wyant; I see that he will +appreciate them." + +The girl turned her dense blue eyes toward Wyant; then, glancing +away from him, she pointed to the canvas. + +"Notice the modeling of the left hand," she began in a monotonous +voice; "it recalls the hand of the Mona Lisa. The head of the +naked genius will remind you of that of the St. John of the +Louvre, but it is more purely pagan and is turned a little less +to the right. The embroidery on the cloak is symbolic: you will +see that the roots of this plant have burst through the vase. +This recalls the famous definition of Hamlet's character in +Wilhelm Meister. Here are the mystic rose, the flame, and the +serpent, emblem of eternity. Some of the other symbols we have +not yet been able to decipher." + +Wyant watched her curiously; she seemed to be reciting a lesson. + +"And the picture itself?" he said. "How do you explain that? +Lux Mundi--what a curious device to connect with such a subject! +What can it mean?" + +Miss Lombard dropped her eyes: the answer was evidently not +included in her lesson. + +"What, indeed?" the doctor interposed. "What does life mean? As +one may define it in a hundred different ways, so one may find a +hundred different meanings in this picture. Its symbolism is as +many-faceted as a well-cut diamond. Who, for instance, is that +divine lady? Is it she who is the true Lux Mundi--the light +reflected from jewels and young eyes, from polished marble and +clear waters and statues of bronze? Or is that the Light of the +World, extinguished on yonder stormy hill, and is this lady the +Pride of Life, feasting blindly on the wine of iniquity, with her +back turned to the light which has shone for her in vain? +Something of both these meanings may be traced in the picture; +but to me it symbolizes rather the central truth of existence: +that all that is raised in incorruption is sown in corruption; +art, beauty, love, religion; that all our wine is drunk out of +skulls, and poured for us by the mysterious genius of a remote +and cruel past." + +The doctor's face blazed: his bent figure seemed to straighten +itself and become taller. + +"Ah," he cried, growing more dithyrambic, "how lightly you ask +what it means! How confidently you expect an answer! Yet here +am I who have given my life to the study of the Renaissance; who +have violated its tomb, laid open its dead body, and traced the +course of every muscle, bone, and artery; who have sucked its +very soul from the pages of poets and humanists; who have wept +and believed with Joachim of Flora, smiled and doubted with +AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini; who have patiently followed to its +source the least inspiration of the masters, and groped in +neolithic caverns and Babylonian ruins for the first unfolding +tendrils of the arabesques of Mantegna and Crivelli; and I tell +you that I stand abashed and ignorant before the mystery of this +picture. It means nothing--it means all things. It may +represent the period which saw its creation; it may represent all +ages past and to come. There are volumes of meaning in the +tiniest emblem on the lady's cloak; the blossoms of its border +are rooted in the deepest soil of myth and tradition. Don't ask +what it means, young man, but bow your head in thankfulness for +having seen it!" + +Miss Lombard laid her hand on his arm. + +"Don't excite yourself, father," she said in the detached tone of +a professional nurse. + +He answered with a despairing gesture. "Ah, it's easy for you to +talk. You have years and years to spend with it; I am an old +man, and every moment counts!" + +"It's bad for you," she repeated with gentle obstinacy. + +The doctor's sacred fury had in fact burnt itself out. He +dropped into a seat with dull eyes and slackening lips, and his +daughter drew the curtain across the picture. + +Wyant turned away reluctantly. He felt that his opportunity was +slipping from him, yet he dared not refer to Clyde's wish for a +photograph. He now understood the meaning of the laugh with +which Doctor Lombard had given him leave to carry away all the +details he could remember. The picture was so dazzling, so +unexpected, so crossed with elusive and contradictory +suggestions, that the most alert observer, when placed suddenly +before it, must lose his coordinating faculty in a sense of +confused wonder. Yet how valuable to Clyde the record of such a +work would be! In some ways it seemed to be the summing up of +the master's thought, the key to his enigmatic philosophy. + +The doctor had risen and was walking slowly toward the door. His +daughter unlocked it, and Wyant followed them back in silence to +the room in which they had left Mrs. Lombard. That lady was no +longer there, and he could think of no excuse for lingering. + +He thanked the doctor, and turned to Miss Lombard, who stood in +the middle of the room as though awaiting farther orders. + +"It is very good of you," he said, "to allow one even a glimpse +of such a treasure." + +She looked at him with her odd directness. "You will come +again?" she said quickly; and turning