A strange story

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NOYELS

SIK EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

Ei^rars l^tiition

EOMANCES
VOL. VI.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

A STRANGE STORY

LORD I.YTTON

LIBRARY EDITION — IN TWO A'OLUMES

VOL. I.

0

^"/ *

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WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDOCCLXVI

PR

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■■ To diinlit and to be astonislied is ti) leouffiiise our ignorance.
Flence it is tliat the lover of wisdom is in a certain sort a lover ot
niythi ((}>iK6ij.v06i ''■<^^)i tor the subject of niythi is the astonishing
and marvellous."— Sir W. Hamilton (after Aristotle), Lectures on
Metaphysics, vol. i. ]). TS.

PREFACE

Of the many illustrious thinkers whom the schools of
France have contributed to the intellectual philosophy
of our age, Victor Cousin, the most accomplished,
assigns to Maine de Biran the rank of the most ori-
ginal.

In the successive developments of his own mind
Maine de Biran may, indeed, be said to represent the
change that has been silently at work throughout the
general mind of Europe since the close of the last cen-
tury. He begins his career of philosopher with blind
faith in Condillac and Materialism. As an intellect
severely conscientious in the pursuit of truth expands
amidst the perplexities it revolves, phenomena which
cannot be accounted for by Condillac' s sensuous theo-
ries open to his eye. To the first rudimentary life of
man — the animal life — " characterised by impressions,
appetites, movements, organic in their origin and ruled

VI PKEFACE.

by the Law of !N'ecessity," * — he is compelled to add
*' the second or human life, from which Free-will and
Self-Consciousness emerge." He thus arrives at the
union of mind and matter; but still a something is
wanted — some key to the marvels which neither of
these conditions of vital being suffices to explain. And
at last the grand self-completing Thinker attains to the
Third Life of Man in Man's Soul.

" There are not," says this philosopher, towards the
close of his last and loftiest work — " There are not
only two principles opposed to each other in Man,
there are three. For there are, in him, three lives and
three orders of faculties. Though all should be in. ac-
cord and in harmony between the sensitive and the
active faculties which constitute Man, there would still
be a nature superior, a third hfe wliich would not be
satisfied ; which would make felt (ferait sentir) the
truth that there is another happiness, another wisdom,
another perfection, at once above the greatest human
happiness, above the liighest wisdom, or intellectual
and moral perfection of which the hmnan being is
susceptible." t

E"ow, as Philosophy and Eomance both take theii
origin in the Principle of Wonder, so in the Strange
Story submitted to the Public, it will be seen that
Eomance, through the freest exercise of its wildest

* ' (Euvres incites de Maine de Biran,' vol. i. See Introduction.
t Ibid., vol. iii. p. 546 (Anthropologic).

PEEFACE. VU

vagaries, conducts its bewildered hero towards the
same goal to which Philosophy leads its lumitious
Student, through far grander portents of Nature, far
higher visions of Supernatural Power, than Pable can
yield to Fancy. That goal is defined in these noble
words : — " The relations {ra2)ports) which exist be-
tween the elements and the products of the three lives
of Man are the subjects of meditation, the fairest and
finest, but also the most difficult. The Stoic Philo-
sophy shows us all which can be most elevated in
active life ; but it makes abstraction of the animal
nature, and absolutely fails to recognise all which be-
longs to the life of the spirit. Its practical moraHty is
beyond the forces of humanity. Christianity alone
embraces the whole Man. It dissimulates none of the
sides of his nature, and avails itself of his miseries and
his weakness in order to conduct him to his end in
showing him all the want that he has of a succour
more exalted."*

In the passages thus quoted, I imply one of the
objects for which this tale has been written ; and I
cite them, with a wish to acknowledge one of those
priceless obligations which writings the Lightest and
most fantastic often incur to reasoners the most serious
and profound.

But I here construct a romance wliich should have,
as a romance, some interest for the general reader. I

* 'CEuvres in€dites de Maine de Biran,' vol. iii. p. 524.

VIU PEEFACE.

do not elaborate a treatise submitted to the logic of
sages. And it is only when "in fairy fiction drest"
that Eomance gives admission to " truths severe,"

I venture to assume that none will question my
privilege to avail myself of the marvellous agencies
which have ever been at the legitimate command of
the fabuhst.

To the highest form of romantic narrative, the Epic,
critics, indeed, have declared that a supernatural ma-
chinery is indispensable. That the Drama has availed
itself of the same licence as the Epic, it would be un-
necessary to say to the countrymen of Shakespeare, or
to the generation that is yet studying the enigmas of
Goethe's 'Faust.' Prose Romance has immemorially
asserted, no less than the Epic or the Drama, its heri-
tage in the Eealm of the Marvellous. The interest
which attaches to the supernatural is sought in the
earliest Prose Eomance which modem times take from
the ancient, and which, perhaps, had its origin in. the
lost ISTovels of Miletus ; * and the right to invoke such
interest has, ever since, been maintained by Eomance
through all varieties of form and fancy — from the ma-
jestic epopee of 'T^l^maque' to the graceful phantasies
of 'Undine,' or the mighty mockeries of 'Gulliver's
Travels,' down to such comparatively commonplace ele-
ments of wonder as yet preserve from oblivion the
' Castle of Otranto ' and the ' Old English Baron.'

* 'The Golden Ass of Apuleius.'

PEEFACE. IX

N'oAV, to my mind, the true reason why a supernatu-
ral agency is indispensable to the conception of the
Epic is, that the Epic is the highest and the completest
form in wliich Art can express either Man or IN'ature,
and that without some gleams of the supernatural, Man.
is not man, nor Nature, natiire.

It is said by a writer to whom an eminent philo-
sophical critic justly applies the epithets of " pious and
profound : " * — " Is it unreasonable to confess that we
believe in God, not by reason of the ligature which con-
ceals Him, but by reason of the Supernatural in Man,
which alone reveals and proves Him to exist 1 . . .
Man reveals God : for Man, by his intelligence, rises
above Nature : and in virtue of this intelligence is
conscious of himself as a power not only independent
of, but opposed to, Nature, and capable of resisting,
conquering, and controlling her." t

If the meaning involved in the argument of which I
have here made but scanty extracts be carefully studied,
I think that we shall find deeper reasons than the
critics who dictated canons of taste to the last century
discovered — why the supernatural is indisjDensable to
the Epic, and why it is allowable to all works of ima-
gination, in which Art looks on Nature with Man's
iuner sense of a something beyond and above her.

But the "Writer who, whether in verse or prose,

* Sir Wm. Hamilton^ ' Lectures on Metaphysics,' vol. i. p. 40.
t Jacobi, ' Von den Gottliclien Dingen ; ' Werke, p. 424-6.

X PEEFACE.

would avail himself of sucli sources of pity or terror as
flow from the Marvellous, can only attain his object in
proportion as the wonders he narrates are of a kind to
excite the curiosity of the age he addresses.

In the hrains of our time, the faculty of Causation-
is, very markedly developed. People nowadays do not
delight in the Marvellous according to the old childlike
spirit. They say in one hreath, "Very extraordinary ! "
and in the next breath ask, " How do you account for
it ?" If the author of this work has presumed to bor-
row from science some elements of interest for Eomance,
he ventures to hope that no thoughtful reader — and
certainly no true son of science — will be disposed to
reproach him. In fact, such illustrations from the
masters of Thought were essential to the completion of
the purpose which pervades the work.

That purpose, I trust, will develop itself in propor-
tion as the story approaches the close ; and whatever
may appear violent or melodramatic in the catastrophe
will perhaps be found, by a reader capable of perceiving
the various symbolical meanings conveyed in the story,
essential to the end in which those meanings converge,
and towards which the incidents that give them the
character and interest of fiction have been planned and
directed from the commencement.

Of course, according to the most obvious principles
of art, the narrator of a fiction must be as thoroughly
in earnest as if he were the narrator of facts. One

PEEFACE, XI

could not tell the most extravagant fairy-tale so as to
rouse and sustain 'the attention of the most infantine
listener, if the tale were told as if the tale-teller did
not believe in it. But when the reader lays down this
Strange Story, perhaps he will detect, through all the
haze of Eomance, the outlines of these images suggested
to his reason : Firstly, the image of sensuous, soulless
Nature, such as the Materialist had conceived it.
Secondly, the image of Intellect, obstinately separating
all its inquiries from the belief in the spiiitual essence
and destiny of man, and incurring all kinds of per-
plexity, and resorting to all kinds of visionary specula-
tion, before it settles at last into the simple faith which
unites the philosopher and the infant. And, Thirdly,
the image of the erring but pure-thoughted visionary,
seeking overmuch on this earth to separate soul from
mind, till innocence itself is led astray by a phantom,
and reason is lost in the space between earth and the
stars. Whether in these pictures there be any truth
worth the implpng, every reader must judge for him-
self; and if he doubt or deny that there be any such
truth, stdl, ia that process of thought which the doubt
or denial enforces, he may chance on a truth which it
pleases himself to discover.

"Most of the Fables of ^sop," — thus says Mon-
taigne in his charming essay, ' Of Books ' * — " have
several senses and meanings, of which the Mythologists

* Translation 1776, vol. ii. p. 103.

XU PREFACE.

choose some one that tallies with the fable. But for
the most part 'tis only what presents itself at the first
view, and is superficial ; there being others more lively,
essential, and internal into which they have not been
able to penetrate; and," adds Montaigne, "the case
is the very same with me."

A STEANGE STOEY.

CHAPTEE I.

In the year 18 — I settled as a physician at one of
the wealthiest of our great English towns, which I

will designate by the initial L . I was yet young,

but I had acquired some reputation by a professional
work, which is, I believe, still amongst the received
authorities on the subject of which it treats. I had
studied at Edinburgh and at Paris, and had borne
away from both those illustrious schools of medicine
whatever guarantees for future distinction the praise
of professors may concede to the ambition of students.
On becoming a member of the College of Physicians,
I made a tour of the principal cities of Europe, taking
letters of introduction to eminent medical men, and
gathering from many theories and modes of treatment,
hints to enlarge the foundations of unprejudiced and
comprehensive practice. I had resolved to fix my

VOL. I. A

2 A STKANGE STOKY.

ultimate residence in London. But before this pre-
paratory tour was completed, my resolve was changed
by one of those unexpected events which determine
the fate man in vain would work out for himself. In
passing through the Tyrol, on my way into the north
of Italy, I found in a small inn, remote from medical
attendance, an English traveller, seized with acute
inflammation of the lungs, and in a state of imminent
danger. I devoted myself to him night and day ; and,
perhaps more through careful nursing than active
remedies, I had the happiness to effect his complete
recovery. The traveller proved to be Julius Faber, a
physician of great distinction, contented to reside,

where he was born, in the provincial city of L ,

but whose reputation as a profound and original patho-
logist was widely spread, and whose writings had formed
no unimportant part of my special studies. It was
during a short holiday excursion, from which he was
about to return with renovated vigour, that he had
been thus stricken down. The patient so accidentally
met with, became the founder of my professional for-
tunes. He conceived a warm attachment for me ;
perhaps the more affectionate because he was a child-
less bachelor, and the nephew who would succeed to
his wealth evinced no desire to succeed to the toils by
which the wealth had been acquired. Thus, having
an heir for the one, he had long looked about for an
heir to the other, and now resolved on finding that
heir in me. So when we parted, Dr Faber made me
promise to correspond with him regularly, and it was

A STKANGE STOEY. 3

not long before lie disclosed by letter the plans be had
formed in my favour. He said that he was growing
old ; his practice was beyond his strength ; he needed
a partner ; he was not disposed to put up to sale the
health of patients whom he had learned to regard as
his children ; money was no object to him, but it was
an object close at his heart that the humanity he had
served, and the reputation he had acquired, should
suffer no loss in his choice of a successor. In fine,

he proposed that I should at once come to L as

his partner, with the view of succeeding to his entire
practice at the end of two years, when it was his
intention to retire.

The opening into fortune thus afforded to me was
one that rarely presents itself to a young man entering
upon an overcrowded profession. And to an aspirant
less allured by the desire of fortune than the hope of
distinction, the fame of the physician who thus gener-
ously offered to me the inestimable benefits of his long
experience and his cordial introduction, was in itself
an assurance that a metropolitan practice is not essen-
tial to a national renown.

I went, then, to L , and before the two years of

my partnership had expired, my success justified my
kind friend's selection, and far more than realised my
own expectations. I was fortunate in effecting some
notable cures in the earliest cases submitted to me,
and it is everything in the career of a physician when
good luck wins betimes for him that confidence which
patients rarely accord except to lengthened experience.

4 A STRANGE STORY.

To the rapid facility with which my way was made,
some circumstances apart from professional skill pro-
bably contributed. I was saved from the suspicion of
a medical adventurer by the accidents of birth and
fortune. I belonged to an ancient family (a branch of
the once powerful border clan of the Fenwicks) that
had for many generations held a fair estate in the
neighbourhood of Windermere. As an only son, I
had succeeded to that estate on attaining my majority,
and had sold it to pay off the debts which had been
made by my father, who had the costly tastes of an
antiquary and collector. The residue on the sale
insured me a modest independence, apart from the pro-
fits of a profession ; and as I had not been legally bound
to defray my father's debts, so I obtained that charac-
ter for disinterestedness and integrity which always in
England tends to propitiate the public to the successes
achieved by industry or talent. Perhaps, too, any
professional ability I might possess was the more
readily conceded, because I had cultivated with assi-
duity the sciences and the scholarship which are col-
laterally connected with the study of medicine. Thus,
in a word, I established a social position which came
in aid of my professional repute, and silenced much of
that envy which usually embitters and sometimes im-
pedes success.

Dv Faber retired at the end of the two years agreed
upon. He went abroad ; and being, though advanced
in years, of a frame still robust, and habits of mind
still inquiring and eager, he commenced a lengthened

A STEANGE STOKY. 5

course of foreign travel, during which, our correspond-
ence, at first frequent, gradually languished, and finally
died away.

I succeeded at once to the larger part of the practice
which the labours of thirty years had secured to my
predecessor. My chief rival was a Dr Lloyd, a bene-
volent, fervid man, not without genius — if genius be
present where judgment is absent ; not without
science — if that may be science which fails in preci-
sion. One of those clever, desultory men who, in
adopting a profession, do not give up to it the whole
force and heat of their minds. Men of that kind
habitually accept a mechanical routine, because, in the
exercise of their ostensible calling, their imaginative
faculties are drawn away to pursuits more alluring.
Therefore, in their proper vocation they are seldom
bold or inventive — out of it they are sometimes both
to excess. And when they do take up a novelty in
their own profession, they cherish it with an obstinate
tenacity and an extravagant passion unknown to those
quiet philosophers who take up novelties every day,
examine them with the sobriety of practised eyes, to
lay down altogether, modify in part, or accept in whole,
according as inductive experiment supports or destroys
conjecture.

Dr Lloyd had been esteemed a learned naturalist
long before he was admitted to be a tolerable physi-
cian. Amidst the privations of his youth he had con-
trived to form, and with each succeeding year he had
perseveringly increased, a zoological collection of crea-

6 A STRANGE STORY.

tures, not alive, but, happily for the beholder, stuffed
or embalmed. From -what I have said, it will be
truly inferred that Dr Lloyd's earlier career as a phy-
sician had not been brilliant ; but of late years he had
gradually rather aged, than worked himself, into that
professional authority and station which time confers
on a thoroughly respectable man, whom no one is dis-
posed to envy, and all are disposed to Hke.

K'ow in L there were two distinct social circles,

— that of the wealthy merchants and traders, and that
of a few privileged families inhabiting a part of the
town aloof from the marts of commerce, and called the
Abbey Hill. These superb Areopagites exercised over
the wives and daughters of the inferior citizens, to

Avhom the whole of L , except the Abbey Hill,

owed its prosperity, the same kind of mysterious
influence which the fine ladies of May Fair and Bel-
gravia are reported to hold over the female denizens
of Bloomsbury and Marylebone.

Abbey Hill was not opulent, but it was powerful by
a concentration of its resources in all matters of patron-
age. Abbey Hill had its own milliner and its own
draper, its own confectioner, butcher, baker, and tea-
dealer ; and the patronage of Abbey Hill was like the
patronage of royalty, less lucrative in itself than as
a solemn certificate of general merit. The shops on
which Abbey Hill conferred its custom were certainly
not the cheapest, possibly not the best ; but they
were undeniably the most imposing. The proprietors
were decorously pompous — the shopmen superciliously

A STRANGE STORY. 7

polite. They could not be more so if tliey had he-
longed to the State, and been paid by a public which
they benefited and despised. The ladies of Low
Town (as the city subjacent to the Hill had been styled
from a date remote in the feudal ages) entered those
shops with a certain awe, and left them with a certain
pride. There they had learned what the Hill ap-
proved. There they had bought what the Hill had
purchased. It is much in this life to be quite sure
that we are in the right, whatever that conviction may
cost us. Abbey Hill had been in the habit of appoint-
ing, amongst other objects of patronage, its own physi-
cian. But that habit had fallen into disuse during
the latter years of my predecessor's practice. His
superiority over all other medical men in the town
had become so incontestable, that, though he was em-
phatically the doctor of Low Town, the head of its
hospitals and infirmaries, and by birth related to its
principal traders, still as Abbey Hill was occasionally
subject to the physical infirmities of meaner mortals,
so on those occasions it deemed it best not to push the
point of honour to the wanton sacrifice of life. Since
Low Town possessed one of the most famous j)hysi-
cians in England, Abbey Hill magnanimously resolved
not to crush him by a rival. Abbey Hill let him feel
its pulse.

"When my predecessor retired, I had presumptu-
ously expected that the Hill would have continued to
suspend its normal right to a special physician, and
shown to me the same generous favour it had shown

8 A STRANGE STOEY.

to him who had declared me worthy to succeed to his
honours. I had the more excuse for this presumption
because the Hill had already allowed me to visit a fair
proportion of its invalids, had said some very gracious
things to me about the great respectabihty of the Fen-
wick family, and sent me some invitations to dinner,
and a great many invitations to tea.

But my self-conceit received a notable check. Abbey
Hill declared that the time had come to reassert its
dormant privilege — it must have a doctor of its own
choosing — a doctor who might, indeed, be permitted
to visit Low Town from motives of humanity or gain,
but who must emphatically assert his special allegiance
to Abbey Hill by fixing his home on that venerable
promontory. Miss Brabazon, a spinster of uncertain
age, but undoubted pedigree, with small fortune, but
high nose, which she would pleasantly observe was a
proof of her descent from Humphrey Duke of Glouces-
ter (with whom, indeed, I have no doubt, in spite of
chronology, that she very often dined), was commis-
sioned to inquire of me diplomatically, and without
committing Abbey Hill too much hj the overture,
whether I would take a large and antiquated mansion,
in which abbots were said to have lived many centu-
ries ago, and which was still popularly styled Abbots'
House, situated on the verge of the Hill, as in that
case the " Hill " would think of me.

" It is a large house for a single man, I allow,"
said Miss Brabazon, candidly ; and then added, with
a sidelong glance of alaruiing sweetness — " but when

A STKANGE STOEY. 9

Dr Fenwick lias taken his true position (so old a
family !) amongst us, he need not long remain single,
unless he prefer it."

I replied, with, more asperity than the occasion
called for, that I had no thought of changing my resi-
dence at present. And if the Hill wanted me, the
Hill must send for me.

Two days afterwards Dr Lloyd took Abbots' House,
and in less than a week was proclaimed medical ad-
viser to the Hill. The election had been decided by
the fiat of a great lady, who reigned supreme on the
sacred eminence, under the name and title of JVIrs
Colonel Poyntz.

"Dr Fenwick," said this lady, " is a clever young man
and a gentleman, but he gives himself airs — the Hill
does not allow any airs but its own. Besides, he is a
new-comer : resistance to new-comers, and, indeed, to
all things new, except caps and novels, is one of the
bonds that keep old-established societies together.
Accordingly, it is by my advice tliat Dr Lloyd has
taken Abbots' House ; the rent would be too high for
his means if the Hill did not feel bound in honour to
justify the trust he has placed in its patronage. I
told him that all my friends, when they were in want
of a doctor, would send for him ; those who are my
friends will do so. What the Hill does, plenty of
common people down there will do also : — so that
question is settled ! " And it was settled.

Dr Lloyd, thus taken by the hand, soon extended
the range of his visits beyond the HiU, which was not

10 A STRANGE STORY.

precisely a mountain of gold to doctors, and shared
with myself, though in a comparatively small degree,
the much more lucrative practice of Low Town.

I had no cause to grudge his success, nor did I.
But to my theories of medicine his diagnosis was
shallow, and his prescriptions obsolete. When we
were summoned to a joint consultation, our views as
to the proper course of treatment seldom agreed.
Doubtless he thought I ought to have deferred to his
seniority in years; but I held the doctrine which
youth deems a truth and age a paradox — namely, that
in science the young men are the practical elders, in-
asmuch as they are schooled in the latest experiences
science has gathered up, while their seniors are cramped
by the dogmas they were schooled to believe when the
world was some decades the younger.

Meanwhile my reputation continued rapidly to ad-
vance ; it became more than local ; my advice was
sought even by patients from the metropolis. That
ambition Avhich, conceived in early youth, had decided
my career and sweetened all its labours — the ambition
to take a rank and leave a name as one of the great
pathologists, to Avhom humanity accords a grateful, if
calm, renown — saw before it a level field and a certain
goal.

I know not whether a success far beyond that
usually attained at the age I had reached served to
increase, but it seemed to myself to justify, the main
characteristic of my moral organisation — intellectual
pride.

A STEANGE STORY. 11

Tliougli mild and gentle to the sufferers under my
care, as a necessary element of professional duty, I
Avas intolerant of contradiction from those who be-
longed to my calling, or even from those who, in gen-
eral opinion, opposed my favourite theories.

I had espoused a school of medical philosophy
severely rigid in its inductive logic. ]\Iy creed Avas
that of stern materialism. I had a contempt for the
understanding of men who accepted with credulity
what they could not explain by reason. My favourite
phrase was "common sense." At the same time I
had no prejudice against bold discovery, and discovery
necessitates conjecture, but I dismissed as idle all con-
iecture that could not be brought to a practical test.

As in medicine I had been the pupil of Broussais,
so in metaphysics I was the disciple of Condillac. I
believed with that philosopher that " all our know-
ledge we owe to iSTature, that in the beginning we can
only instruct ourselves through her lessons, and that
the whole art of reasoning consists in continuing as
she has compelled us to commence." Keeping natural
philosophy apart from the doctrines of revelation, I
never assailed the last, but I contended that by the
first no accurate reasoner could arrive at the existence
of the soul as a third principle of being equally dis-
tinct from mind and body. That by a miracle man
might live again, was a question of faith and not of
understanding. I left faith to religion, and banished
it from philosophy. How define with a precision to
satisfy the logic of philosophy what was to live again 1

12 A STRANGE STORY.

The body 1 "VVe know that the body rests in its grave
till by the process of decomposition its elemental parts
enter into other forms of matter. The mindl But
the mind was as clearly the result of the bodily organ-
isation as the music of the harpsichord is the result of
the instrumental mechanism. The mind shared the
decrepitude of the body in extreme old age, and in the
full vigour of youth a sudden injury to the brain might
for ever destroy the intellect of a Plato or a Shake-
speare. But the third principle — the soul — the some-
thing lodged within the body, which yet was to sur-
vive it 1 AVhere was that soul hidden out of the ken
of the anatomist 1 When philosophers attempted to
define it, were they not compelled to confound its na-
ture and its actions with those of the mind 1 Could
they reduce it to the mere moral sense, varying accord-
ing to education, circumstances, and physical constitu-
tion ? But even the moral sense in the most virtuous
of men may be swept away by a fever. Such, at the
time I now speak of, were the views I held. Yiews
certainly not original nor pleasing; but I cherished
them with as fond a tenacity as if they had been con-
solatory^ truths of which I was the first discoverer. I
was intolerant to those who maintained opposite doc-
trines— despised them as irrational, or disliked them
as insincere. Certainly if I had fulfilled the career
which my ambition predicted — become the founder of
a new school in pathology, and summed up my theories
in academical lectures — I should have added another
authority, however feeble, to the sects which circum-

A STRANGE STORY. 13

scribe the interest of man to tlie life that has its close
in his grave.

Possibly that which I have called my intellectual
pride was more nourished than I should have been
willing to grant by that self-reliance which an unusual
degree of physical power is apt to bestow. Nature
had blessed me with the thews of an athlete. Among
the hardy youths of the ISTorthern Athens I had been
pre-eminently distinguished for feats of activity and
strength. My mental labours, and the anxiety which
is inseparable from the conscientious responsibilities of
the medical profession, kept my health below the par
of keen enjoyment, but had in no way diminished my
rare muscular force. I walked through the crowd
with the firm step and lofty crest of the mailed knight
of old, who felt himself, in his casement of iron, a
match against numbers. Thus the sense of a rohust
individuality, strong aHke in disciplined reason and
animal vigour — habituated to aid others, needing no
aid for itself — contributed to render me imperious in
will and arrogant in opinion. I^or were such defects
injurious to me in my profession ; on the contrary,
aided as they were by a calm manner, and a presence
not without that kind of dignity which is the livery
of self-esteem, they served to impose respect and to
inspire trust.

CHAPTER II.

I HAD been about six years at L when I became

suddenly involved in a controversy witli Dr Lloyd.
Just as this ill-fated man appeared at the culminating
point of his professional fortunes, he had the impru-
dence to proclaim himself not only an enthusiastic
advocate of mesmerism as a curative process, but an
ardent believer of the reality of somnambular clairvoy-
ance as an invaluable gift of certain privileged organ-
isations. To these doctrines I sternly opposed myself
— the more sternly, perhaps, because on these doctrines
Dr Lloyd founded an argument for the existence of
soul, independent of mind, as of matter, and built
thereon a superstructure of physiological phantasies,
which, could it be substantiated, would replace every
system of metaphysics on which recognised philosophy
condescends to dispute.

About two years before he became a disciple rather
of Puysegur than Mesmer (for Mesmer had little faith
in that gift of clairvoyance of which Puysegur was, I
believe, at least in modern times, the first audacious
asserter), Dr Lloyd had been afflicted with the loss of
a wife many years younger than himself, and to whom

A STRANGE STORY. 15

he had been tenderly attached. And this bereavement,
in directing the hopes that consoled him to a world be-
yond the grave, had served perhaps to render him more
credulous of the phenomena in which he greeted addi-
tional proofs of purely spiritual existence. Certainly,
if, in controverting the notions of another physiologist,
I had restricted myseK to that fair antagonism which
belongs to scientific disputants, anxious only for the
truth, I should need no apology for sincere conviction
and honest argument ; but Avhen, with condescending
good nature, as if to a man much younger than him-
self, who was ignorant of the phenomena which he
nevertheless denied, Dr Lloyd invited me to attend his
seances and witness his cures, my amour propre be-
came roused and nettled, and it seemed to me necessary
to put down what I asserted to be too gross an outrage
on common sense to justify the ceremony of examin-
ation. I wrote, therefore, a small pamphlet on the
subject, in which I exhausted all the weapons that
irony can lend to contempt. Dr Lloyd replied, and
as he was no very skilful arguer, his reply injured
him perhaps more than my assault. Meanwhile, I
had made some inquiries as to the moral character of
his favourite clairvoyants. I imagined that I had
learned enough to justify me in treating them as
flagrant cheats — and himself as their egregious dupe.
Low Town soon ranged itself, with very few excep-
tions, on my side. The Hill at first seemed disposed
to rally round its insulted physician, and to make the
dispute a party question, in which the Hill would

16 A STRANGE STOEY.

have been signally worsted, when suddenly the same
lady paramount, who had secured to Dr Lloyd the
smile of the Eminence, spoke forth against him, and
the Eminence frowned.

"Dr Lloyd," said the Queen of the Hill, "is an
amiable creature, but on this subject decidedly cracked.
Cracked poets may be aU the better for being cracked ;
cracked doctors are dangerous. Besides, in deserting
that old-fashioned routine, his adherence to which
made his claim to the HiU's approbation — and un-
settling the mind of the Hill with wild revolutionary
theories — Dr Lloyd has betrayed the principles on
which the Hill itself rests its social foundations. Of
those principles Dr Fenwick has made himself cham-
pion ; and the Hill is bound to support him. There,
the question is settled ! "

And it was settled.

From the moment Mrs Colonel Poyntz thus issued
the word of command, Dr Lloyd was demolished.
His practice was gone, as well as his repute. Mortifi-
cation or anger brought on a stroke of paralysis which,
disabling my opponent, put an end to our controversy.
An obscure Dr Jones, who had been the special pupil
and protege of Dr Lloyd, offered himself as a candidate
for the HiU's tongues and pulses. The Hill gave him
little encouragement. It once more suspended its
electoral privileges, and, without insisting on calhng
me up to it, the HiU quietly called me in whenever its
health needed other advice than that of its visiting
apothecary. Again it invited me, sometimes to dinner,

A STRANGE STORY. 17

often to tea. And again Miss Brabazon assured me
hy a sidelong glance that it was no fault of hers if I
were still single.

I had almost forgotten the dispute which had ob-
tained for me so conspicuous a triumph, when one
winter's night I was roused from sleep by a summons
to attend Dr Lloyd, who, attacked by a second stroke
a few hours previously, had, on recovering sense,
expressed a vehement desire to consult the rival by
whom he had suffered so severely. I dressed myself
in haste and hurried to his house.

A February night, sharp and bitter. An iron-grey
frost below — a spectral melancholy moon above. I
had to ascend the Abbey Hill by a steep blind lane
between high walls. I passed through stately gates,
which stood wide open, into the garden ground that
surrounded the old Abbots' House. At the end of a
short carriage -drive, the dark and gloomy building
cleared itself from leafless skeleton trees ; the moon
resting keen and cold on its abrupt gables and lofty
chimney-stalks. An old woman-servant received me
at the door, and, without saying a word, led me
through a long low hall, and up dreary oak stairs, to
a broad landing, at which she paused for a moment,
listening. Eound and about hall, staircase, and land-
ing, were ranged the dead specimens of the savage
world which it had been the pride of the naturalist's
life to collect. Close where I stood yawned the open
jaws of the fell anaconda — its lower coils hidden,
as they rested on the floor below, by the winding of

VOL. I. B

^/

18 A STKANGE STORY.

the massive stairs. Against the dull wainscot walls
were pendent cases stored with, grotesque unfamiliar
mummies, seen imperfectly by the moon that shot
through the window-panes, and the candle in the old
woman's hand. And as now she turned towards me,
nodding her signal to follow, and went on up the
shadowy passage, rows of gigantic birds — ibis and
vulture, and huge sea glaucus — glared at me in the
false life of their hungry eyes.

So I entered the sick-room, and the first glance
told me that my art was powerless there.

The children of the stricken widower were grouped
round his bed, the eldest apparently about fifteen, the
youngest four ; one little girl — the only female child
— was clinging to her father's neck, her face pressed to
his bosom, and in that room her sobs alone were loud.

As I passed the threshold, Dr Lloyd lifted his face,
which had been bent over the weeping child, and
gazed on me with an aspect of strange glee, which I
failed to interpret. Then, as I stole towards him
softly and slowly, he pressed his lips on the long fair
tresses that streamed wild over his breast, motioned
to a nurse who stood beside his pillow to take the
child away, and, in a voice clearer than I could have
expected in one on whose brow lay the vmmistakable
hand of death, he bade the nurse and the children
quit the room. All went sorrowfully, but silently,
save the little girl, who, borne off in the nurse's arms,
continued to sob as if her heart Avere breaking.

I was not prepared for a scene so afiecting; it

A STRANGE STORY. 19

moved me to the quick. My eyes "wistfully followed
the children so soon to be orphans, as one after one
went out into the dark chill shadow, and amidst the
bloodless forms of the dumb brute nature, ranged in
grisly vista beyond the death-room of man. And
when the last infant shape had vanished, and the door
closed with a jarring click, my sight wandered loiter-
ingly around the chamber before I could bring myself
to fix it on the broken form, beside which I now stood
in all that glorious vigour of frame which had fostered
the pride of my mind.

In the moment consumed by my mournful survey,
the whole aspect of the place impressed itself inefface-
ably on life -long remembrance. Through the high,
deep-sunken casement, across which the thin, faded
curtain was but half drawn, the moonlight rushed, and
then settled on the floor in one shroud of white glim-
mer, lost under the gloom of the deathbed. The roof
was low, and seemed lower still by heavy intersecting
beams, which I might have touched with my lifted
hand. And the tall guttering candle by the bedside,
and the flicker from the fire struggling out through
the fuel but newly heaped on it, threw their reflection
on the ceiling just over my head in a reek of quivering
blackness, hke an angry cloud.

Suddenly I felt my arm grasped : with his left hand
(the right side was already lifeless) the dying man
drew me towards him nearer and nearer, till his lips
almost touched my ear. And, in a voice now firm,
now splitting into gasp and* hiss, thus he said : —

20 A STKANGE STOEY.

" I have summoned you to gaze on your own work !
You have stricken down my life at the moment when
it was most needed by my children, and most service-
able to mankind. Had I lived a few years longer, my
children would have entered on manhood, safe from
the temptations of want, and undejected by the charity
of strangers. Thanks to you, they will be penniless
orphans. Fellow-creatures afflicted by maladies your
pharmacopoeia had failed to reach, came to me for
relief, and they found it. ' The effect of imagination,'
you say. What matters, if I directed the imagination
to cure 1 ISTow you have mocked the unhappy ones
out of their last chance of life. They will suffer and
perish. Did you believe me in error? Still you
knew that my object was research into truth. You
employed against your brother in art venomous drugs
and a poisoned probe. Look at me ! Are you satisfied
Avith your work 1 "

I sought to draw back and pluck my arm from the
dying man's grasp. I could not do so without using
a force that would have been inhuman. His lips
drew nearer still to my ear.

" Vain pretender, do not boast that you brought a
genius for epigram to the service of science. Science
is lenient to all who offer experiment as the test of
conjecture. You are of the stuff of which inquisitors
are made. You cry that truth is profaned when your
dogmas are questioned. In your shallow presumption
you have meted the dominions of nature, and where
your eye halts its vision, you say, ' There, nature must

A STRANGE STORY. 21

close ; ' in tlie bigotry which, adds crime to presump-
tion, you would stone the discoverer who, in annexing
new realms to her chart, unsettles your arbitrary land-
marks. Verily, retribution shall await you. In those
spaces which your sight has disdained to explore
you shall yourself be a lost and bewildered straggler.
Hist ! I see them already ! The gibbering phantoms
are gathering round you ! "

The man's voice stopped abruptly ; his eye fixed in
a glazing stare ; his hand relaxed its hold ; he fell
back on his pillow. I stole from the room ; on the
landing-place I met the nurse and the old woman-ser-
vant. Happily the children Avere not there. But I
heard the Avail of the female child from some room
not far distant.

I whispered hurriedly to the nurse, "All is over ! "
— passed again under the .jaws of the vast anaconda ;
and, on through the blind lane between the dead
walls — on through the ghastly streets, under the
ghastly moon — went back to my solitary home.

CHAPTEE III.

It was some time before I could shake off the impres-
sion made on me by the words and the look of that
dying man.

It was not that my conscience upbraided me. What
had I done ? Denounced that which I held, in com-
mon with most men of sense in or out of my profession,
to be one of those illusions by which quackery draws
profit from the wonder of ignorance. Was I to blame
if I had refused to treat with the grave respect due to
asserted discovery in legitimate science pretensions to
powers akin to the fables of wizards 1 Was I to de-
scend from the Academe of decorous science to examine
whether a slumbering sibyl could read from a book

placed at her back, or tell me at L what at that

moment was being done by my friend at the An-
tipodes 1

And what though Dr Lloyd himself might be a
worthy and honest man, and a sincere believer in the
extravagances for which he demanded an equal cred-
ulity in others, do not honest men every day incur the
penalty of ridicule, if, from a defect of good sense,
they make themselves ridiculous 1 Could I have

A STRANGE STORY. 23

foreseen that a satire so justly provoked would inflict
so deadly a wound? Was I inhumanly barbarous
because the antagonist destroyed was morbidly sensi-
tive 1 My conscience, therefore, made me no reproach,
and the public was as little severe as my conscience.
The public had been with me in our contest — the
public knew nothing of my opponent's deathbed accu-
sations— the public knew only that I had attended
him in his last moments — it saw me walk beside the
bier that bore him to his grave — it admired the respect
to his memory which I evinced in the simple tomb that
I placed over his remains, inscribed with an epitaph
that did justice to his unquestionable benevolence and
integrity ; — above all, it praised the energy with which
I set on foot a subscription for his orphan children,
and the generosity with which I headed that subscrip-
tion by a sum that was large in proportion to my
means.

To that sum I did not, indeed, limit my contribution.
The sobs of the poor female child rang still on my
heart. As her grief had been keener than that of her
brothers, so she might be subjected to sharper trials
than they, when the time came for her to fight her
own way through the world ; therefore I secured to
her, but with such precautions that the gift could not
be traced to my hand, a sum to accumulate till she was
of marriageable age, and which then might suffice for
a small wedding portion ; or, if she remained single,
for an income that would place her beyond the temp-
tation of want, or the bitterness of a servile dependence.

24 A STKAXGE STORY.

That Dr Lloyd should have died in poverty was a
matter of surprise at first, for his profits during the
last few years had been considerable, and his mode of
life far from extravagant. But just before the date of
our controversy, he had been induced to assist the
brother of his lost wife, who was a junior partner in a
London bank, with the loan of his accumulated sav-
ings. This man proved dishonest ; he embezzled that
and other sums intrusted to him, and fled the country.
The same sentiment of conjugal affection which had
cost Dr Lloyd his fortune kept him silent as to the
cause of the loss. It was reserved for his executors to
discover the treachery of the brother-in-law whom he,
poor man, would have generously screened from addi-
tional disgrace.

The Mayor of L , a wealthy and public-spirited

merchant, purchased the museum which Dr Lloyd's
passion for natural history had induced him to form ;
and the sum thus obtained, together with that raised
by subscription, sufficed, not only to discharge all
debts due by the deceased, but to insure to the orphans
the benefits of an education that might fit at least the
boys to enter fairly armed into that game, more of skill
than of chance, in which Fortune is really so little
blinded, that we see, in each turn of her wheel, wealth
and its honours pass away from the lax fingers of
ignorance and sloth, to the resolute grasp of labour
and knowledge.

Meanwhile, a relation in a distant county undertook

A STRANGE STORY. 25

the charge of the orphans ; they disappeared from the
scene, and the tides of life in a commercial community
soon flowed over the place which the dead man had
occupied in the thoughts of his bustling townsfolk.

One person at L , and only one, appeared to

share and inherit the rancour with which the poor
physician had denounced me on his deathbed. It
was a gentleman named Vigors, distantly related to
the deceased, and who had been, in point of station,
the most eminent of Dr Lloyd's partisans in the con-
troversy Avith myself ; a man of no great scholastic ac-
quirements, but of respectable abilities. He had that
kind of power Avhich the world concedes to respectable
abilities, when accompanied with a temper more than
usually stern, and a moral character more than usually
austere. His ruling passion was to sit in judgment
upon others ; and, being a magistrate, he was the most

active and the most rigid of all the magistrates L

had ever known.

Mr Vigors at first spoke of me with great bitterness,
as having ruined, and in fact killed, his friend by the
uncharitable and unfair acerbity which he declared I
had brought into what ought to have been an unpre-
judiced examination of simple matter of fact. But
finding no sympathy in these charges, he had the dis-
cretion to cease from making them, contenting himself
with a solemn shake of his head if he heard my name
mentioned in terms of praise, and an oracular sentence
or two, such as " Time will show," " All's well that

26 A STRANGE STORY.

ends -well," &c. Mr Vigors, however, mixed very-
little in the more convivial intercourse of the towns-
people. He called himself domestic ; but, in truth, he
was ungenial. A stiff man, starched with self-esteem.
He thought that his dignity of station was not suffi-
ciently acknowledged by the merchants of Low Town,
and his superiority of intellect not sufficiently recog-
nised by the exclusives of the Hill. His -visits were,
therefore, chiefly confined to the houses of neighbour-
ing squires, to whom his reputation as a magistrate,
conjoined with his solemn exterior, made him one of
those oracles by which men consent to be awed on
condition that the awe is not often inflicted. And
though he opened his house three times a-week, it was
only to a select few, whom he first fed and then
biologised. Electro-biology was very naturally the
special entertainment of a man whom no intercourse
ever pleased in which his -will was not imposed upon
others. Therefore he only invited to his table persons
whom he could stare into the abnegation of their
senses, willing to say that beef was lamb, or brandy
was coffee, according as he willed them to say. And,
no doubt, the persons asked would have said anything
he -willed so long as they had, in substance as well as
in idea, the beef and the brandy, the lamb and the
coffee. I did not, then, often meet Mr Vigors at the
houses in which I occasionally spent my evenings.
I heard of his enmity as a man safe in his home hears
the sough of a wind on a common -without. If now

A STEANGE STOKY. 27

and then we chanced to pass in the streets, he looked
up at me (he was a small man walking on tiptoe) with
the suUen scowl of dislike. And, from the height of
my stature, I dropped upon the small man and sullen
scowl the affable smile of supreme indifference.

CHAPTER IV.

I HAD now arrived at that age when an ambitious man,
satisfied with his progress in the world without, begins
to feel, in the cravings of unsatisfied affection, the void
of a solitary hearth. I resolved to marry, and looked
out for a wife. 1 had never hitherto admitted into
my life the passion of love. In fact, I had regarded
that passion, even in my earlier j^outh, with a certain
superb contempt — as a malady engendered by an effem-
inate idleness, and fostered by a sickly imagination.

I wished to find in a wife a rational companion, an
affectionate and trustworthy friend. ISTo views of
matrimony could be less romantic, more soberly sens-
ible, than those which I conceived. Nor were my
requirements mercenary or presumptuous. I cared
not for fortune; I asked nothing from connections.
My ambition was exclusively professional ; it could be
served by no titled kindred, accelerated by no wealthy
dower. I was no slave to beauty. I did not seek in a
wife the accomplishments of a finishing school-teacher.

Having decided that the time had come to select
my helpmate, I imagined that I should find no diffi-
culty in a choice that my reason would approve. But

A STRANGE STOKY. 29

Jay upon day, week upon week, passed away, and
lliough among the families I visited there were many
young ladies who possessed more than the qualifications
with which I conceived that I should be amply con-
tented, and by whom I might flatter myself that my
proposals would not be disdained, I saw not one to
whose life-long companionship I should not infinitely
have preferred the solitude I found so irksome.