to her father she added: +"You know what Professor Clyde asked. This gentleman cannot give +him any account of the picture without seeing it again." + +Doctor Lombard glanced at her vaguely; he was still like a person +in a trance. + +"Eh?" he said, rousing himself with an effort. + +"I said, father, that Mr. Wyant must see the picture again if he +is to tell Professor Clyde about it," Miss Lombard repeated with +extraordinary precision of tone. + +Wyant was silent. He had the puzzled sense that his wishes were +being divined and gratified for reasons with which he was in no +way connected. + +"Well, well," the doctor muttered, "I don't say no--I don't say +no. I know what Clyde wants--I don't refuse to help him." He +turned to Wyant. "You may come again--you may make notes," he +added with a sudden effort. "Jot down what occurs to you. I'm +willing to concede that." + +Wyant again caught the girl's eye, but its emphatic message +perplexed him. + +"You're very good," he said tentatively, "but the fact is the +picture is so mysterious--so full of complicated detail--that I'm +afraid no notes I could make would serve Clyde's purpose as well +as--as a photograph, say. If you would allow me--" + +Miss Lombard's brow darkened, and her father raised his head +furiously. + +"A photograph? A photograph, did you say? Good God, man, not +ten people have been allowed to set foot in that room! A +PHOTOGRAPH?" + +Wyant saw his mistake, but saw also that he had gone too far to +retreat. + +"I know, sir, from what Clyde has told me, that you object to +having any reproduction of the picture published; but he hoped +you might let me take a photograph for his personal use--not to +be reproduced in his book, but simply to give him something to +work by. I should take the photograph myself, and the negative +would of course be yours. If you wished it, only one impression +would be struck off, and that one Clyde could return to you when +he had done with it." + +Doctor Lombard interrupted him with a snarl. "When he had done +with it? Just so: I thank thee for that word! When it had been +re-photographed, drawn, traced, autotyped, passed about from hand +to hand, defiled by every ignorant eye in England, vulgarized by +the blundering praise of every art-scribbler in Europe! Bah! +I'd as soon give you the picture itself: why don't you ask for +that?" + +"Well, sir," said Wyant calmly, "if you will trust me with it, +I'll engage to take it safely to England and back, and to let no +eye but Clyde's see it while it is out of your keeping." + +The doctor received this remarkable proposal in silence; then he +burst into a laugh. + +"Upon my soul!" he said with sardonic good humor. + +It was Miss Lombard's turn to look perplexedly at Wyant. His +last words and her father's unexpected reply had evidently +carried her beyond her depth. + +"Well, sir, am I to take the picture?" Wyant smilingly pursued. + +"No, young man; nor a photograph of it. Nor a sketch, either; +mind that,--nothing that can be reproduced. Sybilla," he cried +with sudden passion, "swear to me that the picture shall never be +reproduced! No photograph, no sketch--now or afterward. Do you +hear me?" + +"Yes, father," said the girl quietly. + +"The vandals," he muttered, "the desecrators of beauty; if I +thought it would ever get into their hands I'd burn it first, by +God!" He turned to Wyant, speaking more quietly. "I said you +might come back--I never retract what I say. But you must give +me your word that no one but Clyde shall see the notes you make." + +Wyant was growing warm. + +"If you won't trust me with a photograph I wonder you trust me +not to show my notes!" he exclaimed. + +The doctor looked at him with a malicious smile. + +"Humph!" he said; "would they be of much use to anybody?" + +Wyant saw that he was losing ground and controlled his +impatience. + +"To Clyde, I hope, at any rate," he answered, holding out his +hand. The doctor shook it without a trace of resentment, and +Wyant added: "When shall I come, sir?" + +"To-morrow--to-morrow morning," cried Miss Lombard, speaking +suddenly. + +She looked fixedly at her father, and he shrugged his shoulders. + +"The picture is hers," he said to Wyant. + +In the ante-chamber the young man was met by the woman who had +admitted him. She handed him his hat and stick, and turned to +unbar the door. As the bolt slipped back he felt a touch on his +arm. + +"You have a letter?" she said in a low tone. + +"A letter?" He stared. "What letter?" + +She shrugged her shoulders, and drew back to let him pass. + + + +II + + +As Wyant emerged from the house he paused once more to glance up +at its scarred brick facade. The marble hand drooped tragically +above the entrance: in the waning light it seemed to have relaxed +into the passiveness of despair, and Wyant stood musing on its +hidden meaning. But the Dead Hand was not the only mysterious +thing about Doctor Lombard's house. What were the relations +between Miss Lombard and her father? Above all, between Miss +Lombard and her picture? She did not look like a person capable +of a disinterested