One evening, in returning home from visiting a poor
female patient whom I attended gratuitously, and
whose case demanded more thought than that of any
other in my list — for though it had been considered
hopeless in the hospital, and she had come home to
die, I felt certain that I could save her, and she seemed
recovering under my care ; — one evening, it was the
fifteenth of May, I found myself just before the gates
of the house that had been inhabited by Dr Lloyd. '
Since his death the house had been unoccupied ; the
rent asked for it by the proprietor was considered high,
and from the sacred Hill on which it was situated,
shyness or pride banished the wealthier traders. The
garden gates stood wide open, as they had stood in the
winter night on which I had passed through them to
the chamber of death. The remembrance of that
deathbed came vividly before me, and the dying man's
fantastic threat rang again in my startled ears. An
irresistible impulse, which I could not then account
for, and which I cannot account for now — an impulse
the reverse of that which usually makes us turn away
with quickened step from a spot that recalls associa-

30 A STEANGE STOKY.

tions of pain — urged me on through the open gates,
up the neglected grass-grown road — urged me to look,,
under the westering sun of the joyous spring, at that
house which I had never seen but in the gloom of a
winter night, under the melancholy moon. As the
building came in sight, with dark-red bricks, partially
overgrown with ivy, I perceived that it was no longer
unoccupied. I saw forms passing athwart the open
windows ; a van laden with articles of furniture stood
before the door; a servant in livery was beside it
giving directions to the men who were unloading.
Evidently some family was just entering into posses-
sion. I felt somewhat ashamed of my trespass, and
turned round quickly to retrace my steps. I had re-
treated but a few yards, when I saw before me, at the
entrance gates, Mr Vigors, walking beside a lady appar-
ently of middle age ; while, just at hand, a path cut
through the shrubs gave view of a small wicket-gate at
the end of the grounds. I felt unwilling not only to
meet the lady, whom I guessed to be the new occupier,
and to whom I should have to make a somewhat awk-
ward apology for intrusion, but still more to encounter
the scornful look of Mr Vigors, in what appeared to
my pride a false or undignified position. Involun-
tarily, therefore, I turned down the path which would
favour my escape unobserved. "When about half way
between the house and the wicket-gate, the shrubs that
had clothed the path on either side suddenly opened
to the left, bringing into view a circle of sward, sur-

A STEANGE STOEY. 31

rounded by irregular fragments of old brickwork par-
tially covered with ferns, creepers or rock-plants, weeds
or wild flowers ; and, in the centre of the circle, a
fountain, or rather well, over which was built a Gothic
monastic dome or canopy, resting on small Norman
columns, time-worn, dilapidated. A large willow over-
hung this unmistakable relic of the ancient abbey.
There was an air of antiquity, romance, legend about
this spot, so abruptly disclosed amidst the delicate
green of the young shrubberies. But it was not the
ruined wall nor the Gothic well that chained my foot-
step and charmed my eye.

It was a solitary human form, seated amidst the
mournful ruins.

The form was so slight, the face so young, that at
the first glance I murmured to myself, " What a lovely
child ! " But as my eye lingered it recognised in the
upturned thoughtful brow, in the sweet serious aspect,
in the rounded outlines of that slender shape, the in-
expressible dignity of virgin woman.

A book was on her lap, at her feet a little basket,
half filled with violets and blossoms culled from the
rock-plants that nestled amidst the ruins. Behind
her, the willow, like an emerald waterfall, showered
down its arching abundant green, bough after bough,
from the tree-top to the sward, descending in wavy
verdure, bright towards the summit, in the smile of
the setting sun, and darkening into shadow as it
neared the earth.

32 A STEANGE STOKY.

She did not notice, she did not see me; her eyes
■were fixed upon the horizon, where it sloped farthest
into space, above the tree-tops and the ruins — fixed so
intently that mechanically I turned my own gaze to
follow the flight of hers. It was as if she watched
for some expected, familiar sign to grow out from the
depths of heaven ; perhaps to greet, before other eyes
beheld it, the ray of the earliest star.

The birds dropped from the boughs on the turf
around her, so fearlessly that one alighted amidst the
flowers in the little basket at her feet. There is a
famous German poem, which I had read in my youth,
called the Maiden from Abroad, variously supposed to
be an allegory of Spring, or of Poetry, according to
the choice of commentators ; it seemed to me as if the
poem had been made for her. Yerily, indeed, in her,
poet or painter might have seen an image equally true
to either of those adorners of the earth; both out-
wardly a delight to sense, yet both wakening up
thoughts within us, not sad, but akin to sadness.

I heard now a step behind me, and a voice which
I recognised to be that of Mr Vigors. I broke from
the charm by which I had been so lingeringly spell-
bound, hurried on confusedly, gained the wicket-gate,
from which a short flight of stairs descended into the
common thoroughfare. And there the everyday life
lay again before me. On the opposite side, houses,
shops, church-spires : a few steps more, and the bus-
tling streets ! How immeasurably far from, yet how

A STRANGE STOKY. 33

familiarly near to, the world in which we move and
have being is that fairy land of romance which opens
out from the hard earth before us, when Love steals
at first to our side ; — fading back into the hard earth
again as Love smiles or sighs its farewell !

CHAPTEE V.

And before that evening I had looked on Mr Vigors
with supreme indifference ! — what importance he now
assumed in my eyes! The lady with whom I had
seen him was doubtless the new tenant of that house
in which the young creature by whom my heart was
so strangely moved evidently had her home. Most
probably the relation between the two ladies was that
of mother and daughter. Mr Vigors, the friend of
one, might himself be related to both — might prejudice
them against me — might — here, starting up, I snapped
the thread of conjecture, for right before my eyes, on
the table beside which I had seated myself on entering
my room, lay a card of invitation : —

Mrs Poyntz.

At Home,
Wednesday, May 15tli.
Early.

Mrs Poyntz — Mrs Colonel Poyntz ! the Queen of
the Hill. There, at her house, I could not fail to learn
all about the new-comers, who could never without
her sanction have settled on her domain.

A STEAXGE STORY. 35

I hastily changed my dress, and, with, heating heart,
wound my way up the venerable eminence.

I did not pass through the lane which led direct to
Abbots' House (for that old building stood soHtary
amidst its grounds, a little apart from the spacious
platform on which the society of the Hill was concen-
trated), but up the broad causeway, with vistaed gas-
lamps — the gayer shops still unclosed, the tide of busy
life only slowly ebbing from the still animated street — on
to a square, in which the four main thoroughfares of the
city converged, and which formed the boundary of Low
Town. A huge dark archway, popularly called Monk's
Gate, at the angle of this square, made the entrance to
Abbey Hill. When the arch was passed, one felt at
once that one was in the town of a former day. The
pavement was narrow and rugged; the shops small,
their upper storeys projecting, with, here and there,
plastered fronts, quaintly arabesqued. An ascent,
short, but steep and tortuous, conducted at once to the
old Abbey Church, nobly situated in a vast quadrangle,
round which were the genteel and gloomy dwellings of
the Areopagites of the Hill. More genteel and less
gloomy than the rest — lights at the windows and
flowers on the balcony — stood forth, flanked by a gar-
den wall at either side, the mansion of Mrs Colonel
Poyntz.

As I entered the drawing-room I heard the voice of
the hostess; it was a voice clear, decided, metallic, bell-
like, uttering these words : " Taken Abbots' House 1
I will tell you.''

CHAPTER VI.

Mrs Potntz was seated on the sofa ; at her right sat
fat Mrs Bruce, who was a Scotch lord's granddaugh-
ter ; at her left thin Miss Brabazon, who was an Irish
baronet's niece. Around her — a few seated, many-
standing — had grouped all the guests, save two old
gentlemen, who remained aloof with Colonel Poyntz
near the whist-table, waiting for the fourth old gentle-
man who was to make up the rubber, but who was at
that moment spell-bound in the magic circle, which
curiosity, that strongest of social demons, had attracted
round the hostess.

" Taken Abbots' House ? I will tell you. — Ah, Dr
Penwick, charmed to see you. You know Abbots'
House is let at last t Well, Miss Brabazon, dear, you
ask who has taken it. I will inform you — a particu-
lar friend of mine."

" Indeed ! Dear me ! " said Miss Brabazon, looking
confused. " I hope I did not say anything to "

" Wound my feelings ? Not in the least. You said
your uncle, Sir Phelim, employed a coachmaker named
Ashleigh, that Ashleigh was an uncommon name,
though Ashley was a common one; j^ou intimated an

A STRANGE STORY. 37

appalling suspicion tliat the Mrs Aslileigh who had
come to the Hill was the coachmaker's widow. I re-
lieve your mind — she is not; she is the widow of
Gilbert Ashleigh, of Kirby Hall."

*' Gilbert Ashleigh," said one of the guests, a bache-
lor, whose parents had reared him for the Church,
but who, like poor Goldsmith, did not think himself
good enough for it, — a mistake of over-modesty, for
he matured into a very harmless creature. " Gilbert
Ashleigh. I was at Oxford with him — a gentleman
commoner of Christ Church, Good-looking man —
very : sapped "

" Sapped ! what's that ? — ^Oh, studied. That he
did all his life. He married young — Anne Chaloner j
she and I were girls together : married the same year.
They settled at Kirby Hall — nice place, but dull.
Poyntz and I spent a Christmas there. Ashleigh
when he talked was charming, but he talked very little.
Anne when she talked was commonplace, and she
talked very much. ^Naturally, j)oor thing, she was so
happy. Poyntz and I did not spend another Christ-
mas there. Friendship is long, but life is short.
Gilbert Ashleigh's Hfe was short indeed ; he died in
the seventh year of his marriage, leaving only one
child, a girl. Since then, though I never spent an-
other Christmas at Kirby Hall, I have frequently
spent a day there, doing my best to cheer up Anne.
She was no longer talkative, poor dear. Wrapped up
in her child, who has now grown into a beautiful girl
of eighteen — such eyes, her father's — the real dark

38 A STEANGE STORY.

blue — rare : sweet creature, but delicate — not, I hope,
consumptive, but delicate; quiet — wants life. My
girl Jane adores her. Jane bas life enougb for two."

"Is Miss Asbleigb the heiress to Kirby Hall?"
asked Mrs Bruce, who had an unmarried son.

" 'No. Kirby Hall passed to Ashleigh Sumner, the
male heir, a cousin. And the luckiest of cousins !
Gilbert's sister, showy woman (indeed all show), had
contrived to marry her kinsman. Sir Walter Ashleigh
Haughton, the head of the Ashleigh family, — just the
man made to be the reflector of a showy woman ! He
died years ago, leaving an only son, Sir James, who
was killed last winter by a fall from his horse. And
here, again, Ashleigh Sumner proved to be the male
heir-at-law. During the minority of this fortunate
youth, Mrs Ashleigh had rented Kirby Hall of his
guardian. He is now just coming of age, and that is
why she leaves. Lilian Ashleigh will have, however,
a very good fortune — is what we genteel paupers call
an heiress. Is there anything more you want to
know?"

Said thin Miss Brabazon, who took advantage of
her thinness to wedge herself into every one's affairs,
" A most interesting account. What a nice place
Abbots' House could be made Avith a little taste !
So aristocratic ! Just what I should like if I could
afford it ! The drawing-room should be done up in
the Moorish style, with geranium-coloured silk cur-
tains like dear Lady L 's boudoir at Twickenham.

And Mrs Ashleigh has taken the house ! on lease too,

A STRANGE STORY. 39

I suppose !" Here Miss Brabazon fluttered her fan
angrily, and then exclaimed, " But what on earth
brings INIrs Ashleigh here 1 "

Answered Mrs Colonel Poyntz, with the military
fiankness by which she kept her company in good
h'lmour, as well as awe —

" Why do any of us come here 1 Can any one tell
me?"

There was a blank silence, which the hostess herself
Wis the first to break.

"None of us present can say why we came here. I
caa tell you why Mrs Ashleigh came. Our neighbour,
^ Vigors, is a distant connection of the late Gilbert
Ashleigh, one of the executors to his will, and the
giardian to the heu'-at-law. About ten days ago Mr
Tigors called on me, for the first time since I felt it
ny duty to express my disapprobation of the strange
vigaries so unhappily conceived by our poor dear
fiend Dr Lloyd. And when he had taken his chair,
j\st where you now sit, Dr Fenwick, he said, in a
stpidchral voice, stretching out two fingers, so, — as if
I were one of the what-do-you-call-'ems who go to
s!bep when he bids them, ' jNIarm, you know !Mrs
Ashleigh? You correspond with her?' 'Yes, ]\Ir
"Nigors ; is there any crime in that ? You look as if
tiere were.' ' 'No crime, marm,' said the man, quite
Siriously ; * Mrs Ashleigh is a lady of amiable temper,
aid you are a woman of masculine understanding.' "

Here there was a general titter, Mrs Colonel Poyntz
lushed it with a look of severe surprise. " What is

40 A STEANGE STORY.

there to laugh at 1 All women would be men if they
could. If my understanding is masculine, so much
the better for me. I thanked Mr Vigors for his very
handsome compliment, and he then went on to say,
' that though Mrs Ashleigh would now have to lea^e
Kirby Hall in a very few weeks, she seemed quiie
unable to make up her mind where to go ; that it hid
occurred to him that, as Miss Ashleigh was of an sge
to see a little of the world, she ought not to remain
buried in the country ; while, being of quiet min^,
she recoiled from the dissipation of London. Bet we n
the seclusion of the one and the turmoil of the othjr,

the society of L was a happy medium. He should

be glad of my opinion. He had put off asking for i^
because he owned his belief that I had behaved ur-
kindly to his lamented friend Dr Lloyd ; but he nor
found himself in rather an awkward position. Hs
ward, young Sumner, had prudently resolved on fixirg
his country residence at Kirby Hall rather than it
Haughton Park, the much larger seat, wliich had p
suddenly passed to his inheritance, and which he con i
not occupy without a vast establishment, that to a singB
man, so young, would be but a cumbersome and costr
trouble. Mr Vigors was pledged to his ward to obtai i
him possession of Kirby Hall the precise day agree [
upon, but Mrs Ashleigh did not seem disposed to st •
— could not decide where else to go. Mr Vigors W£i
loath to press hard on his old friend's widow and chik
It was a thousand pities Mrs Ashleigh could not mak
up her mind ; she had had ample time for preparation

A STEANGE STOKY. 41

A word from me, at this moment, would be an effective
kindness. Abbots' House was vacant, witli a garden
so extensive that the ladies would not miss the country.

Another party was after it, but ' * Say no more,'

I cried ; ' no party but my dear old friend Anne Ash-
leigh shall have Abbots' House. So that question is
settled.' I dismissed Mr Vigors, sent for my carriage
— that is, for Mr Barker's yellow fly and his best horses
— and drove that very day to Kirby Hall, which, though
not in this county, is only twenty-five miles distant.
I slept there that night. By nine o'clock the next
morning I had secured Mrs Ashleigh's consent, on.
the promise to save her all trouble ; came back, sent
for the landlord, settled the rent, lease, agreement ;
engaged Forbes's vans to remove the furniture from
Kirby Hall ; told Forbes to begin with the beds.
When her own bed came, which was last night, Anne
Ashleigh came too. I have seen her this morning.
She likes the place, so does Lilian. I asked them to
meet you all here to-night ; but Mrs Ashleigh was
tired. The last of the furniture was to arrive to-day ;
and though dear Mrs Ashleigh is an undecided char-
acter, she is not inactive. But it is not only the plan-
ning where to put tables and chairs that would have
tired her to-day ; she has had Mr Vigors on her hands
all the afternoon, and he has been — here's her little
note — what are the words'? no doubt, 'most over-
powering and oppressive' — no, 'most kind and atten-
tive'— different words, but, as applied to Mr Vigors,
they mean the same thing.

42 A STRANGE STOEY.

"And now, next Monday — we must leave tlieni in
peace till then — you will all call on the Ashleighs.
The Hill knows what is due to itself; it cannot dele-
gate to Mr Vigors, a respectable man indeed, hut who
does not belong to its set, its own proper course of
action towards those who would shelter themselves on
its bosom. The Hill cannot be kind and attentive,
overpowering or oppressive, by proxy. To those new-
born into its family circle it cannot be an indifferent
godmother ; it has towards them all the feelings of
a mother, — or of a stepmother, as the case may be.
Where it says, ' This can be no child of mine,' it is a
stepmother indeed ; but, in all those whom I have pre-
sented to its arms, it has hitherto, I am proud to say,
recognised desirable acquaintances, and to them the
Hill has been a mother. And now, my dear Mr
Sloman, go to your rubber : Poyntz is impatient,
though he don't show it. Miss Brabazon, love, we
all long to see you seated at the piano — you play so
divinely ! Something gay, if you please — something
gay, but not very noisy ; Mr Leopold Smythe will turn
the leaves for you. Mrs Bruce, your own favourite
set at vingt-un, with four new recruits. Dr Fenwick,
you are like me, don't play cards, and don't care for
music : sit here, and talk or not, as you please, while
I knit."

The other guests thus disposed of, some at the card-
table, some round the piano, I placed myself at Mrs
Poyntz's side, on a seat niched in the recess of a
window which an evening unusually warm for the

A STEANGE STORY. 43

montli of May permitted to be left open, I was next
to one who had known Lilian as a child, one from
whom I had learned hy what sweet name to call the
image which my thoughts had already shrined. How
much that I still longed to know she could tell me !
But in Avhat form of question could I lead to the
subject, yet not betray my absorbing interest in it?
Longing to speak, I felt as if stricken dumb ; stealing
an unquiet glance towards the face beside me, and
deeply impressed with that truth which the Hill had
long ago reverently acknowledged — viz., that Mrs
Colonel Poyntz was a very superior woman — a very
powerful creature.

And there she sat knitting — rapidly, fii'mly : a
woman somewhat on the other side of forty; com-
plexion a bronzed paleness; hair a bronzed brown,
in strong ringlets, cropped short behind — handsome
hair for a man ; lips that, when closed, showed inflex-
ible decision, when speaking, became supple and flexile,
with an easy humour and a vigilant finesse ; eyes of
a red hazel, quick but steady — observant, piercing,
dauntless eyes ; altogether a fine countenance — would
have been a very fine countenance in a man ; profile
sharp, straight, clear-cut, with an expression, when
in repose, like that of a sphinx ; a frame robust, not
corpulent, of middle height, but Avith an air and car-
riage that made her appear tall ; peculiarly white firm
hands, indicative of vigorous health, not a vein visible
on the surface.

There she sat knitting, knitting, and I by her side,

44 A STRANGE STOKY.

gazing now on herself, now on her work, with a vague
idea that the threads in the skein of my own web of
love or of life were passing quick through those noise-
less fingers. And, indeed, in every web of romance,
the fondest, one of the Parcae is sure to be some
matter-of-fact She, Social Destiny, as little akin to
romance herself — as was this worldly Queen of the
Hill.

CHAPTER VII.

I HAVE given a sketch of the outward woman of Mrs
Colonel Poyntz. The inner woman was a recondite
mystery, deep as that of the sphinx, whose features
her own resembled. But between the outward and
the inward woman there is ever a third woman — the
conventional woman — such as the whole human being
appears to the world — always mantled — sometimes
masked.

I am told that the fine people of London do not
recognise the title of " Mrs Colonel." If that be true,
the fi.ne people of London must be clearly in the wrong,
for no people in the universe could be finer than the
fine people of Abbey Hill ; and they considered their
sovereign had as good a right to the title of Mrs Colo-
nel as the Queen of England has to that of " our Gra-
cious Lady." But Mrs Poyntz herself never assumed
the title of Mrs Colonel ; it never appeared on her
cards any more than the title of " Gracious Lady " ap-
pears on the cards which convey the invitation that a
Lord Steward or Lord Chamberlain is commanded by
her Majesty to issue. To titles, indeed, Mrs Poyntz
evinced no superstitious reverence. Two peeresses,

46 A STRANGE STOEY.

related to her, not distantly, were in the habit of pay-
ing her a yearly visit, "which lasted two or three days.
The Hill considered these visits an honour to its emin-
ence. Mrs Poyntz never seemed to esteem them an
honour to herself ; never boasted of them ; never
sought to show off her grand relations, nor put herself
the least out of the way to receive them. Her mode
of life was free from ostentation. She had the advan-
tage of being a few hundreds a-year richer than any
other inhabitant of the Hill ; but she did not devote
her superior resources to the invidious exhibition of
superior splendour. Like a wise sovereign, the reven-
ues of her exchequer were applied to the benefit of her
subjects, and not to the vanity of egotistical parade.
As no one else on the Hill kept a carriage, she de-
clined to keep one. Her entertainments were simple
but numerous. Twice a- week she received the Hill,
and was genuinely at home to it. She contrived to
make her parties proverbially agreeable. The refresh-
ments were of the same kind as those which the
poorest of her old maids of honour might proffer ; but
they were better of their kind, the best of their kind —
the best tea, the best lemonade, the best cakes. Her
rooms had an air of comfort, which was peculiar to them.
They looked like rooms accustomed to receive, and re-
ceive in a friendly way; well warmed, well lighted, card-
tables and piano each in the place that made cards and
music inviting. On the walls a few old family portraits,
and three or four other pictures said to be valuable and
certainly pleasing — two Watteaus, a Canaletti, a Wee-

A STKA^^GE STORY. 47

nix — plenty of easy-chairs and settees covered witli a
cheerful chintz. In the arrangement of the furniture
generally, an indescribable careless elegance. She her-
self was studiously plain in dress, more conspicuously
free from jeAvellery and trinkets than any married lady
on the Hill. But I have heard from those who were
authorities on such a subject, that she was never seen
in a dress of the last year's fashion. She adopted the
mode as it came out, just enough to show that she was
aware it was out ; but with a sober reserve, as much
as to say, " I adopt the fashion as far as it suits my-
self j I do not permit the fashion to adopt me." In
short, Mrs Colonel Poyntz was sometimes rough, some-
times coarse, always masculine, and yet somehow or
other masculine in a womanly way; but she was never
vnlgar because never affected. It was impossible not to
allow that she was a thorough gentlewoman, and she
could do things that lower other gentlewomen, without
any loss of dignity. Thus she was an admirable mimic,
certainly in itself the least ladylike condescension of
humour. But when she mimicked, it was with so
tranquil a gi-avity, or so royal a good humour, that one
could only say, "What talents for society dear Mrs
Colonel has ! " As she was a gentlewoman emphati-
cally, so the other colonel, the he-colonel, was emphati-
cally a gentleman; rather shy, but not cold; hating
trouble of every kind, pleased to seem a cipher in his
own house. If the sole study of Mrs Colonel had
been to make her husband comfortable, she could not
have succeeded better than by bringing friends about

48 A STRAIs^GE STORY.

him and then taking them off his hands. Colonel
Poyntz, the he-colonel, had seen, in his youth, actual
service, but had retired from his profession many
years ago, shortly after his marriage. He was a
younger brother of one of the principal squires in the
county ; inherited the house he lived in, -with some

other valuable property in and about L , from an

uncle ; was considered a good landlord, and popular
in Low Town, though he never interfered in its affairs.
He was punctiliously neat in his dress ; a thin youth-
ful figure, crowned with a thick youthful wig. He
never seemed to read anything but the newspapers
and the Meteorological Journal : was supposed to be
the most weather-wise man in all L . He had an-
other intellectual predilection — whist. But in that
he had less reputation for wisdom. Perhaps it re-
quires a rarer combination of mental faculties to win
an odd trick than to divine a fall in the glass. For
the rest, the he-colonel, many years older than his wife,
despite the thin youthful figure, was an admirable aide-
de-camp to the general in command, Mrs Colonel ;
and she coiild not have found one more obedient,
more devoted, or more proud of a distinguished chief

In giving to Mrs Colonel Poyntz the appellation of
Queen of the Hill, let there be no mistake. She was
not a- constitutional sovereign ; her monarchy was ab-
solute. ' All her proclamations had the force of laws.

Such ascendancy could not have been attained with-
out considerable talents for acquiring and keeping it.
Amidst all her off-hand, brisk, imperious frankness,

1

A STEAXGE STOKY. 49

she had the ineffable discrimination of tact. "Whether
civil or rude, she was never civil or rude but what
she carried public opinion along with her. Her know-
ledge of general society must have been limited, as
must be that of all female sovereigns. But she seemed
gifted with an intuitive knowledge of human nature,
which she applied to her special ambition of ruling it.
I have not a doubt that if she had been suddenly trans-
ferred, a perfect stranger, to the world of London, she
would have soon forced her way to its selectest circles,
and, when once there, held her own against a duchess.

I have said that she was not affected : this might
be one cause of her sway over a set in which nearly
every other woman was trying rather to seem, than to
be, a somebody.

But if Mrs Colonel Poyntz was not artificial, she
Aras artful, or perhaps I might more justly say, artis-
tic. In all she said and did there were conduct,
system, plan. She could be a most serviceable friend,
a most damaging enemy ; yet I believe she seldom
indulged in strong likings or strong hatreds. All was
policy — a policy akin to that of a grand party chief
determined to raise up those whom, for any reason of
state, it was prudent to favour, and to put down those
whom, for any reason of state, it was expedient to
humble or to crush.

Ever since the controversy with Dr Lloyd, this
lady had honoured me with her benign est counten-
ance. And nothing could be more adroit than the
manner in which, while imposing me on others as an

VOL. I. D

50 A STEAXGE STOEY.

oracular autliority, she sought to subject to her 'will
the oracle itself.

She was in the habit of addressing me in a sort of
motherly way, as if she had the deepest interest in my
welfare, happiness, and reputation. And thus, in every
compliment, in every seeming mark of respect, she
maintained the superior dignity of one who takes
from responsible station the duty to encourage rising
merit : so that, somehow or other, despite all that
pride which made me believe that I needed no helping
hand to advance or to clear my way through the
world, I could not shake off from my mind the
impression that I was mysteriously patronised by Mrs
Colonel Poyntz.

"We might have sat together five minutes, side by
side — in silence as complete as if in the cave of Tro-
phonius — when, without looking up from her work,
Mrs Poyntz said abruptly,

"I am thinking about you, Dr Fenwick. And
you — are thinking about some other woman. Un-
grateful man ! "

" Unjust accusation ! My very silence should prove
how intently my thoughts were fixed on you, and on
the weird web which springs under your hand in
meshes that bewilder the gaze and snare the attention."

Mrs Poyntz looked up at me for a moment — one
rapid glance of the bright red hazel eye — and said,

" Was I really in your thoughts ? Answer truly."

"Truly, I answer, you were."

" That is strange ! AVho can it be 1 "

A STRAXGE STORY. 51

" "Who can it be ! What do you mean 1 "
" If jou were thinking of me, it was in connection
with some other person — some other person of my
own sex. It is certainly not poor dear Miss Brabazon,
Who else can it be 1 "

Again the red eye shot over me, and I felt my cheek
redden beneath it.

"Hush!" she said, lowering her voice; "you are
in love ! "

" In love I — I ! Permit me to ask you why you
think so ? "

" The signs are unmistakable ; you are altered in
your manner, even in the expression of your face,
since I last saw you ; your manner is generally quiet
and observant, it is now restless and distracted ; your
expression of face is generally proud and serene, it is
now humbled and troubled. You have something on
your mind ! It is not anxiety for your reputation, that
is established ; nor for your fortune, that is made ; it is
not anxiety for a patient, or you would scarcely be here.
But anxiety it is — an anxiety that is remote from your
profession, that touches your heart, and is new to it ! "
I was startled, almost awed. But I tried to cover
my confusion with a forced laugh.

" Profound observer ! Subtle analyst ! You have
convinced me that I must be in love, though I did
not suspect it before. But when I strive to conjecture
the object, I am as much perplexed as yourself; and
with you, I ask, who can it be 1 "

" Whoever it be," said ]\Irs Poyntz, who had paused,

52 A STKANGE STORY.

while I spoke, from her knitting, and now resumed it
very slowly and very carefully, as if her mind and her
knitting worked in unison together — "whoever it be,
love in you would be serious ; and, with or without
love, marriage is a serious thing to us all. It is not
every pretty girl that would suit Allen Fenwick."

" Alas ! is there any pretty girl whom Allen Fen-
wick would suit ] "

"Tut ! You should be above the fretful vanity that
lays traps for a compliment. Yes ; the time has come
in your life and your career when you would do well
to marry. I give my consent to that," she added, with
a smile as if in jest, and a slight nod as if in earnest.
The knitting here went on more decidedly, more quick-
ly. " But I do not yet see the person. No ! 'Tis a
pity, Allen Fenwick " (whenever Mrs Poyntz called me
by my Christian name, she always assumed her majes-
tic motherly manner) — " a pity that, with your birth,
energies, perseverance, talents, and, let me add, your
advantages of manner and person — a pity that you
did not choose a career that might achieve higher
fortunes and louder fame than the most brilliant
success can give to a provincial physician. But in
that very choice you interest me. My choice has
been much the same. A small circle, but the first in
it. Yet, had I been a man, or had my dear colonel
been a man whom it was in the power of woman's
art to raise one step higher in that metaphorical
ladder which is not the ladder of the angels, why,
then — what then 1 No matter ! I am contented. I

A STRANGE STORY. 53

transfer my ambition to Jane. Do you not think lier
handsome ] "

"There can be no doubt of that," said I, carelessly
and naturally.

" I have settled Jane's lot in my own mind,"
resumed Mrs Poyntz, striking firm into another row
of knitting. " She will marry a country gentleman
of large estate. He will go into Parliament. She
will study his advancement as I study PojTitz's com-
fort. If he be clever, she will help to make him a
minister : if he be not clever, his wealth will make her
a personage, and lift him into a personage's husband.
And, now that you see I have no matrimonial designs
on you, Allen Fenwick, think if it be worth while
to confide in me. Possibly I may be useful "

"I know not how to thank you. But, as yet, I
have nothing to confide."

"While thus saying, I turned my eyes towards the
open window beside which I sat. It was a beautiful
soft night. The May moon in all her splendour. The
town stretched, far and wide, below with all its
numberless lights — below, but somewhat distant ; an
intervening space was covered, here by the broad
quadrangle (in the midst of which stood, massive and
lonely, the grand old church), and there by the gar-
dens and scattered cottages or mansions that clothed
the sides of the hiU.

" Is not that house," I said, after a short pause,
"yonder, with the three gables, the one in which — in
which poor Dr Lloyd lived — Abbots' House 1 "

54 A STEANGE STORY.

I spoke abruptly, as if to intimate my desire to
change the subject of conversation. My hostess stop-
ped her knitting, half rose, looked forth.

" Yes. But what a lovely night ! How is it that
the moon blends into harmony things of which the
sun only marks the contrast 1 That stately old church-
tower, grey with its thousand years those vulgar tile-
roofs and chimney-pots, raw in the freshness of yester-
day,— now, under the moonlight, all melt into one
indivisible charm ! "

As my hostess thus Rpoke, she had left her seat,
taking her work with her, and passed from the window
into the balcony. It was not often that Mrs Poyntz
condescended to admit what is called "sentiment"
into the range of her sharp, practical, worldly talk,
but she did so at times ; always, when she did, giving
me the notion of an intellect much too comprehensive
not to allow that sentiment has a place in this life,
but keeping it La its proper place, by that mixture of
affability and indifference with which some high-born
beauty allows the genius, but checks the presumption,
of a charming and penniless poet. For a few miuutes
her eyes roved over the scene in evident enjoyment j
then, as they slowly settled upon the three gables of
Abbots' House, her face regained that something of
hardness which belonged to its decided character ; her
fingers again mechanically resumed her knitting, and
she said, in her clear, unsoftened, metalKc chime of
voice, " Can you guess why I took so much trouble to
oblige Mr A^igors and locate Mrs Ashleigh yonder ? "

A STEAXGE STORY. 55

" You favoured us with a full explanation oi your
reasons."

" Some of my reasons — not the main one. People
•who undertake the task of governing others, as I do,
be their rule a kingdom or a hamlet, must adopt a
principle of government and adhere to it. The prin-
ciple that suits best with the Hill is respect for the Pro-
prieties. "We have not much money ; entre nous, we
have no great rank. Our policy is, then, to set up
the Proprieties as an influence which money must
court and rank is afraid of. I had learned just before
Mr Vigors called on me that Lady Sarah Bellasis
entertained the idea of hiring Abbots' House. London
has set its face against her ; a provincial toAvn would
be more charitable. An earl's daughter, with a good
income and an awfully bad name, of the best manners
and of the worst morals, would have made sad havoc
among the Proprieties. How many of our primmest
old maids would have deserted tea and Mrs Poyntz
for champagne and her ladyship 1 The Hill was never
in so imminent a danger. Eather than Lady Sarah
Bellasis should have had that house, I would have
taken it myself, and stocked it with owls.

" ]Mjs Ashleigh turned up just in the critical mo-
ment. Lady Sarah is foiled, the Proprieties safe, and
so that question is settled."

" And it will be pleasant to have your early friend
so near you."

Mrs Poyntz lifted her eyes full upon me.

" Do you know ^Irs Ashleigh ] "

56 A STllANGE STORY.

" jSTot in the least."

" She has many virtues and few ideas. She is
commonplace weak, as I am commonplace strong.
But commonplace weak can be very lovable. Her
husband, a man of genius and learning, gave her his
whole heart — a heart worth having, but he was not
ambitious, and he despised the world."

" I think you said your daughter was very much
attached to Miss Ashleigh 1 Does her character
resemble her mother's 1 "

I was afraid while I spoke that I should again meet
Mrs Poyntz's searching gaze, but she did not this time
look up from her work.

" il^o ; Lilian is anything but commonplace."

" You described her as having delicate health ; you
implied a hope that she was not consumptive. I
trust that there is no serious reason for apprehending
a constitutional tendency which at her age would
require the most careful watching."

"I trust not. If she were to die — Dr Fenwick,
what is the matter 1 "

So terrible had been the picture Avhich this woman's
words had brought before me, that I started as if my
own life had received a shock.

" I beg pardon," I said, falteringly, pressing my
hand to my heart ; " a sudden spasm here — it is over
now. You were saying that — that "

" I was about to say," and here Mrs Poyntz laid
her hand lightly on mine — "I was about to say that
of Lilian Ashleigrh were to die, I should mourn for her

A STR.INGE STORY. 57

less than I might for one who valued the things of
the earth more. But I believe there is no cause for
the alarm my words so inconsiderately excited in you.
Her mother is watchfid and devoted ; and if the least
thing ailed Lilian, she woidd call in medical advice.
Mr Vigors would, I know, recommend Dr Jones."

Closing our conference with those stinging words,
Mrs Poyntz here turned back into the drawing-room.

I remained some minutes on the balcony, discon-
certed, enraged. "With what consummate art had this
practised diplomatist wound herself into my secret !
That she had read my heart better than myself was
evident from that Parthian shaft, barbed with Dr
Jones, which she had shot over her shoulder in retreat.
That from the first moment in which she had decoyed
me to her side, she had detected " the something " on
my mind, was perhaps but the ordinary quickness of
female penetration. But it was with no ordinary craft
that her whole conversation afterwards had been so
shaped as to learn the something, and lead me to
reveal the some one to whom the something was
linked. For what purpose 1 What was it to her 1
What motive could she have beyond the mere gratifi-
cation of curiosity ? Perhaps at first she thought I
had been caught by her daughter's showy beauty, and
hence the half-friendly, half-cynical frankness with
which she had avowed her ambitious projects for that
young lady's matrimonial advancement. Satisfied by
my manner that I cherished no presumptuous hopes
in that quarter, her scrutiny was doubtless continued

58 A STR.VNGE STOEY.

from that pleasure in the exercise of a wily intellect
which impels schemers and politicians to an activity
for which, without that pleasure itself, there would
seem no adequate inducement ; and, besides, the ruling
passion of this petty sovereign was power. And if
knowledge be power, there is no better instrument of
power over a contumacious subject than that hold on
his heart which is gained in the knowledge of its
secret.

But " secret ! " Had it really come to this 1 Was
it possible that the mere sight of a human face, never
beheld before, could disturb the whole tenor of my
life — a stranger of whose mind and character I knew
nothing, whose very voice I had never heard 1 It was
only by the intolerable pang of anguish that had rent
my heart in the words, carelessly, abruptly spoken,
" if she were to die," that I had felt how the world
would be changed to me, if indeed that face were seen
in it no more ! Yes, secret it was no longer to myself
— I loved ! And like all on whom love descends,
sometimes softly, slowly, with the gradual wing of the
cushat settling down into its nest, sometimes with the
swoop of the eagle on his unsuspecting quarry, I be-
lieved that none ever before loved as I loved ; that
such love was an abnormal wonder, made solely for
me, and I for it. Then my mind insensibly hushed
its angrier and more turbulent thoughts, as my gaze
rested upon the roof-tops of Lilian's home, and the
shimmering silver of the moonlit willow, under which
I had seen her gazing into the roseate heavens.

CHAPTEE VIII.

When I returned to the draAving-room the party Tvas
evidently aboiit to hreak np. Those who had grouped
round the piano were noAv assembled round the re-
freshment-tahle. The card-players had risen, and were
settling or discussing gains and losses. "While I was
searching for my hat, which I had somewhere mislaid,
a poor old gentleman, tormented hy tic-doidoureux, crept
timidly up to me — the proudest and the poorest of all
the hidalgoes settled on the HilL He could not afford
a fee for a physician's advice, but pain had humbled
his pride, and I saw at a glance that he was consider-
ing how to take a surreptitious advantage of social in-
tercourse, and obtain the advice without paying the
fee. The old man discovered the hat before I did,
stooped, took it up, extended it to me with the pro-
found bow of the old school, while the other hand,
clenched and quivering, was pressed into the hollow
of his cheek, and his eyes met mine Avith wistfid mute
entreaty. The instinct of my profession seized me at
once. I could never behold suffering mthout forget-
ting all else in the desire to relieve it.

"You are in pain," said I, softly. "Sit down and

60 A STRANGE STOEY.

describe the symptoms. Here, it is true, I am no pro
fessional doctor, but I am a friend who is fond oft
doctoring, and knows something about it."

So we sat down a little apart from the other guests,
and after a few questions and answers, I was pleased
to find that his " tic " did not belong to the less cur-
able kind of that agonising neuralgia. I was especially
successful in my treatment of similar sufferings, for
which I had discovered an anodyne that was almost
specific. I wrote on a leaf of my pocket-book a pre-
scription which I felt sure would be efficacious ; and as
I tore it out and placed it in his hand I chanced to
look up, and saw the hazel eyes of my hostess fixed
upon me with a kinder and softer expression than they
often condescended to admit into their cold and pene-
trating lustre. At that moment, however, her atten-
tion was drawn from me to a servant, who entered
with a note, and I heard him say, though in an under-
tone, " From Mrs Ashleigh."

She opened the note, read it hastily, ordered the
servant to wait without the door, retired to her writ-
ing-table, which stood near the place at which I still
lingered, rested her face on her hand, and seemed mus-
ing. Her meditation was very soon over. She turned
her head, and, to my surprise, beckoned to me. I
approached.

" Sit here," she whispered ; " turn your back to-
wards those people, who are no doubt watching us.
Eead this."

She placed in my hand the note she had just

A STEAKGE STOKY. 61

received. It contained but a few words to this
effect :—

' Dear Margaret, — I am so distressed. Since I
wrote to you, a few hours ago, Lilian is taken suddenly
ill, and I fear seriously. "What medical man should
I send for ? Let my servant have his name and ad-
dress. "A. A."

I sprang from my seat.

" Stay," said Mrs Poyntz. " "Would you much care
if I sent the servant to Dr Jones 1 "

" Ah, madam, you are cruel ! "What have I done
that you should become my enemy 1 "

■Enemy! 'No. You have just befriended one of
my friends. In this world of fools intellect should
aUy itself with intellect. ISTo ; I am not your enemy !
But you have not yet asked me to be your fiiend."

Here she put into my hands a note she had written
while thus speaking. " Receive your credentials. If
there be any cause for alarm, or if I can be of use,
send for me.'' Eesuming the work she had suspended,
but with lingering uncertain fingers, she added, " So
far, then, this is settled. Nay, no thanks j it is but
little that is settled as yet."

CHAPTER IX.

In a very few minutes I was once more in the grounds
of that old gable house : the servant, who went before
me, entered them by the stairs and the wicket-gate of
the private entrance — that way was the shortest. So
again I passed by the circling glade and the monastic
well — sward, trees, and ruins, all suffused in the limpid
moonlight.

And now I was in the house : the servant took
up-stairs the note with which I was charged, and a
minute or two afterwards returned and conducted me
to the corridor above, in which Mrs Ashleigh received
me. I was the first to speak. " Your daughter — is —
is — not seriously ill, I hope. "What is it?"

"Hush!" she said, under her breath. "Will you
step this way for a moment?"

She passed through a doorway to the right. I
followed her, and as she placed on the table the light
she had been holding, I looked round with a chill at
; the heart — it was the room in which Dr Lloyd had
died. Impossible to mistake. The furniture, indeed,
was changed — there was no bed in the chamber ; but
the shape of the room, the position of the high case-

A STRANGE STOEY. 63

ment, which was now wide open, and through which
the moonlight streamed more softly than on that
drear winter night, the great square heams intersecting
the low ceiling — all were impressed vividly on my
memory. The chair to which Mrs Ashleigh beckoned
me was placed just on the spot where I had stood
by the bed-head of the dying man.

I shrank back — I could not have seated myself
there. So I remained leaning against the chimney-
piece, while Mrs Ashleigh told her story.

She said that on their arrival the day before, Lilian
had been in more than usually good health and spirits,
delighted with the old house, the grounds, and espe-
cially the nook by the Monk's Well, at which Mrs
Ashleigh had left her that evening in order to make
some purchases in the town, in company with Mr
Vigors. When IMrs Ashleigh returned, she and Mr
Vigors had sought Lilian in that nook, and Mrs Ash-
leigh then detected, with a mother's eye, some change
in Lilian, which alarmed her. She seemed listless and
dejected, and was very pale ; but she denied that she
felt unwell. On regaining the house she had sat down
in the room in which we then were — "which," said
Mrs Ashleigh, "as it is not required for a sleeping-
room, my daughter, who is fond of reading, wished to
fit up as her own morning-room, or study. I left her
here and went into the drawing-room below with Mr
Vigors. "When he quitted me, which he did very
soon, I remained for nearly an hour giving directions
about the placing of furniture, which had just arrived

64 A STRANGE STOEY.

from our late residence. I then "O'ent np-stairs to join
mj daughter, and to my terror found her apparently
lifeless in her chair. She had fainted away."

I interrupted Mrs Ashleigh here. " Has Miss Ash-
leigh been subject to fainting fits 1"

"ISTo, never. When she recovered she seemed be-
Avildered — disinclined to speak. I got her to bed, and
as she then fell quietly to sleep my mind was relieved.
I thought it only a passing effect of excitement, in a
change of abode ; or caused by something like malaria
in the atmosphere of that part of the grounds in which
I had found her seated."

" Very likely. The hour of sunset at this time of
year is trying to delicate constitutions. Go on."

" About three-quarters of an hour ago she woke np
with a loud cry, and has been ever since in a state of
great agitation, weeping violently, and answering none
of my questions. Yet she does not seem light-headed,
but rather what we call hysterical."

"You will permit me now to see her. Take com-
fort; in all you tell me I see nothing to warrant
serious alarm."

CHAPTEE X.

To the true physician there is an inexpressible sanctity
in the sick-chamber. At its threshold the more human
passions quit their hold on his heart. Love tliere
■would be profanation. Even the grief permitted to
others he must put aside. He must enter that room
— a Calm lutelLigence. He is disabled for his mission
if he suffer aught to obscure the keen quiet glance of
his science. Age or youth, beauty or deformity, inno-
cence or guilt, merge their distinctions in one common
attribute — human suff"ering appealing to human skill.

Woe to the households in which the trusted Healer
feels not on his conscience the solemn obligations of
his glorious art. Eeverently, as in a temple, I stood
in the virgin's chamber. "When her mother placed her
hand in mine, and I felt the throb of its pulse, I was
aware of no quicker beat of my own heart. I looked
with a steady eye on the face, more beautiful fi-om the
flush that deepened the deHcate hues of the young
cheek, and the lustre that brightened the dark blue of
the wandering eyes. She did not at first heed me —
did not seem aware of my presence — but kept mur-
muring to herself words which I could not distinguish.