passion for the arts; and there had been +moments when it struck Wyant that she hated the picture. + +The sky at the end of the street was flooded with turbulent +yellow light, and the young man turned his steps toward the +church of San Domenico, in the hope of catching the lingering +brightness on Sodoma's St. Catherine. + +The great bare aisles were almost dark when he entered, and he +had to grope his way to the chapel steps. Under the momentary +evocation of the sunset, the saint's figure emerged pale and +swooning from the dusk, and the warm light gave a sensual tinge +to her ecstasy. The flesh seemed to glow and heave, the eyelids +to tremble; Wyant stood fascinated by the accidental +collaboration of light and color. + +Suddenly he noticed that something white had fluttered to the +ground at his feet. He stooped and picked up a small thin sheet +of note-paper, folded and sealed like an old-fashioned letter, +and bearing the superscription:-- + + +To the Count Ottaviano Celsi. + + +Wyant stared at this mysterious document. Where had it come +from? He was distinctly conscious of having seen it fall through +the air, close to his feet. He glanced up at the dark ceiling of +the chapel; then he turned and looked about the church. There +was only one figure in it, that of a man who knelt near the high +altar. + +Suddenly Wyant recalled the question of Doctor Lombard's maid- +servant. Was this the letter she had asked for? Had he been +unconsciously carrying it about with him all the afternoon? Who +was Count Ottaviano Celsi, and how came Wyant to have been chosen +to act as that nobleman's ambulant letter-box? + +Wyant laid his hat and stick on the chapel steps and began to +explore his pockets, in the irrational hope of finding there some +clue to the mystery; but they held nothing which he had not +himself put there, and he was reduced to wondering how the +letter, supposing some unknown hand to have bestowed it on him, +had happened to fall out while he stood motionless before the +picture. + +At this point he was disturbed by a step on the floor of the +aisle, and turning, he saw his lustrous-eyed neighbor of the +table d'hote. + +The young man bowed and waved an apologetic hand. + +"I do not intrude?" he inquired suavely. + +Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the steps of the chapel, +glancing about him with the affable air of an afternoon caller. + +"I see," he remarked with a smile, "that you know the hour at +which our saint should be visited." + +Wyant agreed that the hour was indeed felicitous. + +The stranger stood beamingly before the picture. + +"What grace! What poetry!" he murmured, apostrophizing the St. +Catherine, but letting his glance slip rapidly about the chapel +as he spoke. + +Wyant, detecting the manoeuvre, murmured a brief assent. + +"But it is cold here--mortally cold; you do not find it so?" The +intruder put on his hat. "It is permitted at this hour--when the +church is empty. And you, my dear sir--do you not feel the +dampness? You are an artist, are you not? And to artists it is +permitted to cover the head when they are engaged in the study of +the paintings." + +He darted suddenly toward the steps and bent over Wyant's hat. + +"Permit me--cover yourself!" he said a moment later, holding out +the hat with an ingratiating gesture. + +A light flashed on Wyant. + +"Perhaps," he said, looking straight at the young man, "you will +tell me your name. My own is Wyant." + +The stranger, surprised, but not disconcerted, drew forth a +coroneted card, which he offered with a low bow. On the card was +engraved:-- + + +Il Conte Ottaviano Celsi. + + +"I am much obliged to you," said Wyant; "and I may as well tell +you that the letter which you apparently expected to find in the +lining of my hat is not there, but in my pocket." + +He drew it out and handed it to its owner, who had grown very +pale. + +"And now," Wyant continued, "you will perhaps be good enough to +tell me what all this means." + +There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by +this request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an +ineffectual smile. + +"I suppose you know," Wyant went on, his anger rising at the +sight of the other's discomfiture, "that you have taken an +unwarrantable liberty. I don't yet understand what part I have +been made to play, but it's evident that you have made use of me +to serve some purpose of your own, and I propose to know the +reason why." + +Count Ottaviano advanced with an imploring gesture. + +"Sir," he pleaded, "you permit me to speak?" + +"I expect you to," cried Wyant. "But not here," he added, +hearing the clank of the verger's keys. "It is growing dark, and +we shall be turned out in a few minutes." + +He walked across the church, and Count Ottaviano followed him out +into the deserted square. + +"Now," said Wyant, pausing on the steps. + +The Count, who had regained some measure of self-possession, +began to speak in a high key, with an accompaniment of +conciliatory gesture. + +"My dear sir--my dear Mr. Wyant--you find me in an abominable +position--that, as a man of honor, I immediately confess. I have +taken advantage of you--yes! I have counted on your amiability, +your chivalry--too far, perhaps? I confess it! But what could I +do? It was to oblige a lady"--he laid a hand on his heart--"a +lady whom I would die to serve!" He went on with increasing +volubility, his deliberate English swept away by a torrent of +Italian, through which Wyant, with some difficulty, struggled to +a comprehension of the case. + +Count Ottaviano, according to his own statement, had come to +Siena some months previously, on business connected with his +mother's property; the paternal estate being near Orvieto, of +which ancient city his father was syndic. Soon after his arrival +in Siena the young Count had met the incomparable daughter of +Doctor Lombard, and falling deeply in love with her, had +prevailed on his parents to ask her hand in marriage. Doctor +Lombard had not opposed his suit, but when the question of +settlements arose it became known that Miss Lombard, who was +possessed of a small property in her own right, had a short time +before invested the whole amount in the purchase of the Bergamo +Leonardo. Thereupon Count Ottaviano's parents had politely +suggested that she should sell the picture and thus recover her +independence; and this proposal being met by a curt refusal from +Doctor Lombard, they had withdrawn their consent to their son's +marriage. The young lady's attitude had hitherto been one of +passive submission; she was horribly afraid of her father, and +would never venture openly to oppose him; but she had made known +to Ottaviano her intention of not giving him up, of waiting +patiently till events should take a more favorable turn. She +seemed hardly aware, the Count said with a sigh, that the means +of escape lay in her own hands; that she was of age, and had a +right to sell the picture, and to marry without asking her +father's consent. Meanwhile her suitor spared no pains to keep +himself before her, to remind her that he, too, was waiting and +would never give her up. + +Doctor Lombard, who suspected the young man of trying to persuade +Sybilla to sell the picture, had forbidden the lovers to meet or +to correspond; they were thus driven to clandestine +communication, and had several times, the Count ingenuously +avowed, made use of the doctor's visitors as a means of +exchanging letters. + +"And you told the visitors to ring twice?" Wyant interposed. + +The young man extended his hands in a deprecating gesture. Could +Mr. Wyant blame him? He was young, he was ardent, he was +enamored! The young lady had done him the supreme honor of +avowing her attachment, of pledging her unalterable fidelity; +should he suffer his devotion to be outdone? But his purpose in +writing to her, he admitted, was not merely to reiterate his +fidelity; he was trying by every means in his power to induce her +to sell the picture. He had organized a plan of action; every +detail was complete; if she would but have the courage to carry +out his instructions he would answer for the result. His idea +was that she should secretly retire to a convent of which his +aunt was the Mother Superior, and from that stronghold should +transact the sale of the Leonardo. He had a purchaser ready, who +was willing to pay a large sum; a sum, Count Ottaviano whispered, +considerably in excess of the young lady's original inheritance; +once the picture sold, it could, if necessary, be removed by +force from Doctor Lombard's house, and his daughter, being safely +in the convent, would be spared the painful scenes incidental to +the removal. Finally, if Doctor Lombard were vindictive enough +to refuse his consent to her marriage, she had only to make a +sommation respectueuse, and at the end of the prescribed delay no +power on earth could prevent her becoming the wife of Count +Ottaviano. + +Wyant's anger had fallen at the recital of this simple romance. +It was absurd to be angry with a young man who confided his +secrets to the first stranger he met in the streets, and placed +his hand on his heart whenever he mentioned the name of his +betrothed. The easiest way out of the business was to take it as +a joke. Wyant had played the wall to this new Pyramus and +Thisbe, and was philosophic enough to laugh at the part he had +unwittingly performed. + +He held out his hand with a smile to Count Ottaviano. + +"I won't deprive you any longer," he said, "of the pleasure of +reading your letter." + +"Oh, sir, a thousand thanks! And when you return to the casa +Lombard, you will take a message from me--the letter she expected +this afternoon?" + +"The letter she expected?" Wyant paused. "No, thank you. I +thought you understood that where I come from we don't do that +kind of thing--knowingly." + +"But, sir, to serve a young lady!" + +"I'm sorry for the young lady, if what you tell me is true"--the +Count's expressive hands resented the doubt--"but remember that +if I am under obligations to any one in this matter, it is to her +father, who has admitted me to his house and has allowed me to +see his picture." + +"HIS