VOL. I. E

66 A STRANGE STORV.

At length, when I spoke to her, in that low, sooth-
ing tone which we learn at the sick-hed, the expression
of her face altered suddenly ; she passed the hand I did
not hold over her forehead, turned round, looked at
me full and long, with unmistakable surprise, yet not
as if the surprise displeased her — less the surprise
which recoils from the sight of a stranger than that
which seems doubtfully to recognise an unexpected
friend. Yet on the surprise there seemed to creep
something of apprehension — of fear; her hand trem-
bled, her voice quivered, as she said, —

" Can it be, can it be ? Am I awake 1 Mother,
Avho is this 1 "

" Only a kind visitor, Dr Fenwick, sent by Mrs
Poyntz, for I was uneasy about you, darling. How are
you now ? "

" Better, strangely better."

She removed her hand gently from mine, and, with
an involuntary modest shrinking, turned towards Mrs
Ashleigh, drawing her mother towards herself, so that
she became at once hidden from me.

Satisfied that there was here no delirium, nor even
more than the slight and temporary fever which often
accompanies a sudden nervous attack in constitutions
pecuHarly sensitive, I retired noiselessly from the room,
and went, not into that which had been occupied by
the ill-fated N'aturalist, but down-stairs into the draw-
ing-room, to write my prescription. I had already
sent the servant off with it to the chemist's before Mrs
Ashleigh joined me.

A STEANGE STORY, 67

" She seems recovering surprisingly ; her forehead
is cooler ; she is perfectly self-possessed, only she can-
not account for her own seizure, cannot account either
for the fainting or the agitation with which she awoke
from sleep."

" I think I can account for both. The first room
in which she entered — that in which she fainted — had
its window open ; the sides of the window are over-
grown with rank creeping plants in full blossom.
Miss Ashleigh had already predisposed herself to in-
jurious effects from the effluvia, by fatigue, excitement,
imprudence in sitting out at the fall of a heavy dew.
The sleep after the fainting fit was the more disturbed,
because Nature, always alert and active in subjects so
young, was making its own effort to right itself from
an injury. Nature has nearly succeeded. What I
have prescribed will a little aid and accelerate that
which Nature has yet to do, and in a day or two I
do not doubt that your daughter will be perfectly re-
stored. Only let me recommend care to avoid expos-
ure to the open air during the close of the day. Let
her avoid also the room in which she was first seized,
for it is a strange phenomenon in nervous tempera-
ments that a nervous attack may, without visible
cause, be repeated in the same place where it was first
experienced. You had better shut up the chamber
for at least some weeks, burn fires in it, repaint and
paper it, sprinkle chloroform. You are not, perhaps,
aware that Dr Lloyd died in that room after a pro-
longed illness. Suffer me to wait till your servant

68 A STKANGE STORY.

returns with the medicine, and let me employ the
interval in asking you a few questions. Miss Ash-
leigh, you say, never had a fainting fit before. I
should presume that she is not what we call strong.
But has she ever had any iUness that alarmed you 1 "

" I^ever."

" No great liability to cold and cough, to attacks of
the chest or lungs 1 "

" Certainly not. Still I have feared that she may
have a tendency to consumption. Do you think so ?
Your questions alarm me ! "

" I do not think so ; but before I pronounce a posi-
tive opinion, one question more. You say you have
feared a tendency to consumption. Is that disease in
her family 1 She certainly did not inherit it from you.
But on her father's side ? "

" Her father," said Mrs Ashleigh, with tears in her
eyes, " died young, but of brain fever, which the
medical men said was brought on by over-study."

" Enough, my dear madam. What you say con-
firms my belief that your daughter's constitution is the
very opposite to that in which the seeds of consump-
tion lurk. It is rather that far nobler constitution,
which the keenness of the nervous susceptibility ren-
ders delicate but elastic — as quick to recover as it is
to suffer."

" Thank you, thank you, Dr Fenwick, for what you
say. You take a load from my heart. For Mr Vigors,
I know, thinks Lilian consumptive, and Mrs Poyntz
has rather frightened me at times by hints to the same

A STKANGE STORY. 69

effect. But when you speak of nervous susceptibility,
I do not quite understand you. My daughter is not
what is commonly called nervous. Her temper is
singularly even."

" But if not excitable, should you also say that she
is not impressionable 1 The things which do not dis-
turb her temper may perhaps deject her spirits. Do
I make myself understood ? "

" Yes, I think I understand your distinction ; but
I am not quite sure if it applies. To most things that
affect the spirits she is not more sensitive than other
guis, perhaps less so; but she is certainly' very im-
pressionable in some things."

" In what 1 "

" She is more moved than any one I ever knew by
objects in external nature — rural scenery, rural sounds
— by music, by the books that she reads, even books
that are not works of imagination. Perhaps in all this
she takes after her poor father, but in a more marked
degree — at least, I observe it more in her. For he
was very silent and reserved. And perhaps also her
peculiarities have been fostered by the seclusion in
which she has been brought up. It was with a view
to make her a little more like girls of her own age that
our friend Mrs Poyntz induced me to come here. Lilian
was reconciled to this change ; but she shrank from
the thoughts of London, which I should have pre-
ferred. Her poor father could not endure London."

" Miss Ashleigh is fond of reading 1 "

" Yes, she is fond of reading, but more fond of

70 A STRANGE STORY.

musing. She will sit by herself for hours without
book or work, and seem as abstracted as if in a dream.
She was so even in her earliest childhood. Then she
would tell me what she had been conjuring up to her-
self. She would say that she had seen — positively
seen — beautiful lands far away from earth ; flowers
and trees not like ours. As she grew older this
visionary talk displeased me, and I scolded her, and
said that if others heard her, they would think that
she was not only silly but very untruthful. So of
late years she never ventures to tell me what, in such
dreamy moments, she suffers herself to imagine; but
the habit of musing continues still. Do you not agree
with Mrs Poyntz, that the best cure would be a little
cheerful society amongst other young people 1 "

" Certainly," said I, honestly, though with a jealous
pang. "But here comes the medicine. Will you
take it up to her, and then sit with her half an hour
or so ] By that time I expect she will be asleep.
I will wait here till you return. Oh, I can amuse
myself with the newspapers and books on your table.
Stay ! one caution : be sure there are no flowers in
Miss Ashleigh's sleeping-room. I think I saw a
treacherous rose-tree in a stand by the window. If
so, banish it."

Left alone, I examined the room in which, oh
thought of joy ! I had surely now won the claim
to become a privileged guest. I touched the books
Lilian must have touched ; in the articles of furniture,
as yet so hastily disposed that the settled look of

A STRANGE STORY. 71

home was not about them, I still knew that I was
gazing on things which her mind must associate with
the history of her young life. That lute-harp must
be surely hers — and the scarf, with a girl's favourite
colours, pure white and pale blue, — and the bird-
cage, and the childish ivory work-case, with imple-
ments too pretty for use, all spoke of her.

It was a blissful intoxicating reverie, which ]\Irs
Ashleigh's entrance disturbed.

Lilian was sleeping calmly. I had no excuse to
linger there any longer.

" I leave you, I trust, with your mind quite at ease,"
said I. " You will allow me to call to-morrow, in the
afternoon 1 "

" Oh yes, gratefully."

Mrs Ashleigh held out her hand as I made towards
the door.

Is there a physician who has not felt at times how
that ceremonious fee throws him back from the gar-
den-land of humanity into the market-place of money
— seems to put him out of the pale of equal friendship,
and say, "True, you have given health and life.
Adieu ! there, you are paid for it." With a poor
person there would have been no dilemma, but Mis
Ashleigh was affluent : to depart from custom here
was almost impertinence. But had the penalty of my
refusal been the doom of never again beholding LUian,
I could not have taken her mother's gold. So I did
not appear to notice the hand held out to me, and
passed by with a quickened step.

72 A STEANGE STOEY. ]

" But, Dr Fenwick, stop ! "

"'No, ma'am, no! Miss Ashleigh would have re-
covered as soon without me. "Whenever my aid is
really wanted, then — but Heaven grant that time may;
never come ! "We will talk again about her to-l
morrow." I

I was gone. !N"ow in the garden ground, odorous
with blossoms ; now in the lane, enclosed by the
narrow walls ; now in the deserted streets, over which
the moon shone full as in that winter night when I
hurried from the chamber of death. But the streets
were not ghastly now, and the moon was no longer
Hecate, that dreary goddess of awe and spectres, but
the sweet, simple Lady of the Stars, on whose gentle
face lovers have gazed ever since (if that guess of astro-
nomers be true) she was parted from earth to rule the
tides of its deeps from afar, even as love, from love
divided, rules the heart that yearns towards it Avith
mysterious law !

CHAPTER XL

"With Avhat increased benignity I listened to the
patients who visited me the next morning ! The
whole human race seemed to he worthier of love, and
I longed to diffuse amongst all some rays of the
glorious hope that had dawned upon my heart. My
first call, when I went forth, was on the poor young
woman from whom I had been returning the day
before, when an impulse, which seemed like a fate,
had lured me into the grounds where I had first seen
Lilian. I felt grateful to this poor patient ; without
her, Lilian herself might be yet unknown to me.

The girl's brother, a young man employed in the
police, and whose pay supported a widowed mother
and the sufi'ering sister, received me at the threshold
of the cottage.

" Oh, sir ! she is so much better to-day ; almost
free from pain. Will she live, now 1 can she live 1 "

" If my treatment has really done the good you say —
if she be really better under it — I think her recovery
may be pronounced. But I must first see her."

The girl was indeed wonderfully better. I felt that
my skill was achieving a signal triumph ; but that

74 A. STEANGE STORY.

day even my intellectual pride was forgotten in the
luxurious unfolding of that sense of heart which had
so newly waked into blossom.

As I recrossed the threshold, I smiled on the
brother, who was still lingering there.

" Your sister is saved, Waby. She needs now
chiefly wine, and good though light nourishment ;
these you will find at my house ; call there for them
every day."

" God bless you, sir ! If ever I can serve you "

His tongue faltered — he could say no more.

Serve me — AUen Fenwick — that poor policeman !
Me, whom a king could not serve ! What did I
ask from earth but Fame and Lilian's heart 1 Thrones
and bread man wins from the aid of others ; fame
and woman's heart he can only gain through himself.

So I strode gaily up the hill, through the iron
gates, into the fairy ground, and stood before Lilian's
home.

The man-servant, on opening the door, seemed some-
what confused, and said hastily, before I spoke —

" Not at home, sir ; a note for you."

T turned the note mechanically in my hand ; I felt
stunned.

" Not at home ! Miss Ashleigh cannot be out.
How is she?"

"Better, sir, thank you."

I still could not open the note ; my eyes turned
wistfully towards the windows of the house, and
there, at the drawing-room window, I encountered

A STRANGE STOEY. 75

the scowl of Mr Vigors. I coloured witli resentment,
divined that I was dismissed, and walked away with
a proud crest and a firm step.

When I was out of the gates, in the blind lane, I
opened the note. It began formally, " j\Irs Ashleigh
presents her compliments," and went on to thank me,
civilly enough, for my attendance the night before,
would not give me the trouble to repeat my visit, and
enclosed a fee, double the amount of the fee prescribed
by custom. I flung the money, as an asp that had
stung me, over the high wall, and tore the note into
shreds. Having thus idly vented my rage, a dull,
gnawing sorrow came heavily down upon all other
emotions, stifling and replacing them. At the mouth
of the lane I halted. I shrank from the thought of
the crowded streets beyond. I shrank yet more from
the routine of duties which stretched before me in the
desert into which daily life was so suddenly smitten.
I sat down by the roadside, shading my dejected face
with a nerveless hand. I looked up as the sound of
steps reached my ear, and saw Dr Jones coming briskly
along the lane, evidently from Abbots' House. He
must have been there at the very time I had called.
I was not only dismissed but supplanted. I rose be-
fore he reached the spot on which I had seated myself,
and went my way into the town, went through my
allotted round of professional visits ; but my attentions
were not so tenderly devoted, my skill so genially
quickened by the glow of benevolence, as my poorer
patients had found them in the morning.

76 A STRANGE STORY.

I have said how the physician should enter the
sick-room. " A Calm Intelligence ! " Eut if you
strike a blow on the heart, the intellect suffers. Little
worth, I suspect, was my " calm intelligence " that
day. Bichat, in his famous book upon Life and Death,
divides life into two classes — animal and organic.
Man's intellect, with the brain for its centre, belongs
to life animal ; his passions to life organic, centred in
the heart, in the viscera. Alas ! if the noblest passions
through which alone we lift ourselves into the moral
realm of the sublime and beautiful, really have their
centre in the life which the very vegetable, that lives
organically, shares with us ! And, alas ! if it be that
life which we share with the vegetable, that can cloud,
obstruct, suspend, annul that life centred in the brain,
which we share with every being howsoever angelic, in
every star howsoever remote, on whom the Creator
bestows the faculty of thought !

CHAPTEli XII.

But suddenly I remembered Mrs Poyntz. I ought to
call on her. So I closed my round of visits at her
door. The day was then far advanced, and the ser-
vant politely informed me that Mrs Poyntz was at din-
ner. I could only leave my card, with a message that
I would pay my respects to her the next day. That
evening I received from her this note : —

" Dear Dr Fenwick, — I regret much that I cannot
have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow. Poyntz
and I are going to visit his brother, at the other end
of the county, and we start early. We shall be away
some days. Sorry to hear from Mrs Ashleigh that she
has been persuaded by Mr Vigors to consult Dr Jones
about Lilian. Vigors and Jones both frighten the
poor mother, and insist upon consumptive tendencies.
Unluckily, you seem to have said there was little the
matter. Some doctors gain their practice, as some
preachers fill their churches, by adroit use of the ap-
peals to terror. You do not Avant patients — Dr Jones
does. And, after all, better perhaps as it is. Yours,
&c. "M. Poyntz."

78 A STRANGE STOEY.

To my more selfish grief anxiety for Lilian was no-w-
added. I had seen many more patients die from being
mistreated for consumption than from consumption
itself. And Dr Jones was a mercenary, cunning,
needy man, with much crafty knowledge of human
foibles, but very little skill in the treatment of human
maladies. My fears were soon confirmed. A few days
after I heard from Miss Brabazon that Miss Ashleigh
was seriously ill, kept her room. Mrs Ashleigh made
this excuse for not immediately returning the visits
which the Hill had showered upon her. Miss Bra-
bazon had seen Dr Jones, who had shaken his head,
said it was a serious case ; but that time and care (his
time and his care !) might effect wonders.

How stealthily, at the dead of the night, I would
climb the Hill, and look towards the windows of the
old sombre house — one window, in which a light burnt
dim and mournful, the light of a sick-room — of hers !

At length Mrs Poyntz came back, and I entered her
house, having fully resolved beforehand on the line of
policy to be adopted towards the potentate whom I
hoped to secure as an ally. It was clear that neither
disguise nor half-confidence would baffle the penetra-
tion of so keen an intellect, nor propitiate the goodwill
of so imperious and resolute a temper. Perfect frank-
ness here was the wisest prudence ; and, after all, it
was most agreeable to my o-«ti nature, and most worthy
of my own honour.

Luckily, I found Mrs Poyntz alone ; and taking in
both mine the hand she somewhat coldly extended

A STRANGE STORY. 79

to me, I said, with the earnestness of suppressed emo-
tion—

" You observed, when I last saw you, that I had not
yet asked you to be my friend. I ask it now. Listen
to me with all the indulgence you can vouchsafe, and
let me at least profit by your counsel if you refuse to
give me your aid."

Eapidly, briefly, I went on to say how I had first
seen Lilian, and how sudden, how strange to myself,
had been the impression which that first sight of her
had produced.

** You remarked the change that had come over me,"
said I ; " you divined the cause before I divined it
myself — divined it as I sat there beside you, thinking
that through you I might see, in the freedom of social
intercourse, the face that was then haunting me. You
know what has since passed. Miss Ashleigh is ill ;
her case is, I am convinced, wholly misunderstood.
All other feelings are merged in one sense of anxiety —
of alarm. But it has become due to me, due to all, to
incur the risk of your ridicule even more than of your
reproof, by stating to you thus candidly, plainly,
bluntly, the sentiment Avhich renders alarm so poig-
nant, and which, if scarcely admissible to the romance
of some wild dreamy boy, may seem an unpardonable
folly in a man of my years and my sober calling — due
to me, to you, to Mrs Ashleigh, because still the dear-
est thing in life to me is honour. And if you, who
know Mrs Ashleigh so intimately, who must be more
or less aware of her plans or wishes for her daughter's

so A STRANGE STORY.

future — if you believe that those plans or wishes lead
to a lot far more ambitious than an alliance with me
could offer to Miss Ashleigh, then aid Mr Vigors in
excluding me from the house ; aid me in suppressing
a presumptuous, visionary passion. I cannot enter
that house without love and hope at my heart. And
the threshliold of that house I must not cross if such
love and such hope Avould be a sin and a treachery in
the eyes of its owner. I might restore Miss Ashleigh

to health; her gratitude might I cannot continue.

This danger must not be to me nor to her, if her
mother has views far above such a son-in-law. And I
am the more bound to consider all this whde it is yet
time, because I heard you state that Miss Ashleigh had
a fortune — was what would be here termed an heiress.
And the full consciousness that whatever fame one in
my profession may live to acquire, does not open those
vistas of social power and grandeur which are open by
professions to my eyes less noble in themselves — that
full consciousness, I say, was forced upon me by certain
words of your own. For the rest, you know my de-
scent is sufficiently recognised as that amidst well-
born gentry to have rendered me no mesalliance to
families the most proud of their ancestry, if I had kept
my hereditary estate, and avoided the career that makes
me useful to man. But I acknowledge that, on enter-
ing a profession such as mine — entering any profession
except that of arms or the senate — all leave their pedi-
gree at its door, an erased or dead letter. All must
come as equals, high-born or low-born, into that arena

A STRANGE STOKY. 81

in -which, men ask aid from a man as he makes him-
self; to them his dead forefathers are idle dust.
Therefore, to the advantage of birth I cease to have a
claim. I am but a provincial physician, whose sta-
tion would be the same had he been a cobbler's
son. But gold retains its grand privilege in all ranks.
He who has gold is removed from the suspicion that
attaches to the greedy fortune-hunter. My private
fortune, swelled by my savings, is sufficient to secxu'e
to any one I married a larger settlement than many a
wealthy squire can make. I need no fortune with a
wife ; if she have one, it would be settled on herself.
Pardon these vulgar details. ■iN'ow, have I made
myself understood 1 ' '

" Fully," answered the Queen of the Hill, who had
listened to me quietly, watchfully, and without one
iiiterruption. "Fully. And you have done well to
confide in me with so generous an unreserve. But
before I say further, let me ask, what would be your
advice for Lilian, supposing that you ought not to
attend her 1 You have no trust in Dr Jones ; neither
have I. And Anne Ashleigh's note, received to-day,
begging me to call, justifies your alarm. Still you
think there is no tendency to consumption 1 "

" Of that I am certain so far as my slight glimpse
of a case that to me, however, seems a simple and not
uncommon one, will permit. But in the alternative
you put — that my own skill, whatever its worth, is
forbidden — my earnest advice is, that Mrs Ashleigh
should take her daughter at once to London, and con-

VOL. I. F

82 A STRANGE STORY.

suit there those great authorities to whom I cannot
compare my own opinion or experience, and by their
counsel abide."

Mrs Poyntz shaded her eyes with her hand for a
few moments, and seemed in deliberation with herself.
Then she said, with her peculiar smile, half grave,
half ironical —

"In matters more ordinary you would have won me to
your side long ago. That Mr Vigors should have pre-
sumed to cancel my recommendation to a settler on the
Hill, was an act of rebellion, and involved the honour
of my prerogative. But I suppressed my indignation at
an affront so unusual, partly out of pique against your-
self, but much more, I think, out of regard for you."

' ' I understand. You detected the secret of my heart ;
you knew that Mrs Ashleigh would not wish to see her
daughter the wife of a provincial physician."

"Am I sure, or are you sure', that the daughter
herself would accept that fate ; or if she accepted it,
would not repent ? "

"Do not think me the vainest of men when I say
this — that I cannot believe I should be so enthralled
by a feeling at war with my reason, iinfavoured by
anything I can detect in my habits of mind, or even
by the dreams of a youth which exalted science and
excluded love, unless I was intimately convinced that
Miss Ashleigh's heart Avas free — that I could win, and
that I could keep it ! Ask me why I am convinced of
this, and I can tell you no more why I think that she
could love me, than I can tell you why I love her ! "

A STRANGE STORY. 83

" I am of the world, "worldly. But I am woman,
womanly — though. I may not care to be thought it.
And, therefore, though what you say is, regarded in
a worldly point of view, sheer nonsense, regarded in a
womanly point of view, it is logically sound. But
still you cannot know Lilian as I do. Your nature
and hers are in strong contrast. I do not think she is
a safe wife for you. The purest, the most innocent
creature imaginable, certainly that, but always in the
seventh heaven. And you in the seventh heaven, just
at this moment, but with an irresistible gravitation to
the solid earth, which will have its way again when
the honeymoon is over. I do not believe you two
would harmonise by intercourse. I do not believe
Lilian would sympathise with you, and I am sure you
could not sympathise with her throughout the long
dull course of this workday life. And therefore, for
your sake as well as hers, I was not displeased to find
that Dr Jones had replaced you ; and now, in return
for your frankness, I say frankly — do not go again to
that house. Conquer this sentiment, fancy, passion,
whatever it be. And I will advise Mrs Ashleigh to
take Lilian to town. Shall it be so settled 1 "

I could not speak. I buried my face in my hands
— misery, misery, desolation !

I know not how long I remained thus silent, per-
haps many minutes. At length I felt a cold, firm,
but not ungentle hand placed upon mine ; and a clear,
full, but not discouraging voice said to me —

"Leave me to think well over this conversation,

84 A STRANGE STORY.

and to ponder well the value of all you liave shown
that you so deeply feel. The interests of life do not
fill both scales of the balance. The heart which does
not always go in the same scale with the interests,
still has its weight in the scale opposed to them. I
have heard a few wise men say, as many a silly woman
says, ' Better be unhappy with one we love, than be
happy with one we love not.' Do you say that, tool"

"With every thought of my brain, every beat of
my pulse, I say it."