picture? Hers!" + +"Well, the house is his, at all events." + +"Unhappily--since to her it is a dungeon!" + +"Why doesn't she leave it, then?" exclaimed Wyant impatiently. + +The Count clasped his hands. "Ah, how you say that--with what +force, with what virility! If you would but say it to HER in +that tone--you, her countryman! She has no one to advise her; +the mother is an idiot; the father is terrible; she is in his +power; it is my belief that he would kill her if she resisted +him. Mr. Wyant, I tremble for her life while she remains in that +house!" + +"Oh, come," said Wyant lightly, "they seem to understand each +other well enough. But in any case, you must see that I can't +interfere--at least you would if you were an Englishman," he +added with an escape of contempt. + + + +III + + +Wyant's affiliations in Siena being restricted to an acquaintance +with his land-lady, he was forced to apply to her for the +verification of Count Ottaviano's story. + +The young nobleman had, it appeared, given a perfectly correct +account of his situation. His father, Count Celsi-Mongirone, was +a man of distinguished family and some wealth. He was syndic of +Orvieto, and lived either in that town or on his neighboring +estate of Mongirone. His wife owned a large property near Siena, +and Count Ottaviano, who was the second son, came there from time +to time to look into its management. The eldest son was in the +army, the youngest in the Church; and an aunt of Count +Ottaviano's was Mother Superior of the Visitandine convent in +Siena. At one time it had been said that Count Ottaviano, who +was a most amiable and accomplished young man, was to marry the +daughter of the strange Englishman, Doctor Lombard, but +difficulties having arisen as to the adjustment of the young +lady's dower, Count Celsi-Mongirone had very properly broken off +the match. It was sad for the young man, however, who was said +to be deeply in love, and to find frequent excuses for coming to +Siena to inspect his mother's estate. + +Viewed in the light of Count Ottaviano's personality the story +had a tinge of opera bouffe; but the next morning, as Wyant +mounted the stairs of the House of the Dead Hand, the situation +insensibly assumed another aspect. It was impossible to take +Doctor Lombard lightly; and there was a suggestion of fatality in +the appearance of his gaunt dwelling. Who could tell amid what +tragic records of domestic tyranny and fluttering broken purposes +the little drama of Miss Lombard's fate was being played out? +Might not the accumulated influences of such a house modify the +lives within it in a manner unguessed by the inmates of a +suburban villa with sanitary plumbing and a telephone? + +One person, at least, remained unperturbed by such fanciful +problems; and that was Mrs. Lombard, who, at Wyant's entrance, +raised a placidly wrinkled brow from her knitting. The morning +was mild, and her chair had been wheeled into a bar of sunshine +near the window, so that she made a cheerful spot of prose in the +poetic gloom of her surroundings. + +"What a nice morning!" she said; "it must be delightful weather +at Bonchurch." + +Her dull blue glance wandered across the narrow street with its +threatening house fronts, and fluttered back baffled, like a bird +with clipped wings. It was evident, poor lady, that she had +never seen beyond the opposite houses. + +Wyant was not sorry to find her alone. Seeing that she was +surprised at his reappearance he said at once: "I have come back +to study Miss Lombard's picture." + +"Oh, the picture--" Mrs. Lombard's face expressed a gentle +disappointment, which might have been boredom in a person of +acuter sensibilities. "It's an original Leonardo, you know," she +said mechanically. + +"And Miss Lombard is very proud of it, I suppose? She seems to +have inherited her father's love for art." + +Mrs. Lombard counted her stitches, and he went on: "It's unusual +in so young a girl. Such tastes generally develop later." + +Mrs. Lombard looked up eagerly. "That's what I say! I was quite +different at her age, you know. I liked dancing, and doing a +pretty bit of fancy-work. Not that I couldn't sketch, too; I had +a master down from London. My aunts have some of my crayons hung +up in their drawing-room now--I did a view of Kenilworth which +was thought pleasing. But I liked a picnic, too, or a pretty +walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I say +it's more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and +do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything +else. I was taught that there were other things." + +Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, +could not resist another question. "And Miss Lombard cares for +nothing else?" + +Her mother looked troubled. + +"Sybilla is so clever--she says I don't understand. You know how +self-confident young people are! My husband never said that of +me, now--he knows I had an excellent education. My aunts were +very particular; I was brought up to have opinions, and my +husband has always respected them. He says himself that he +wouldn't for the world miss hearing my opinion on any subject; +you may have noticed that he often refers to my tastes. He has +always respected my preference for living in England; he likes to +hear me give my reasons for it. He is so much interested in my +ideas that he often says he knows just what I am going to say +before I speak. But Sybilla does not care for what I think--" + +At this point Doctor Lombard entered. He glanced sharply at +Wyant. "The servant is a fool; she didn't tell me you were +here." His eye turned to his wife. "Well, my dear, what have +you been telling Mr. Wyant? About the aunts at Bonchurch, I'll +be bound!" + +Mrs. Lombard looked triumphantly at Wyant, and her husband rubbed +his hooked fingers, with a smile. + +"Mrs. Lombard's aunts are very superior women. They subscribe to +the circulating library, and borrow Good Words and the Monthly +Packet from the curate's wife across the way. They have the +rector to tea twice a year, and keep a page-boy, and are visited +by two baronets' wives. They devoted themselves to the education +of their orphan niece, and I think I may say without boasting +that Mrs. Lombard's conversation shows marked traces of the +advantages she enjoyed." + +Mrs. Lombard colored with pleasure. + +"I was telling Mr. Wyant that my aunts were very particular." + +"Quite so, my dear; and did you mention that they never sleep in +anything but linen, and that Miss Sophia puts away the furs and +blankets every spring with her own hands? Both those facts are +interesting to the student of human nature." Doctor Lombard +glanced at his watch. "But we are missing an incomparable +moment; the light is perfect at this hour." + +Wyant rose, and the doctor led him through the tapestried door +and down the passageway. + +The light was, in fact, perfect, and the picture shone with an +inner radiancy, as though a lamp burned behind the soft screen of +the lady's flesh. Every detail of the foreground detached itself +with jewel-like precision. Wyant noticed a dozen accessories +which had escaped him on the previous day. + +He drew out his note-book, and the doctor, who had dropped his +sardonic grin for a look of devout contemplation, pushed a chair +forward, and seated himself on a carved settle against the wall. + +"Now, then," he said, "tell Clyde what you can; but the letter +killeth." + +He sank down, his hands hanging on the arm of the settle like the +claws of a dead bird, his eyes fixed on Wyant's notebook with the +obvious intention of detecting any attempt at a surreptitious +sketch. + +Wyant, nettled at this surveillance, and disturbed by the +speculations which Doctor Lombard's strange household excited, +sat motionless for a few minutes, staring first at the picture +and then at the blank pages of the note-book. The thought that +Doctor Lombard was enjoying his discomfiture at length roused +him, and he began to write. + +He was interrupted by a knock on the iron door. Doctor Lombard +rose to unlock it, and his daughter entered. + +She bowed hurriedly to Wyant, without looking at him. + +"Father, had you forgotten that the man from Monte Amiato was to +come back this morning with an answer about the bas-relief? He +is here now; he says he can't wait." + +"The devil!" cried her father impatiently. "Didn't you tell him--" + +"Yes; but he says he can't come back. If you want to see him you +must come now." + +"Then you think there's a chance?--" + +She nodded. + +He turned and looked at Wyant, who was writing assiduously. + +"You will stay here, Sybilla; I shall be back in a moment." + +He hurried out, locking the door behind him. + +Wyant had looked up, wondering if Miss Lombard would show any +surprise at being locked in with him; but it was his turn to be +surprised, for hardly had they heard the key withdrawn when she +moved close to him, her small face pale and tumultuous. + +"I arranged it--I must speak to you," she gasped. "He'll be back +in five minutes." + +Her courage seemed to fail, and she looked at him helplessly. + +Wyant had a sense of stepping among explosives. He glanced about +him at the dusky vaulted room, at the haunting smile of the +strange picture overhead, and at the pink-and-white girl +whispering of conspiracies in a voice meant to exchange +platitudes with a curate. + +"How can I help you?" he said with a rush of compassion. + +"Oh, if you would! I never have a chance to speak to any one; +it's so difficult--he watches me--he'll be back immediately." + +"Try to tell me what I can do." + +"I don't dare; I feel as if he were behind me." She turned away, +fixing her eyes on the picture. A sound startled her. "There he +comes, and I haven't spoken! It was my only chance; but it +bewilders me so to be hurried." + +"I don't hear any one," said Wyant, listening. "Try to tell me." + +"How can I make you understand? It would take so long to +explain." She drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge--"Will +you come here again this afternoon--at about five?" she +whispered. + +"Come here again?" + +"Yes--you can ask to see the picture,--make some excuse. He