" After that answer, all my questionings cease. You
shall hear from me to-morrow. By that time, I shall
have seen Anne and Lilian. I shall have weighed
both scales of the balance, and the heart here, AUen
Fenwick, seems very heavy. Go, now. I hear feet
on the stairs, Poyntz bringing up some friendly gos-
sipers ; gossipers are spies."

I passed my hand over my eyes, tearless — but how
tears would have relieved the anguish that burdened
them ! — and, without a word, went down the stairs,
meeting at the landing-jDlace Colonel Poyntz and the
old man whose pain my prescription had cured. The
old man was whistling a merry tune, perhaps first
learned on the playground. He broke from it to
thank, almost to embrace me, as I slid by him. I
seized his jocund blessing as a good omen, and carried
it with me as I passed into the broad sunlight. Soli-
tary— solitary ! Should I be so evermore?

CHAPTER XIII.

The next clay I had just dismissed the last of my
visiting patients, and -was about to enter my carriage
and commence my round, when I received a twisted
note containing but these words : —

" Call on me to-day, as soon as you can.

" M. POYNTZ."

A few minutes afterwards I was in Mrs Poyntz's
drawing-room.

"Well, Allen Fenwick," said she, "I do not serve
friends by halves. Is'o thanks ! I but adhere to a
principle I have laid down for myself. I spent last
evening with the Ashleighs. Lilian is certainly much
altered — very weak, I fear very ill, and I believe very
unskilfully treated by Dr Jones. I felt that it was
my duty to insist on a change of physician, but there
was something else to consider before deciding who
that physician should be. I was bound, as your con-
fidante, to consult your own scruples of honour. Of
course I could not say point-blank to ]\[rs Ashleigh,
' Dr Fenwick admires your daughter, would you object

86 A STRANGE STORY.

to hiin as a son-in-law 1 ' Of course I could not toucli
at all on the secret with which you intrusted me ; but
I have not the less arrived at a conclusion, in agree-
ment with my previous belief, that not being a woman
of the world, Anne Ashleigh has none of the ambition
which women of the world would conceive for a daugh-
ter who has a good fortune and considerable beauty :
that her predominant anxiety is for her child's happi-
ness, and her predominant fear is that her child will
die. She would never oppose any attachment which
Lilian might form ; and if that attachment were for
one who had preserved her daughter's life, I believe
her own heart would gratefully go with her daughter's.
So far, then, as honour is concerned, all scruples
vanish."

I sprang from my seat, radiant with joy. Mrs
Poyntz dryly continued : " You value yourself on your
common sense, and to that I address a few words of
counsel which may not be welcome to your romance.
I said that I did not think you and Lilian would suit
each other in the long-run ; reflection confirms me in
that supposition. Do not look at me so incredulously
and so sadly. Listen, and take heed. Ask yourself
what, as a man whose days are devoted to a laborious
profession, whose ambition is entwined with its success,
whose mind must be absorbed in its pursuits — ask
yourself Avhat kind of a wife you would have sought
to. win, had not this sudden fancy for a charming face
rushed over your better reason, and obliterated all
previous plans and resolutions. Surely some one with

A STRANGE STOEY. 87

whom your lieart would have been quite at rest ; by
whom your thoughts would have been undistracted
from the channels into which your calling should con-
centrate their flow ; in short, a serene companion in
the quiet hoUday of a trustful home ! Is it not so ]"

" You interpret my own thoughts when they have
turned towards marriage. But what is there in Lil-
ian Ashleigh that should mar the picture you have
drawn?"

" What is there in Lilian Ashleigh which in the
least accords with the picture 1 In the first place, the
wife of a young physician should not be his perpetual
patient. The more he loves her, and the more worthy
she may be of love, the more her case will haunt him
wherever he goes. "When he returns home, it is not
to a holiday ; the patient he most cares for, the anxiety
that most gnaws him, awaits him there."

" But, good heavens ! why should Lilian Ashleigh
be a perpetual patient? The sanitary resources of
youth are incalculable. And "

" Let me stop you ; I cannot argue against a phy-
sician in iove ! I will give up that point in dispute,
remaining convinced that there is something in Lilian's
constitution which will perplex, torment, and baffle
you. It was so with her father, whom she resembles
in face and in character. He showed no symptoms of
any grave malady. His outward form was, like Lili-
an's, a model of symmetry, except in this, that, like
hers, it was too exquisitely deKcate ; but, when seem-
ingly in the midst of perfect health, at any slight jar

88 A STEAXGE STORY.

on the nerves he "would become alarmingly ill. I was
sure that he would die young, and he did so."

"Ay, but Mrs Ashleigh said that his death was
from brain-fever, brought on by over-study. Earely,
indeed, do women so fatigue the brain. ISTo female
patient, in the range of my practice, ever died of pure-
ly mental exertion."

" Of purely mental exertion, no : but of heart emo-
tion, many female patients, perhaps? Oh, you own
that ! I know nothing about nerves. But I suppose
that, whether they act on the brain or the heart, the
result to life is much the same if the nerves be too fine-
ly strung for life's daily wear and tear. And this is
what I mean, Avhen I say you and Lilian will not suit.
As yet she is a mere child ; her nature undeveloped,
and her affections, therefore, untried. You might sup-
pose that you had won her heart ; she might believe
that she gave it to you, and both be deceived. If fairies
nowadays condescended to exchange their offspring
with those of mortals, and if the popular tradition did
not represent a fairy changeling as an ugly peevish
creature, with none of the grace of its parents, I should
be half inclined to suspect that Lilian was one of the
elfin people. She never seems at home on earth ; and
I do not think she will ever be contented with a prosaic
earthly lot. JS'ovv I have told you why I do not think
she will suit you. I must leave it to yourself to con-
jecture how far you would suit her. I say this in due
season, while you may set a guard upon your impulse —
while you may yet watch, and weigh, and meditate ;

A STRANGE STORY. 89

and from this moment on that subject I say no more.
I lend advice, but I never throw it away."

She came here to a dead pause, and began putting
on her bonnet and scarf, which lay on the table beside
her. I was a little chilled by her words, and yet more
by the blunt, shrewd, hard look and manner which
aided the effect of their delivery. But the chill melted
away in the sudden glow of my heart when she again
turned towards me and said —

" Of course you guess, from these preliminary cau-
tions, that you are going into danger 1 Mrs Ashleigh
wishes to consult you about Lilian, and I propose to
take you to her house."

" Oh, my friend, my dear friend, how can I ever re-
pay you ? " I caught her hand, the Avhite firm hand,
and lifted it to my lips.

She drew it somewhat hastily away, and laying it
gently on my shoulder, said, in a soft voice, " Poor
Allen, how little the world knows either of us ! But
how little perhaps we know ourselves ! Come, your
carriage is here ? That is right : we must put down
Dr Jones publicly and in all our state."

In the carriage Mrs Poyntz told me the purport of
that conversation with Mrs Ashleigh to which I owed
my reintroduction to Abbots' House. It seems that
Mr Vigors had called early the morning after my first
visit ; had evinced much discomposure on hearing that
I had been summoned ; dwelt much on my injurious
treatment of Dr Lloyd, whom, as distantly related to
himself, and he (Mr Vigors) being distantly connected

90 A STRANGE STORY.

"with, tlie late Gilbert Ashleigh, he endeavoured to fasten
upon his listener as one of her husband's family, whose
quarrel she was bound in honour to take up. He spoke
of me as an infidel " tainted with French doctrines,"
and as a practitioner rash and presumptuous ; proving
his own freedom from presumption and rashness by
flatly deciding that my opinion must be wrong. Pre-
viously to Mrs Ashleigh's migration to L , Mr

Vigors had interested her in the pretended phenomena
of mesmerism. He had consulted a clairvoj'^ante, much,
esteemed by poor Dr Lloyd, as to Lilian's health, and
the clairvoyante had declared her to be constitutionally
predisposed to consumption. Mr Vigors persuaded
Mrs Ashleigh to come at once with him and see this
clairvoyante herself, armed with a lock of Lilian's hair
and a glove she had worn, as the media of mesmerical
rapjport.

The clairvoyante, one of those I had publicly de-
nounced as an impostor, naturally enough denoimced
me in return. On being asked solemnly by Mr Vigors
" to look at Dr Fenwick and see if his influence would
be beneficial to the subject," the sibyl had become vio-
lently agitated, and said that, " when she looked at us
together, we were enveloped in a black cloud ; that
this portended affliction and sinister consequences ;
that our rapx>ort was antagonistic." Mr Vigors then
told her to dismiss my image, and conjure up that of
Dr Jones. Therewith the somnambule became more
tranquil, and said : " Dr Jones would do well if he
would be guided by higher lights than his own skill,

A STRANGE STORY. 91

and consult herself daily as to the proper remedies.
The best remedy of all would be mesmerism. But
since Dr Lloyd's death, she did not know of a mes-
merist, sufficiently gifted, in affinity with the patient."
In fine, she impressed and awed Mrs Ashleigh, who re-
turned in haste, summoned Dr Jones, and dismissed
myself.

" I could not have conceived Mrs Ashleigh to be
so utterly wanting in common sense," said I. " She
talked rationally enough Avhen I saw her."

" She has common sense in general, and plenty of
the sense most common," answered Mrs Poyntz ;
" but she is easily led and easily frightened wherever
her affections are concerned ; and therefore, just as easily
as she had been persuaded by Mr Vigors and terrified
by the somnambule, I persuaded her against the one
and terrified her against the other. I had positive ex-
perience on my side, since it was clear that Lilian had
been getting rapidly worse under Dr Jones's care.
The main obstacles I had to encounter in inducing
Mrs Ashleigh to consult you again, were, first, her re-
luctance to disoblige Mr Vigors, as a friend and con-
nection of Lilian's father ; and, secondly, her sentiment
of shame in reinviting your opinion after having treat-
ed you with so little respect. Both these difficulties I
took on myself. I bring you to her house, and, on
leaving you, I shall go on to INIr Vigors, and tell him
what is done is my doing, and not to be undone by him ;
so that matter is settled. Indeed, if you were out of
the question, I should not suffer Mr Vigors to reintro-

92 A STEANGE STOEY.

duce all these mummeries of clairvoyance and mesmer-
ism into the precincts of the Hill. I did not demolish
a man I really liked in Dr Lloyd to set up a Dr Jones,
whoni I despise, in his stead. Clairvoyance on Abbey
Hill, indeed ! I saw enough of it before."

" True ; j^our strong intellect detected at once the
absurdity of the whole pretence — the falsity of mesmer-
ism— the impossibility of clairvoyance,"

" No, my strong intellect did nothing of the kind.
I do not know whether mesmerism be false or clair-
voyance impossible ; and I don't wish to know. All
I do know is, that I saw the Hill in great danger ;
young ladies allowing themselves to be put to sleep by
gentlemen, and pretending they had no will of their
own against such fascination ! Improper and shock-
ing ! And Miss Brabazon beginning to prophesy, and
]Mrs Leopold Smythe questioning her maid (whom Dr
Lloyd declared to be highly gifted) as to all the secrets
of her friends. "When I saw this, I said, ' The Hill
is becoming demoralised ; the Hill is making itself
ridiculous : the Hill must be saved ! ' I remonstrated
with Dr Lloyd, as a friend ; he remained obdurate.
I annihilated him as an enemy, not to me but to the
State. I slew my best lover for the good of Eome.
ISTow you know why I took your part — not because I
have any opinion, one way or the other, as to the truth
or falsehood of what Dr Lloyd asserted ; but I have a
strong opinion that, whether they be true or false, his
notions were those which are not to be allowed on the
Hill. And so, Allen Fenwick, that matter was settled."

A STRANGE STOEY. 93

Perhaps at another time I might have felt some
little humiliation to learn that I had been honoured
with the influence of this great potentate, not as a
champion of truth, but as an instrument of policy ;
and I might have owned to some twinge of conscience
in having assisted to sacrifice a fellow -seeker after
science — -misled, no doubt, but preferring his indepen-
dent belief to his worldly interest — and sacrifice him
to those deities with whom science is ever at war — the
Prejudices of a Clique sanctified into the Proprieties
of the World. But at that moment the words I heard
made no perceptible impression on my mind. The
gables of Abbots' House were visible above the ever-
greens and lilacs ; another moment, and the carriage
stopped at the door.

CHAPTEK XIV.

Mrs Ashleigh received us in the dining-room. Her
manner to me, at first, was a little confused and shy.
But my companion soon communicated something of
her own happy ease to her gentler friend. After a
short conversation we all three went to Lilian, who
was in a little room on the ground floor, fitted up as
her study. I was glad to perceive that my interdict
of the death-chamber had been respected.

She reclined on a s6fa near the window, which was,
however, jealously closed ; the light of the briglit May-
day obscured by blinds and curtains ; a large fire on
the hearth ; the air of the room that of a hot-house —
the ignorant, senseless, exploded system of nursing into
consumption those who are confined on suspicion of
it ! She did not heed us as we entered noiselessly ;
her eyes were drooped languidly on the floor, and with
difficulty I suppressed the exclamation that rose to my
lips on seeing her. She seemed within the last few
days so changed, and on the aspect of the countenance
there was so profound a melancholy ! But as she
slowly turned at the sound of our footsteps, and her
eyes met mine, a quick blush came into the wan cheek,

A STRANGE STORY. 95

and she liaK rose, but sank back as if tbe efifort ex-
hausted her. There was a struggle for breath, and a
low hoUow cough. "Was it possible that I had been
mistaken, and that in that cough was heard the warn-
ing knell of the most insidious enemy to youthful life ?

I sat down by her side, I lured her on to talk of
indifferent subjects — the weather, the gardens, the
bird in the cage, which was placed on the table near
her. Her voice, at first low and feeble, became grad-
ually stronger, and her face lighted up with a child's
innocent, playful smile. Xo, I had not been mistaken !
That was no lymphatic nerveless temperament, on
which consumption fastens as its lawful prey — here
there was no hectic pulse, no hurried waste of the
vital flame. Quietly and gently I made my observa-
tions, addressed my questions, applied my stethoscope ;
and when I turned my face towards her mother's an-
xious, eager eyes, that face told my opinion ; for her
mother sprang forward, clasped my hand, and said,
through her struggling tears, —

" You smile ! You see nothing to fear 1 "

*' Fear ! No, indeed ! You will soon be again your-
self. Miss Ashleigh, will you not 1 "

"Yes," she said, with her sweet laugh, "I shall be
well now very soon. But may I not have the window
open — may I not go into the garden 1 I so long for
fresh air."

"JSTo, no, darling," exclaimed Mrs Ashleigh — "not
while the east winds last. Dr Jones said on no ac-
count. On no account, Dr Fenwick, eh ? "

yt) A STKANGE STOEY.

" Will you take my arm, Miss Ashleigh, for a few
turns up and down the room 1 " said I. " We will
then see how far we may rebel against Dr Jones."

She rose with some little effort, hut there was no
cough. At first her step was languid — it became
lighter and more elastic after a few moments.

" Let her come out," said I to Mrs Ashleigh. "The
wind is not in the east ; and, while we are out, pray
bid your servant lower to the last bar in the grate that
fire^ — only fit for Christmas."

" But "

" Ah, no buts ! He is a poor doctor who is not a
stern despot."

So the straw hat and mantle were sent for. Lilian
was wrapped with unnecessary care, and we all went
forth into the garden. Involuntarily we took the way
to the Monk's Well, and at every step Lilian seemed
to revive under the bracing air and temperate sun.
We paused by the well.

" You do not feel fatigued, Miss Ashleigh 1 "

" But your face seems changed. It is grown sadder."
" i!^ot sadder."

" Sadder than when I first saw it — saw it when
you were seated here ! " I said this in a whisper. I
felt her hand tremble as it lay on my arm.
" You saw me seated here ! "
" Yes. I will tell you how some day."
Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and there was in
them that same surprise which I had noticed on my

A STEANGE STORY. 97

first visit — a surprise that perplexed me, "blended with no
displeasure, but yet with a something of vague alarm.

We soon returned to the house.

Mrs Ashleigh made me a sign to follow her into the
drawing-room, leaving Mrs Poyntz with Lilian.

" Well 1 " said she, tremblingly.

" Permit me to see Dr Jones's prescriptions. Thank
you. Ay, I thought so. My dear madam, the mis-
take here has been in depressing nature instead of
strengthening ; in narcotics instead of stimulants.
The main stimulants which leave no reaction are air
and light. Promise me that I may have my own way
for a week — that all I recommend will be implicitly
heeded 1 "

" I promise. But that cough ; you noticed it 1 "

" Yes. The nervous system is terribly lowered, and
nervous exhaustion is a strange impostor ; it imitates
all manner of complaints with which it has no connec-
tion. The cough will soon disappear ! But pardon
my question, Mrs Poyntz tells me that you consulted
a clairvoyante about your daughter. Does Miss Ash-
leigh know that you did so ? "

" No ; I did not tell her,"

" I am glad of that. And pray, for Heaven's sake,
guard her against all that may set her thinking on
such subjects. Above all, guard her against concen-
tring attention on any malady that your fears errone-
ously ascribe to her. It is amongst the phenomena of
our organisation that you cannot closely rivet your
consciousness on any part of the frame, however

VOL. I. G

98 A STRANGE STORY.

healthy, but it will soon begin to exhibit morbid
sensibility. Try to fix all your attention on your little
finger for half-an-hour, and before the half-hour is
over the little finger wiU be uneasy, probably even
painful. How serious, then, is the danger to a young
girl, at the age in which imagination is most active,
most intense, if you force upon her a belief that she
is in danger of a mortal disease : it is a peculiarity
of youth to brood over the thought of early death
much more resignedly, much more complacently, than
we do in maturer years. Impress on a young imagin-
ative girl, as free from pulmonary tendencies as you
and I are, the conviction that she must fade away into
the grave, and though she may not actually die of
consumption, you instil slow poison into her system.
Hope is the natural ahment of youth. You impoverish
nourishment where you discourage hope. As soon as
this temporary illness is over, reject for your daughter
the melancholy care which seems to her own mind to
mark her out from others of her age. Eear her for the
air — which is the kindest life-giver ; to sleep with open
windows ; to be out at sunrise. J^ature wiU do more
for her than all our drugs can do. You have been
hitherto fearing Nature ; now trust to her."

Here Mrs Poyntz joined us, and having, while I
had been speaking, written my prescription and some
general injunctions, I closed my advice with an appeal
to that powerful protectress.

" This, my dear madam, is a case in which I need your
aid, and I ask it. Miss Ashleigh should not be left

A STRANGE STORY. 99

with no other companion than her mother. A change
of faces is often as salutary as a change of air. If you
could devote an hour or two this very evening to sit
with Miss Ashleigh, to talk to her with your usual
cheerfulness, and "

"Anne," interrupted Mrs Poyntz, "I will come and
drink tea with you at half-past seven, and bring my
knitting, and perhaps, if you ask him, I)r Fenwick
will come too ! He can be tolerably entertaining when
he likes it."

" It is too great a tax on his kindness, I fear," said
Mrs Ashleigh. " But," she added cordially, " I should
be grateful indeed if he would spare us an hour of his
time."

I murmured an assent, which I endeavoured to
make not too joyous.

" So that matter is settled," said Mrs Poyntz ; " and
and now I shall go to Mr Vigors and prevent his
further interference."

" Oh ! but Margaret, pray don't offend him — a con-
nection of my poor dear Gilbert's. And so tetchy ! I
am sure I do not know how you'll manage to "

"To get rid of him? j^ever fear. As I manage
everything and everybody," said ]\Irs Poyntz, bluntly.
So she kissed her friend on the forehead, gave me a
gracious nod, and, declining the offer of my carriage,
walked with her usual brisk, decided tread down the
short path towards the town.

Mrs Ashleigh timidly approached me, and again the
furtive hand bashfully insinuated the hateful fee.

100 A STEANGE STORY.

"Stay," said I; "this is a case "which needs the
most constant watching. I wish to call so often that
1 should seem the most greedy of doctors if my visits
were to be computed at guineas. Let me be at ease to
effect my cure ; my pride of science is involved in it.
And when amongst all the young ladies of the Hill
you can point to none with a fresher bloom, or a fairer
promise of healthful life, than the patient you intrust
to my care, why, then the fee and the dismissal. K"ay,
nay ; I must refer you to our friend Mrs Poyntz. It
was so settled with her before she brought me here to
displace Dr Jones." Therewith I escaped.

CHAPTER XV.

Ix less than a week Lilian was convalescent ; in less
than a fortnight she regained her usual health; nay,
Mrs Ashleigh declared that she had never known her
daughter appear so cheerful and look so well. I had
estahlished a familiar intimacy at Abbots' House ;
most of my evenings were spent there. As horse
exercise formed an important part of my advice, Mrs
Ashleigh had purchased a pretty and quiet horse for
her daughter; and, except the weather was very un-
favourable, Lilian now rode daily with Colonel Poyntz,
who Avas a notable equestrian, and often accompanied
by Miss Jane Poyntz, and other young ladies of the
Hill. I Avas generally relieved from my duties in
time to join her as she returned homewards. Thus
we made innocent appointments, openly, frankly, in
her mother's presence, she telling me beforehand in
what direction excursions had been planned with Col-
onel Poyntz, and I promising to fall in with the party
— if my avocations would permit. At my suggestion,
]\L:s Ashleigh now opened her house almost every
evening to some of the neighbouring families ; Lilian
was thus habituated to the intercourse of young per-

102 A STEANGE STOKY.

sons of her own age. Music and dancing and child-
like games made the old house gay. And the Hill
gratefully acknowledged to Mrs Poyntz, " that the
Ashleighs were indeed a great acquisition."

But my happiness was not uncheckered. In thus
unselfishly surrounding LiHan with others, I felt the
anguish of that jealousy which is inseparable from
those earlier stages of love, when the lover as yet has
won no right to that self-confidence which can only
spring from the assurance that he is loved.