will +come with you, of course; I will open the door for you--and--and +lock you both in"--she gasped. + +"Lock us in?" + +"You see? You understand? It's the only way for me to leave the +house--if I am ever to do it"-- She drew another difficult +breath. "The key will be returned--by a safe person--in half an +hour,--perhaps sooner--" + +She trembled so much that she was obliged to lean against the +settle for support. + +"Wyant looked at her steadily; he was very sorry for her. + +"I can't, Miss Lombard," he said at length. + +"You can't?" + +"I'm sorry; I must seem cruel; but consider--" + +He was stopped by the futility of the word: as well ask a hunted +rabbit to pause in its dash for a hole! + +Wyant took her hand; it was cold and nerveless. + +"I will serve you in any way I can; but you must see that this +way is impossible. Can't I talk to you again? Perhaps--" + +"Oh," she cried, starting up, "there he comes!" + +Doctor Lombard's step sounded in the passage. + +Wyant held her fast. "Tell me one thing: he won't let you sell +the picture?" + +"No--hush!" + +"Make no pledges for the future, then; promise me that." + +"The future?" + +"In case he should die: your father is an old man. You haven't +promised?" + +She shook her head. + +"Don't, then; remember that." + +She made no answer, and the key turned in the lock. + +As he passed out of the house, its scowling cornice and facade of +ravaged brick looked down on him with the startlingness of a +strange face, seen momentarily in a crowd, and impressing itself +on the brain as part of an inevitable future. Above the doorway, +the marble hand reached out like the cry of an imprisoned +anguish. + +Wyant turned away impatiently. + +"Rubbish!" he said to himself. "SHE isn't walled in; she can get +out if she wants to." + + + +IV + + +Wyant had any number of plans for coming to Miss Lombard's aid: +he was elaborating the twentieth when, on the same afternoon, he +stepped into the express train for Florence. By the time the +train reached Certaldo he was convinced that, in thus hastening +his departure, he had followed the only reasonable course; at +Empoli, he began to reflect that the priest and the Levite had +probably justified themselves in much the same manner. + +A month later, after his return to England, he was unexpectedly +relieved from these alternatives of extenuation and approval. A +paragraph in the morning paper announced the sudden death of +Doctor Lombard, the distinguished English dilettante who had long +resided in Siena. Wyant's justification was complete. Our +blindest impulses become evidence of perspicacity when they fall +in with the course of events. + +Wyant could now comfortably speculate on the particular +complications from which his foresight had probably saved him. +The climax was unexpectedly dramatic. Miss Lombard, on the brink +of a step which, whatever its issue, would have burdened her with +retrospective compunction, had been set free before her suitor's +ardor could have had time to cool, and was now doubtless planning +a life of domestic felicity on the proceeds of the Leonardo. One +thing, however, struck Wyant as odd--he saw no mention of the +sale of the picture. He had scanned the papers for an immediate +announcement of its transfer to one of the great museums; but +presently concluding that Miss Lombard, out of filial piety, had +wished to avoid an appearance of unseemly haste in the disposal +of her treasure, he dismissed the matter from his mind. Other +affairs happened to engage him; the months slipped by, and +gradually the lady and the picture dwelt less vividly in his +mind. + +It was not till five or six years later, when chance took him +again to Siena, that the recollection started from some inner +fold of memory. He found himself, as it happened, at the head of +Doctor Lombard's street, and glancing down that grim +thoroughfare, caught an oblique glimpse of the doctor's house +front, with the Dead Hand projecting above its threshold. +The sight revived his interest, and that evening, over an +admirable frittata, he questioned his landlady about Miss +Lombard's marriage. + +"The daughter of the English doctor? But she has never married, +signore." + +"Never married? What, then, became of Count Ottaviano?" + +"For a long time he waited; but last year he married a noble lady +of the Maremma." + +"But what happened--why was the marriage broken?" + +The landlady enacted a pantomime of baffled interrogation. + +"And Miss Lombard still lives in her father's house?" + +"Yes, signore; she is still there." + +"And the Leonardo--" + +"The Leonardo, also, is still there." + +The next day, as Wyant entered the House of the Dead Hand, he +remembered Count Ottaviano's injunction to ring twice, and smiled +mournfully to think that so much subtlety had been vain. But +what could have prevented the marriage? If Doctor Lombard's +death had been long delayed, time might have acted as a +dissolvent, or the young lady's resolve have failed; but it +seemed impossible that the white heat of ardor in which Wyant had +left the lovers should have cooled