In these social reunions I remained aloof from Lilian,
I saw her courted by the gay young admirers whom
her beauty and her fortune drew around her ; her soft
face brightening in the exercise of the dance, which
the gravity of my profession, rather than my years,
forbade me to join — and her laugh, so musically sub-
dued, ravishing my ear and fretting my heart as if the
laugh were a mockery on my sombre self and my pre-
sumptuous dreams. But no, suddenly, shyly, her eyes
would steal away from those about her, steal to the
corner in which I sat, as if they missed me, and, meet-
ing my own gaze, their light softened before they
turned away ; and the colour on her cheek would
deepen, and to her lip there came a smile different
from the smile that it shed on others. And then —
and then — all jealousy, all sadness vanished, and I
felt the glory which blends with the growing belief
that we are loved.

In that diviner epoch of man's mysterious passion,
when ideas of perfection and purity, vague and fugitive

A STRANGE STORY. 103

before, start forth and concentre themselves round one
virgin shape — that rises out from the sea of creation,
welcomed by the Hours and adorned by the Graces —
how the thought that this archetype of sweetness and
beauty singles himself from the millions, singles him-
self for her choice, ennobles and lifts up his being !
Though after-experience may rebuke the mortal's illu-
sion, that mistook for a daughter of heaven a creature
of clay like himself, yet for a while the illusion has
grandeur. Though it comes from the senses which
shall later oppress and profane it, the senses at first
shrink into shade, awed and hushed by the presence
that charms them. All that is brightest and best in
the man has soared up like long-dormant instincts of
heaven, to greet and to hallow what to him seems
life's fairest dream of the heavenly ! Take the wings
from the image of Love, and the god disappears from
the form !

Thus, if at moments jealous doubt made my torture,
so the moment's reHef from it sufficed for my rapture.
But I had a cause for disquiet less acute but less vary-
ing than jealousy.

Despite Lilian's recovery from the special illness
which had more immediately absorbed my care, I re-
mained perplexed as to its cause and true nature.
To her mother I gave it the convenient epithet of
" nervous." But the epithet did not explain to my-
self all the symptoms I classified by it. There was
stni, at times, when no cause was apparent or con-
jecturable, a sudden change in the expression of her

104 A STKANGE STOKY.

countenance ; in the beat of her pulse : the eye would
become fixed, the bloom would vanish, the pulse would
sink feebler and feebler till it could be scarcely felt ;
yet there was no indication of heart disease, of which
such sudden lowering of life is in itself sometimes a
warning indication. The change would pass away
after a few minutes, during Avhich she seemed un-
conscious, or, at least, never spoke — never appeared
to heed what was said to her. But in the expression
of her countenance there was no character of suffering
or distress ; on the contrary a wondrous serenity, that
made her beauty more beauteous, her very youthfulness
younger; and when this spurious or partial kind of
syncope passed, she recovered at once without effort,
without acknowledging that she had felt faint or
unwell, but rather with a sense of recruited vitality,
as the weary obtain from a sleep. For the rest, her
spirits were more generally light and joyous than I
should have premised from her mother's previous de-
scription. She would enter mirthfully into the mirth
of young companions round her : she had evidently
quick perception of the sunny sides of life; an infan-
tine gratitude for kindness ; an infantine joy in the
trifles that amuse only those who delight in tastes
pure and simple. But when talk rose into graver
and more contemplative topics, her attention became
earnest and absorbed; and sometimes a rich eloquence,
such as I have never before nor since heard from lips
so young, would startle me first into a wondering
silence, and soon into a disapproving alarm : for

A STKANGE STOEY. 105

the thoughts she then uttered seemed to me too
fantastic, too visionary, too much akin to the vaga-
ries of a wild though beautiful imagination. And
then I would seek to check, to sober, to distract
fancies with which my reason had no sympathy, and
the indulgence of which I regarded as injurious to the
normal functions of the brain.

"When thus, sometimes with a chilling sentence,
sometimes with a half-sarcastic laugh, I would repress
outpourings frank and musical as the songs of a forest-
bird, she would look at me with a kind of plaintive
sorrow — often sigh and shiver as she turned away.
Only in those modes did she show displeasure ; other-
Avise ever sweet and docile, and ever, if, seeing that I
had pained her, I asked forgiveness, humbling herself
rather to ask mine, and brightening our reconciliation
with her angel smile. As yet I had not dared to
speak of love ', as yet I gazed on her as the captive
gazes on the flowers and the stars through the gratings
of his cell, murmuring to himself, " When shall the
doors unclose ? "

CHAPTEE XYI.

It was with a wrath suppressed in the presence of the
fair ambassadress, that Mr "Vigors had received from.
Mrs POyntz the intelligence that I had replaced Dr
Jones at Abbots' House, not less abruptly than Dr
Jones had previously supplanted me. As Mrs Poyntz
took upon herself the whole responsibiHty of this change,
Mr Vigors did not venture to condemn it to her face;
for the Administrator of Laws was at heart no little in
awe of the Autocrat of Proprieties ; as Authority, how-
soever estabhshed, is in awe of Opinion, howsoever
capricious.

To the mild Mrs Ashleigh the magistrate's anger was
more decidedly manifested. He ceased his visits ; and
in answer to a long and deprecatory letter with which
she endeavoured to soften his resentment and win him
back to the house, he replied by an elaborate combina-
tion of homily and satire. He began by excusing him-
self from accepting her invitations, on the ground that
his time was valuable, Ids habits domestic; and though
ever willing to sacrifice both time and habits where he
could do good, he owed it to himself and to mankind
to sacrifice neither where his advice was rejected and

A STEANGE STORY. 107

his opinion contemned. He glanced briefly, but not
hastily, at the respect with which her late husband
had deferred to his judgment, and the benefits which
that deference had enabled him to bestow. He con-
trasted the husband's deference with the widow's con-
tumely, and hinted at the evils which the contumely
would not permit him to prevent. He could not pre-
sume to say what women of the world might think
due to deceased husbands, but even women of the world
generally allowed the claims of living children, and did
not act with levity where their interests were concerned,
still less where their lives were at stake. As to Dr
Jones, he, ]\Ir Vigors, had the fullest confidence in
his skill. Mrs Ashleigh must judge for herself whether
Mrs Poyntz was as good an authority upon medical
science as he had no doubt she was upon shawls and
ribbons. Dr Jones was a man of caution and modesty ;
he did not indulge in the hollow boasts by which char-
latans decoy their dupes ; but Dr Jones had privately
assured him that though the case was one that admit-
ted of no rash experiments, he had no fear of the result
if his own prudent system were persevered in. What
might be the consequence of any other system, Dr
Jones would not say, because he was too high-minded
to express his distrust of the rival who had made use
of underhand arts to supplant him. But Mr Vigors
was convinced, from other sources of information (mean-
ing, I presume, the oracular prescience of his clairvoy-
ants), that the time would come when the poor young
lady would herself insist on discarding Dr Fen wick,

108 A STRANGE STORY,

and when " that person" would appear in a very dif-
ferent light to many who now so fondly admired and
so reverentially trusted him. When that time arrived,
he, Mr Vigors, might again be of use ; hut, meanwhile,
though he declined to renew his intimacy at Abbots'
House, or to pay unavailing visits of mere ceremony,
his interest in the daughter of his old friend remained
undiminished, nay, was rather increased, by compas-
sion; that he should silently keep his eye upon her;
and whenever anything to her advantage suggested it-
self to him, he should not be deterred, by the slight
with which Mrs Ashleigh had treated his judgment,
from calling on her, and placing before her conscience
as a mother his ideas for her child's benefit, leaving to
herself then, as now, the entire responsibility of reject-
ing the advice which he might say, without vanity,
was deemed of some value hj those who could dis-
tinguish between sterling qualities and specious pre-
tences.

Mrs Ashleigh's was that thoroughly womanly nature
which instinctively leans upon others. She was diffi-
dent, trustful, meek, aff"ectionate. Not quite justly had
Mrs Poyntz described her as " commonplace weak," for
though she might be called weak, it was not because
she was commonplace ; she had a goodness of heart, a
sweetness of disposition, to which that disparaging de-
finition could not apply. She could only be called
commonplace inasmuch as in the ordinary daily affairs
of life she had a great deal of ordinary daily common-
place good sense. Give her a routine to follow, and no

A STRANGE STOKY. 109

routine could be better adhered to. In the allotted
J j sphere of a woman's duties she never seemed in fault.
!N"o household, not even Mrs Poyntz's, was more hap-
pily managed. The old Abbots' House had merged its
original antique gloom in the softer character of pleas-
ing repose. All her servants adored Mrs Ashleigh ; all
found it a pleasure to please her; her establishment
had the harmony of clockwork ; comfort diffused itseK
round her like quiet sunshine round a sheltered spot.
To gaze on her pleasing countenance, to Ksten to the
simple talk that lapsed from her guileless lips, in even,
slow, and lulling murmur, was in itself a respite from
" eating cares." She was to the mind what the colour
of green is to the eye. She had, therefore, excellent
sense in all that relates to everyday life. There, she
needed not to consult another; there, the wisest might
have consulted her with profit. But the moment any-
thing, however trivial in itself, jarred on the routine
to which her mind had grown wedded — the moment
an incident hurried her out of the beaten track of
woman's daily life — then her confidence forsook her,
then she needed a confidant, an adviser ; and by that
confidant or adviser she could be credulously lured or
submissively controlled. Therefore when she lost, in
Mr Algors, the guide she had been accustomed to con-
[ suit whenever she needed guidance, she turned, help-
i lessly and piteously, first to Mrs Poyntz, and then yet
j more imploringly to me, because a woman of that char-
acter is never quite satisfied without the advice of a
man. And where an intimacy more familiar than that

110 A STRANGE STORY.

of his formal visits is once established with a physician,
confidence in him grows fearless and rapid, as the
natural result of sympathy concentred on an object
of anxiety in common between himself and the home
which opens its sacred recess to his observant but
tender eye. Thus Mrs Ashleigh had shown me Mr
Vigors's letter, and, forgetting that I might not be as
amiable as herself, besought me to counsel her how to
conciliate and soften her lost husband's friend and con-
nection. That character clothed him with dignity and
awe in her soft forgiving eyes. So, smothering my
0A\Ti resentment, less perhaps at the tone of offensive
insinuation against myself than at the arrogance with
which this prejudiced intermeddler implied to a mother
the necessity of his guardian watch over a child under
ber own care, I sketched a reply which seemed to me
both dignified and placatory, abstaining from all dis-
cussion, and conveying the assurance that Mrs Ashleigh
would be at all times glad to hear, and disposed to re-
spect, whatever suggestion so esteemed a friend of her
husband's would kindly submit to her for the welfare
of her daughter.

There all communication had stopped for about a
month since the date of my reintroduction to Abbots'
House. One afternoon I unexpectedly met Mr Vigors
at the entrance of the blind lane, I on my way to
Abbots' House, and my first glance at his face told me
that he was coming from it, for the expression of that
face was more than usually sinister; the sullen scowl
was lit into significant menace by a sneer of unmistak-

i

A STRANGE STOEY. Ill

able trmmph, I felt at once that he had succeeded in
some machination against me, and with ominous mis-
givings quickened my steps.

I found Mrs Ashleigh seated alone in front of the
house, under a large cedar-tree that formed a natural
arhour in the centre of the sunny lawn. She was per-
ceptibly embarrassed as I took my seat beside her.

" I hope," said I, forcing a smile, " that j\Ir Vigors
has not been telling you that I shall kill my patient,
or that she looks much worse than she did under Dr
Jones's care 1 "

" No," she said. " He owned cheerfully that Lihan
had grown quite strong, and said, without any displea-
sure, that he had heard how gay she had been, riding
out, and even dancing — which is very kind in him, for
he disapproves of dancing, on principle."

" But still I can see he has said something to vex or
annoy you; and to judge by his countenance when I
met him in the lane, I should conjecture that that
something was intended to lower the confidence you so
kindly repose in me."

" I assure you not ; he did not mention your name,
either to me or to Lilian. I never knew him more
friendly; quite like old times. He is a good man at
heart, very, and was much attached to my poor hus-
band."

" Did Mr Ashleigh profess a very high opinion of
Mr Vigors 1 "

""Well, I don't quite know that, because my dear
Gilbert never spoke to me much about him. Gilbert

112 A STEANGE STORY.

was naturally very silent. But he shrank from all
trouble — all worldly affairs ; and Mr Vigors managed
his estate, and inspected his steward's books, and pro-
tected him through a long lawsuit which he had
inherited from his father. It killed his father. I
don't know what we should have done without Mr
Vigors, and I am so glad he has forgiven me."

" Hem ! Where is Miss Ashleigh 1 Indoors 1 "

" 1^0 ; somewhere in the grounds. But, my dear Dr
Fen wick, do not leave me yet ; you are so very, very
kind, and somehow I have grown to look upon you
quite as an old friend. Something has happened which
has put me out — quite put me out."

She said this wearily and feebly, closing her eyes as if
she were indeed put out in the sense of extinguished.

" The feeling of friendship you express," said I, with
earnestness, " is reciprocal. On my side it is accom-
panied by a peculiar gratitude. I am a lonely man, by
a lonely fireside — no parents, no near kindred ; and in
this town, since Dr Faber left it, without cordial inti-
macy till I knew you. In admitting me so famiKarly
to your hearth, you have given me what I have never
known before since I came to man's estate — a glimpse
of the happy domestic life ; the charm and relief to
eye, heart, and spirit which is never known but in
households cheered by the face of woman; thus my
sentiment for you and yours is indeed that of an old
friend ; and in any private confidence you show me I
feel as if I were no longer a lonely man, without kin-
dred, without home."

A STRANGE STORY. 113

]\rrs Ashleigh seemed much moved by these words,
which my heart had forced from my lips, and, after
replying to me with simple unaffected warmth of kind-
ness, she rose, took my arm, and continued thus as Ave
walked slowly to and fro the lawn :

" You know, perhaps, that my poor husband left a
sister, now a widow like myself. Lady Haughton."

" I remember that Mrs Poyntz said you had such
a sister-in-law, but I never heard you mention Lady
Haughton till now. Well ! "

" Well, Mr Vigors has brought me a letter from her,
and it is that which has put me out. I dare say you
have not heard me speak before of Lady Haughton, for
I am ashamed to say I had almost forgotten her exist-
ence. She is many years older than my husband was ;
of a very different character. Only came once to see
him after our marriage. Hurt me by ridiculing him as
a bookworm. Offended him by looking a little down
on me, as a nobody without spirit and fashion, which
was quite true. And, except by a cold and unfeeling
letter of formal condolence after I had lost my dear
Gilbert, I have never heard from her since I have been
a widow till to-day. But, after all, she is my poor
husband's sister, and his eldest sister, and Lilian's aunt,
and, as Mr Vigors says, ' Duty is dvity.' "

Had Mrs Ashleigh said, " Duty is torture," she
could not have uttered the maxim with more mournful
and despondent resignation.

" And what does this lady require of you which Mr
Vigors deems it your duty to comply with "? "

VOL. I. H

1J4 A STRANGE STORY.

" Dear me ! "What penetration ! You have guessed
the exact truth. But I think you will agree with Mr
Vigors. Certainly I have no option ; yes, I must
do it."

"My penetration is in fault. Do what? Pray
explain."

" Poor Lady Haughton, six months ago, lost her
only son. Sir James. Mr Vigors says he was a very
fine young man, of whom any mother would have
heen proud. I had heard he was wild; Mr Vigors
says, however, that he was just going to reform, and
marry a young lady whom his mother chose for him,
when, unluckily, he would ride a steeplechase, not
being quite sober at the time, and broke his neck.
Lady Haughton has been, of course, in great grief.
She has retired to Brighton ; and she wrote to me
from thence, and Mr Vigors brought the letter. He
will go back to her to-day."

" Will go back to Lady Haughton ? "What ! Has
he been to her 1 Is he, then, as intimate with Lady
Haughton as he was with her brother 1 "

" K'o ; but there has been a long and constant cor-
respondence. She had a settlement on the Kirby
estate — a sum which was not paid off during Gilbert's
life ; and a very small part of the property went to
Sir James, which part Mr Ashleigh Sumner, the heir-
at-law to the rest of the estate, wished Mr Vigors, as
his guardian, to buy during his minority ; and as it
was mixed up with Lady Haughton's settlement, her
consent Avas necessary as well as Sir James's. So there

A STEANGE STOEY. 115

was much, negotiation, and, since then, Ashleigh Sum-
ner has come into the Haughton property, on poor Sir
James's decease ; so that complicated all aftairs be-
tween Mr Vigors and Lady Haughton, and he has
just been to Brighton to see her. And poor Lady
Haughton, in short, wants me and Lilian to go and
visit her. I don't like it at all. But you said the
other day you thought sea air might be good for Lilian
during the heat of the summer, and she seems well
enough now for the change. What do you think 1 "

" She is well enough, certainly. But Brighton is
not the place I would recommend for the summer ; it
wants shade, and is much hotter than L ."

" Yes, but unluckily Lady Haughton foresaw that
objection, and she has a jointure-house some miles
from Brighton, and near the sea. She says the grounds
are well- wooded, and the place is proverbially cool and
healthy, not far from St Leonard's Forest. And, in
short, I have written to say we will come. So we
must, unless, indeed, you positively forbid it."

" When do you think of going 1 "

" Next Monday. Mr Vigors would make me fix
the day. If you knew how I dislike moving Avhen I
am once settled ; and I do so dread Lady Haughton, she
is so fine and so satirical ! But Mr Vigors says she is
very much altered, poor thing ! I should like to show
you her letter, but I had just sent it to Margaret —
Mrs Poyntz — a minute or two before you came. She
knows something of Lady Haughton. Margaret knows
everybody. And we shall have to go in mourning for

116 A STRANGE STORY.

Sir James, I suppose ; and Margaret will choose it, for
I am sure I can't guess to what extent we should he
supposed to mourn. I ought to have gone in mourn-
ing hefore — poor Gilbert's nephew — but I am so

stupid, and I had never seen him. And but oh,

this is kind ! Margaret herself — my dear Margaret ! "

We had just turned away from the house, in our
up-and-down walk; and Mrs Poyntz stood immedi-
ately fronting us.

" So, Anne, you have actually accepted this invita-
tion— and for Monday next 1 "

" Yes. Did I do wrong? "

"What does Dr Fenwick say ? Can Lilian go with
safety 1 "

I could not honestly say she might not go with
safety, but my heart sank like lead as I answered :

" Miss Ashleigh does not now need merely medical
care ; but more than half her cure has depended on
keeping her spirits free from depression. She may
miss the cheerful companionship of your daughter, and
other young ladies of her own age. A very melan-
choly house, saddened by a recent bereavement, with-
out other guests ; a hostess to whom she is a stranger,
and whom Mrs Ashleigh herself appears to deem for-
midable— certainly these do not make that change of
scene which a physician would recommend. When I
spoke of sea air being good for Miss Ashleigh, I
thought of our own northern coasts at a later time of
the year, when I could escape myself for a few weeks
and attend her. The journey to a northern watering-

A STRANGE STORY. 117

place would be also shorter and less fatiguing ; the
air there more invigorating."

" IsTo doubt that would be better," said Mrs Poyntz,
dryly; " but so far as your objections to visiting Lady
Haughton have been stated, they are groundless. Her
house will not be melancholy ; she will have other
guests, and Lilian will find companions, young like
herself — young ladies — and young gentlemen too ! "

There was something ominous, something compas-
sionate, in the look which Mrs Poyntz cast upon me
in concluding her speech, Avhich in itself was calculated
to rouse the fears of a lover. Lilian away from me, in
the house of a worldly-fine lady — such as I judged
Lady Haughton to be — surrounded by young gen-
tlemen as well as young ladies — by admirers, no
doubt, of a higher rank and more brilliant fashion
than she had yet known ! I closed my eyes, and with
strong eff'ort suppressed a groan.

" My dear Anne, let me satisfy myself that Dr Fen-
wick really does consent. to this journey. He will say
to me what he may not to you. Pardon me, then,
if I take him aside for a few minutes. Let me find
you here again under this cedar-tree."

Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for
Mrs Ashleigh's answer, Mrs Poyntz drew me into the
more sequestered walk that belted the lawn ; and,
when we were out of Mrs Ashleigh's sight and hear-
ing, said —

" From what you have now seen of Lilian Ashleigh,
do you still desire to gain her as your wife ? "

118 A STKANGE STORY.

" Still 1 Oil ! with an intensity proportioned to
the fear with which I now dread that she is about to
pass away from my eyes — from my life ! "

"Does your judgment confirm the choice of your
heart 1 Eeflect before you answer."

*' Such selfish judgment as I had before I knew her
would not confirm, but oppose it. The nobler judg-
ment that now expands all my reasonings, approves
and seconds my heart. K'o, no ; do not smile so
sarcastically. This is not the voice of a blind and
egotistical passion. Let me explain myself if I can.
I concede to you that Lilian's character is undeveloped.
I concede to you that, amidst the childlike freshness
and innocence of her nature, there is at times a strange-
ness, a mystery, which I have not yet traced to its
cause. But I am certain that the intellect is organi-
cally as sound as the heart, and that intellect and heart
will ultimately — if under happy auspices — blend in
that felicitous union which constitutes the perfection
of woman. But it is because she does, and may for
years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted,
thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive,
that my judgment sanctions my choice ; for whatever
is best for her is best for me. And who would watch
over her as I should 1 "

"You have never yet spoken to Lilian as lovers

" Oh no, indeed."

" And, nevertheless, you believe that your affection
would not be unreturned 1 "

A STRANGE STOEY. 119

" I thouglit so once — I doubt now — yet, in doubting,
hope. But why do you alarm me with these questions?
You, too, forebode that in this visit I may lose her for
ever 1 "

"If you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her
answer may dispel your fear."

"What — now — already, when she has scarcely
known me a month ! Might I not risk all if too pre-
mature ? "

"There is no almanack for love. With many
women love is born the moment they know they
are beloved. All wisdom tells us that a moment
once gone is irrevocable. Were I in your place, I
should feel that I approached a moment that I must
not lose. I have said enough ; now I shall rejoin
Mrs Ashleigh."