in a few short weeks. + +As he ascended the vaulted stairway the atmosphere of the place +seemed a reply to his conjectures. The same numbing air fell on +him, like an emanation from some persistent will-power, a +something fierce and imminent which might reduce to impotence +every impulse within its range. Wyant could almost fancy a hand +on his shoulder, guiding him upward with the ironical intent of +confronting him with the evidence of its work. + +A strange servant opened the door, and he was presently +introduced to the tapestried room, where, from their usual seats +in the window, Mrs. Lombard and her daughter advanced to welcome +him with faint ejaculations of surprise. + +Both had grown oddly old, but in a dry, smooth way, as fruits +might shrivel on a shelf instead of ripening on the tree. Mrs. +Lombard was still knitting, and pausing now and then to warm her +swollen hands above the brazier; and Miss Lombard, in rising, had +laid aside a strip of needle-work which might have been the same +on which Wyant had first seen her engaged. + +Their visitor inquired discreetly how they had fared in the +interval, and learned that they had thought of returning to +England, but had somehow never done so. + +"I am sorry not to see my aunts again," Mrs. Lombard said +resignedly; "but Sybilla thinks it best that we should not go +this year." + +"Next year, perhaps," murmured Miss Lombard, in a voice which +seemed to suggest that they had a great waste of time to fill. + +She had returned to her seat, and sat bending over her work. Her +hair enveloped her head in the same thick braids, but the rose +color of her cheeks had turned to blotches of dull red, like some +pigment which has darkened in drying. + +"And Professor Clyde--is he well?" Mrs. Lombard asked affably; +continuing, as her daughter raised a startled eye: "Surely, +Sybilla, Mr. Wyant was the gentleman who was sent by Professor +Clyde to see the Leonardo?" + +Miss Lombard was silent, but Wyant hastened to assure the elder +lady of his friend's well-being. + +"Ah--perhaps, then, he will come back some day to Siena," she +said, sighing. Wyant declared that it was more than likely; and +there ensued a pause, which he presently broke by saying to Miss +Lombard: "And you still have the picture?" + +She raised her eyes and looked at him. "Should you like to see +it?" she asked. + +On his assenting, she rose, and extracting the same key from the +same secret drawer, unlocked the door beneath the tapestry. They +walked down the passage in silence, and she stood aside with a +grave gesture, making Wyant pass before her into the room. Then +she crossed over and drew the curtain back from the picture. + +The light of the early afternoon poured full on it: its surface +appeared to ripple and heave with a fluid splendor. The colors +had lost none of their warmth, the outlines none of their pure +precision; it seemed to Wyant like some magical flower which had +burst suddenly from the mould of darkness and oblivion. + +He turned to Miss Lombard with a movement of comprehension. + +"Ah, I understand--you couldn't part with it, after all!" he cried. + +"No--I couldn't part with it," she answered. + +"It's too beautiful,--too beautiful,"--he assented. + +"Too beautiful?" She turned on him with a curious stare. "I +have never thought it beautiful, you know." + +He gave back the stare. "You have never--" + +She shook her head. "It's not that. I hate it; I've always +hated it. But he wouldn't let me--he will never let me now." + +Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look +surprised him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in +her innocuous eye. Was it possible that she was laboring under +some delusion? Or did the pronoun not refer to her father? + +"You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the +picture?" + +"No--he prevented me; he will always prevent me." + +There was another pause. "You promised him, then, before his +death--" + +"No; I promised nothing. He died too suddenly to make me." Her +voice sank to a whisper. "I was free--perfectly free--or I +thought I was till I tried." + +"Till you tried?" + +"To disobey him--to sell the picture. Then I found it was +impossible. I tried again and again; but he was always in the +room with me." + +She glanced over her shoulder as though she had heard a step; and +to Wyant, too, for a moment, the room seemed full of a third +presence. + +"And you can't"--he faltered, unconsciously dropping his voice to +the pitch of hers. + +She shook her head, gazing at him mystically. "I can't lock him +out; I can never lock him out now. I told you I should never +have another chance." + +Wyant felt the chill of her words like a cold breath in his hair. + +"Oh"--he groaned; but she cut him off with a grave gesture. + +"It is too late," she said; "but you ought to have helped me that day." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton + + diff --git a/old/whrt110.zip b/old/whrt110.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..af76fa3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/whrt110.zip |