"Stay — tell me first what Lady Haughton's letter
really contains to prompt the advice with which you
so transport, and yet so daunt, me when you proffer it."

" Xot now — later, perhaps — not now. If you wish
to see Lilian alone, she is by the old Monk's Well ;
I saw her seated there as I passed that way to the
house."

" One word more — only one. Answer this question
frankly, for it is one of honour. Do you still believe
that my suit to her daughter would not be disapproved
of by jNIrs Ashleigh ? "

" At this moment, I am sure it would not ; a week
hence I might not give you the same answer."

So she passed on with her quick but measured tread,

120 A STRANGE STORY.

back through the shady walk, on to the open lawn,
till the last gHmpse of her pale grey rohe disappeared
under the houghs of the cedar-tree. Then, with a
start, I broke the irresolute, tremulous suspense in
which I had vainly endeavoured to analyse my own
mind, solve my own doubts, concentrate my own will,
and went the opposite way, skirting the circle of that
haunted ground ; as now, on one side its lofty terrace,
the houses of the neighbouring city came full and close
into view, divided from my fairyland of life but by the
trodden murmurous thoroughfare winding low beneath
the ivied parapets ; and as now, again, the world of
men abruptly vanished behind the screening foHage of
luxuriant June.

At last the enchanted glade opened out from the
verdure, its borders fragrant with syringa, and rose,
and woodbine ; and there, by the grey memorial of
the gone Gothic age, my eyes seemed to close their
unquiet wanderings, resting spell-bound on that image
which had become to me the incarnation of earth's
bloom and youth.

She stood amidst the Past, backed by the fragments
of walls which man had raised to seclude him from
human passion, locking, under those lids so downcast,
tlie secret of the only knowledge I asked from the
boundless Future,

Ah ! what mockery there is in that grand word,
the world's fierce war-cry — Freedom ! Who has not
known one period of life, and that so solemn that its
shadows may rest over all life hereafter, when one

A STEA^^GE STORY. 121

human creature has over him a sovereignty more
supreme and absolute than Orient servitude adores in
the symbols of diadem and sceptre 1 What crest so
haughty that has not bowed before a hand which could
exalt or humble ! What heart so dauntless tbat has
not trembled to call forth the voice at whose sound
ope the gates of rapture or despair ! That Hfe alone is
free which rules, and suffices for, itself That life we
forfeit when we love !

CHAPTEE XVII.

How did I utter it ? By what words did my heart
make itself known 1 I remember not. All was as a
dream that falls upon a restless, feverish night, and
fades away as the eyes unclose on the peace of a cloud-
less heaven, on the bliss of a golden sun. A new
morrow seemed indeed upon the earth when I woke
from a life-long yesterday; — her dear hand in mine,
her sweet face bowed upon my breast.

And then there was that melodious silence in which
there is no sound audible from without ; yet within us
there is heard a lulling celestial music, as if our whole
being, grown harmonious with the universe, joined
from its happy deeps in the hymn that unites the stars.

In that silence our two hearts seemed to make each
other understood, to be drawing nearer and nearer,
blending by mysterious concord into the completeness
of a solemn union, never henceforth to be rent asunder.

At length I said softly : " And it was here on this
spot that I first saw you — here that I for the first
time knew what power to change our world and to
rule our future goes forth from the charm of a human
face ! "

A STRANGE STORY. 123

Then Lilian asked me timidly, and without lifting
her eyes, how I had so seen her, reminding me that I
promised to tell her, and had never yet done so.

And then I told her of the strange impulse that had
led me into the grounds, and by what chance my steps
had been diverted down the path that wound to the
glade ; how suddenly her form had shone upon my
eyes, gathering round itself the rose hues of the setting
sun, and how wistfully those eyes had followed her
own silent gaze into the distant heaven.

As I spoke, her hand pressed mine eagerly, convul-
sively, and, raising her face from my breast, she looked
at me with an intent, anxious earnestness. That
look ! — twice before it had thrilled and perplexed me.

" What is there in that look, oh my Lilian ! which
tells me that there is something that startles you —
something you wish to confide, and yet shrink from
explaining 1 See how, already, I study the fair book
from which the seal has been lifted, but as yet you
must aid me to construe its language."

" If I shrink from explaining, it is only because I
fear that I cannot explain so as to be understood or
believed. But you have a right to know the secrets
of a life which you would link to your own. Turn
your face aside from me ; a reproving look, an incred-
iilous smile, chill — oh ! you cannot guess how they
chill me, when I would approach that which to me is
so serious and so solemnly strange."

I turned my face away, and her voice grew firmer
as, after a brief pause, she resumed —

124 A STRANGE STORY.

" As far back as I can remember in my infancy,
there have been moments when there seems to fall
a soft hazy veil between my sight and the things
around it, thickening and deepening till it has the
likeness of one of those white fleecy clouds which
gather on the verge of the horizon when the air is yet
still, but the winds are about to rise ; and then this
vapour or veil will suddenly open, as clouds open and
let in the blue sky."

"Go on," I said, gently, for here she came to a
stop.

She continued, speaking somewhat more hurriedly —

" Then, in that opening, strange appearances present
themselves to me, as in a vision. In my childhood
these were chiefly landscapes of wonderful beauty. I
could but faintly describe them then; I could not
attempt to describe them now, for they are almost
gone from my memory. My dear mother chid me for
telling her what I saw, so I did not impress it on my
mind by repeating it. As I grew up, this kind of
vision — if I may so call it — became much less frequent,
or much less distinct ; I still saw the soft veil fall, the
pale cloud form and open, but often what may then
have appeared was entirely forgotten when I recovered
myself, waking as from a sleep. Sometimes, however,
the recollection would be vivid and complete : some-
times I saw the face of my lost father, sometimes I
heard his very voice, as I had seen and heard him in
my early childhood, when he would let me rest for
hours beside him as he mused or studied, happy to be

A STRANGE STORY. 125

SO quietly near him — for I loved him, oh, so dearly !
and I remember him so distinctly, though I was only
in my sixth year when he died. Much more recently
— indeed, within the last few months — the images of
things to come are reflected on the space that I gaze
into as clearly as in a glass. Thus, for weeks before I
came hither, or knew that such a place existed, I saw
distinctly the old House, yon trees, this sward, this
moss-grown Gothic fount, and, with the sight, an im-
pression was conveyed to met hat in the scene before
me my old childlike life would pass into some solemn
change. So that when I came here, and recognised
the picture in iny vision, I took an affection for the
spot — an affection not without awe — a powerful, per-
plexing interest, as one Avho feels under the influence
of a fate of which a prophetic glimpse has been vouch-
safed. And in that evening when you first saw nie,
seated here "

" Yes, Lilian, on that evening 1 "

" I saw you also, but in my vision — yonder, far in
the deeps of space — and — and my heart was stirred as
it had never been before ; and near where your image
grew out from the cloud I saw my father's face, and I
heard his voice, not in my ear, but as in my heart,
whispering "

" Yes, Lilian — whispering — what 1 "

"These words — only these — 'Ye will need one
another.' But then, suddenly, between my upward
eyes and the two forms they had beheld, there rose
from the earth, obscuring the skies, a vague dusky

126 A STEANGE STORY.

vapour, iindulous, and coiling like a vast serpent,
nothing, indeed, of its shape and figure definite, but
of its face one abrupt glare ; a flash from too dread
luminous eyes, and a young head, Hke the Medusa's,
changing, more rapidly than I could have drawn
breath, into a grinning skull. Then my terror made
me bow my head, and when I raised it again, all that
I had seen was vanished. But the terror still remained,
even when I felt my mother's arm round me and
heard her voice. And then, when I entered the house,
and sat down again alone, the recollection of what I
had seen — those eyes — that face — that skuU — grew on
me stronger and stronger till I fainted, and remember
no more, until my eyes, opening, saw you by my side,
and in my wonder there was not terror. No ; a sense
of joy, protection, hope, yet still shadowed by a kind
of fear or awe, in recognising the countenance which
had gleamed on me from the skies before the dark
vapour had risen, and while my father's voice had
murmured, 'Ye will need one another.' And now —
and now — will you love me less that you know a secret
in my being which I have told to no other — cannot
construe to myself? Only — only, at least, do not
mock me — do not disbelieve me ! Nay, turn from me
no longer now : — now I ask to meet your eyes. Now,
before our hands can join again, tell me that you
do not despise me as untruthful, do not pity me as
insane."

"Hush — hush!" I said, drawing her to my breast.
" Of all you tell me we will talk hereafter. The

A STKANGE STOEY. 127

scales of our science have no weights fine enough
for the gossamer threads of a maiden's pure fancies.
Enough for me — for us both — if out from all such
illusions start one truth, told to you, lovely child,
from the heavens ; told to me, ruder man, on the
earth ; repeated by each pulse of this heart that woos
you to hear and to trust ; — now and henceforth through
life unto death — 'Each has need of the other' — I of
you — I of you ! my Lilian — my Lilian!"

CHAPTER XYIII.

I\ spite of the previous assurance of Mrs Poyntz, it
was not without an uneasy apprehension that I ap-
proached the cedar-tree, under wliich Mrs Aslileigh
still sat, her friend beside her. I looked on the fair
creature whose arm was linked in mine. So young, so
singularly lovely, and with all the gifts of birth and
fortune which bend avarice and ambition the more
submissively to youth and beauty, I felt as if I had
wrongedwhat a parent might justly deem her natural
lot.

" Oh, if your mother should disapprove ! " said I,
falteringly.

Lilian leant on my arm less lightly : " If I had
thought so," she said, with her soft blush, " should I
be thus by your side 1 "

So we passed under the boughs of the dark tree,
and Lilian left me, and kissed ]\Irs Ashleigh's cheek ;
then, seating herself on the turf, laid her head on her
mother's lap. I looked on the Queen of the Hill,
whose keen eye shot over me, I thought there was a
momentary expression of pain or displeasure on her
countenance ; but it passed. Still there seemed to me

A STEANGE STORY. 129

something of irony, as well as of triumph or congi-atu-
lation, in the half-smile with which she quitted her
seat, and in the tone with which she whispered, as
she glided by me to the open sward, " So, then, it is
settled."

She walked lightly and quickly down the lawn.
"When she was out of sight I breathed more freely. I
took the seat which she had left, by Mrs Ashleigh's
side, and said, "A little while ago I spoke of myself
as a man without kindred, without home, and now I
come to you and ask for both."

Mrs Ashleigh looked at me benignly, then raised her
daughter's face from her lap, and whispered, " Lilian ; "
and Lilian's lips moved, but I did not hear her answer.
Her mother did. She took Lilian's hand, simply placed
it in mine, and said, "As she chooses, I choose ; whom
she loves, I love."

CHAPTEE XIX.

From that evening till the day Mrs Ashleigh and
Lilian went on the dreaded visit I was always at their
house, when my avocations allowed me to steal to it ;
and during those few days, the happiest I had ever
known, it seemed to me that years could not have
more deepened my intimacy with Lilian's exquisite
nature — made me more reverential of its purity, or
more enamoured of its sweetness. I could detect in
her hut one fault, and I rebuked myself for believing
that it was a fault. We see many who neglect the
minor duties of life, who lack watchful forethought
and considerate care for others, and we recognise the
cause of this failing in levity or egotism. Certainly,
neither of those tendencies of character could be
ascribed to Lilian. Yet still in daily trifles there was
something of that neglect, some lack of that care and
forethought. She loved her mother with fondness and
devotion, yet it never occurred to her to aid in those
petty household cares in which her mother centred so
much of habitual interest. She was full of tenderness
and pity to all want and suffering, yet many a young
lady on the HUl was more actively beneficent — visiting

A STRANGE STOEY. 131

the poor in their sickness, or instructing their children
in the Infant Schools. I was persuaded that her love
for me was deep and truthful — it was clearly void of
all ambition ; doubtless she would have borne, un-
flinching and contented, whatever the world considers
to be sacrifice and privation, — yet I should never have
expected her to take her share in the troubles of ordi-
nary life. I could never have applied to her the
homely but significant name of helpmate. I reproach
myself while I write for noticing such defect — if
defect it were — in what may be called the practical
routine of our positive, trivial, human existence. E"o
doubt it was this that had caused Mrs Poyntz's harsh
judgment against the wisdom of my choice. But such,
chiller shade upon Lilian's charming nature was re-
flected from no inert, unamiable self-love. It was but
the consequence of that self-absorption which the
habit of reverie had fostered. I cautiously abstained
from all allusion to those visionary deceptions, which
she had confided to me as the truthful impressions of
spirit, if not of sense. To me any approach to what I
termed superstition was displeasing; any indulgence
of phantasies not within the measured and beaten
M tracks of healthful imagination, more than dis^ileased
me in her — it alarmed. I would not by a word
encourage her in persuasions which I felt it would be
at present premature to reason against, and cruel
indeed to ridicule. I was convinced that of them-
selves these mists round her native intelligence, en-
gendered by a solitary and musing childhood, would

132 A STRANGE STORY.

subside in the fuller daylight of wedded life. She
seemed pained when she saw how resolutely I shunned
a subject dear to her thoughts. She made one or two
timid attempts to renew it, but my grave looks sufiSced
to check her. Once or twice indeed, on such occasions,
she would turn away and leave me, but she soon came
back ; that gentle heart could not bear one unkindlier
shade between itself and what it loved. It was agreed
that our engagement should be, for the present, con-
fided only to Mrs Poyntz. When Mrs Ashleigh and
Lilian returned, which would be in a few weeks at
furthest, it should be proclaimed ; and our marriage
could take place in the autumn, Avhen I should be
most free for a brief holiday from professional toils.

So we parted — as lovers part. I felt none of those
jealous fears which, before we were affianced, had
made me tremble at the thought of separation, and
had conjured up irresistible rivals. But it was with a
settled heavy gloom that I saw her depart. From
earth was gone a glory ; from life a blessing !

CHAPTEE XX.

During the busy years of my professional career, I
had snatched leisure for some professional treatises,
which had made more or less sensation, and one of
them, entitled 'The Vital Principle; its Waste and
Supply,' had gained a wide circulation among the
general public. This last treatise contained the results
of certain experiments, then new in chemistry, which
were adduced in support of a theory I entertained as
to the reinvigoration of the human system by principles
similar to those which Liebig has applied to the re-
plenishment of an exhausted soil — viz., the giving
back to the frame those essentials to its nutrition
which it has lost by the action or accident of time ; or
supplying that special pabulum or energy in which
the individual organism is constitutionally deficient,
and neutralising or counterbalancing that in which it
superabounds — a theory upon which some eminent
physicians have more recently improved with signal
success. But on these essays, slight and suggestive
rather than, dogmatic, I set no value. I had been for
the last two years engaged on a work of much wider

134 A STRANGE STOKY.

range, endeared to me by a far bolder ambition — a
work upon wbich I fondly hoped to found an enduring
reputation as a severe and original physiologist. It
was an Inquiry into Organic Life, similar in compre-
hensiveness of survey to that by which the illustrious
Miiller of Berlin has enriched the science of our age —
however inferior, alas ! to that august combination of
thought and learning, in the judgment which checks
presumption, and the genius which adorns speculation.
But at that day I was carried away by the ardour of
composition, and I admired my performance because I
loved my labour. This work had been entirely laid
aside for the last agitated month; now that Lilian
was gone, I resiimed it earnestly, as the sole occupation
that had power and charm enough to rouse me from
the aching sense of void and loss.

The very night of the day she went I reopened my
MS. I had left off at the commencement of a chapter
"Upon Knowledge as derived from our Senses." As
my convictions on this head were founded on the well-
known arguments of Locke and Condillac against
innate ideas, and on the reasonings by which Hume
has resolved the combination of sensations into a
general idea to an impulse arising merely out of habit,
so I set myself to oppose, as a dangerous concession
to the sentimentalities or mysticism of a pseudo-philo-
sophy, the doctrine favoured by most of our recent
physiologists, and of which some of the most eminent
of German metaphysicians have accepted the substance,
though refining into a subtlety its positive form — I

A STEANGE STORY. 135

mean the doctrine which MUller himself has expressed
in these words : —

" That innate ideas may exist, cannot in the slight-
est degree be denied; it is, indeed, a fact. All the
ideas of animals, which are induced by instinct, are
innate and immediate : something presented to the
mind, a desire to attain which is at the same time
given. The new-born lamb and foal have such innate
ideas, which lead them to follow their mother and suck
the teats. Is it not in some measure the same with
the intellectual ideas of man ] " *

To this question I answered with an indignant
"^No!" A "Yes" would have shaken my creed of
materialism to the dust. I wrote on rapidly, warmly.
I defined the properties and meted the limits of
natvral laws, which I would not admit that a Deity
himself could alter. I clamped and soldered dogma
to d^gma in the links of my tinkered logic, tUl out
from my page, to my own complacent eye, grew In-
tellectual Man, as the pure formation of his material
senses ; mind, or what is called soul, born from and
nurtured by them alone — through them to act, and to
perifh with the machine they moved. Strange, that
at tie very time my love for Lilian might have taught
me that there are mysteries in the core of the feelings
which my analysis of ideas could not solve, I should
so stubbornly have opposed as unreal all that could be
referred to the spiritual ! Strange, that at the very

* Mliller's 'Elements of Physiology,' vol. ii. p. 134. Translated
by Dr Baley.

136 A STRANGE STORY.

time -vvlieii tlie thougM that I miglit lose from this
life the being I had known scarce a month, had just
before so appalled me, I should thus complacently sit
down to prove that, according to the laws of the
nature which my passion obeyed, I must lose for
eternity the blessing I now hoped I had won to my
life ! But how distinctly dissimilar is man in his
conduct from man in his systems ! See the poet re-
clined under forest boughs, conning odes to his mis-
tress ; follow him out into the world ; no mistress
ever lived for him there ! * See the hard man of
science, so austere in his passionless problems ; follow
him now where the brain rests from its toil, where Ihe
heart finds its Sabbath — what child is so tender, so
yielding and soft 1

But I had proved to my own satisfaction that poet
and sage are dust and no more, when the pulse ceases
to beat. And at that consolatory conclusion my pen
stopped.

Suddenly beside me I distinctly heard a sigh — a com-
passionate, mournful sigh. The sound was unmistak-
able. I started from my seat, looked round, amazed
to discover no one — no living thing ! The wincows
were closed, the night was still. That sigh was not
the wail of the wind. But there, in the darker angle
of the room, what was that 1 A silvery whiteness —

* Cowley, who wrote so elaborate a series of amatory poens, is
said " never to have been in love but once, and then he never had
resolution to tell his passion." — Johnson's 'Lives of the Poevs :'
Cowley.

A STRANGE STORY. 137

vaguely shaped as a liuman form — receding, fading,
gone ! Why, I know not — for no face was visible, no
form, if form it were, more distinct than the colourless
outline — why, I know not, but I cried aloud, "Lilian!
Lilian ! " My voice came strangely back to my own
ear — I paused, then smiled and blushed at my folly.
" So I, too, have learned what is superstition," I
muttered to myself, " And here is an anecdote at my
own expense (as Miiller frankly tells us anecdotes of
the illusions which would haunt his eyes, shut or
open) — an anecdote I may quote when I come to my
Chapter on the Cheats of the Senses and Spectral
Phantasms." I went on Avith my book, and wrote till
the lights waned in the grey of the dawn. And I
said then, in the triumph of my pride, as I laid my-
self down to rest, " I have written that .which allots
with precision man's place in the region of nature ;
written that Avhich will found a school — form dis-
ciples ; and race after race of those who cultivate truth
through pure reason, shall accept my bases if they
enlarge my building." And again I heard the sigh,
but this time it caused no surprise. " Certainly," I
murmured, " a very strange thing is the nervous sys-
tem ! " So I turned on my pillow, and, wearied out,
fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXL

The next day, tlie last of tlie visiting patients to whom
my forenoons were devoted had just quitted me, when
I was summoned in haste to attend the steward of a
Sir Philip Derval, not residing at his family seat, which
was about five miles from L . It was rarely in-
deed that persons so far from the town, when of no
higher rank than this applicant, asked my services.
But it was my principle to go wherever I was sum-
moned ; my profession was not gain — it was healing,
to which gain was the incident, not the essential. This
case the messenger reported as urgent, I went on
horseback, and rode fast ; but, swiftly as I cantered
through the village that skirted the approach to Sir
Philip Derval's park, the evident care bestowed on the
accommodation of the cottagers forcibly struck me. I
felt that I was on the lands of a rich, intelligent, and
beneficent proprietor. Entering the park, and passing
before the manor-house, the contrast between the
neglect and decay of the absentee's stately hall and
the smiling homes of his villagers was disconsolately
mournful.

An imposing pile, built apparently by Yanbrugh,

A STKAXGE STOKY. 139

with decorated pilasters, pompous portico, and grand
perron (or double flight of stairs to the entrance), en-
riched with urns and statues, but discoloured, mildew-
ed, chipped, half-hidden with unpruned creepers and
ivy. Most of the windows were closed with shutters,
decaying for want of paint; in some of the casements
the panes were broken ; the peacock perched on the
shattered balustrade that fenced a garden overgrown
with weeds. The sun glared hotly on the place, and
made its ruinous condition still more painfully appar-
ent. I was glad when a winding in the park-road
shut the house from my sight. Suddenly I emerged
through a copse of ancient yew-trees, and before me
there gleamed, in abrupt whiteness, a building evi-
dently designed for the family mausoleum — classical in
its outline, with the blind iron door niched into stone
walls of massive thickness, and surrounded by a funereal
garden of roses and evergreens, fenced with an iron
rail, parti-gilt.

The suddenness with which this House of the Dead
came upon me heightened almost into pain, if not into
awe, the dismal impression which the aspect of the de-
serted home in its neighbourhood had made. I spurred
my horse and soon arrived at the door of my patient,
who lived in a fair brick house at the other extremity
of the park.

I found my patient, a man somewhat advanced in
years, but of a robust conformation, in bed : he had
been seized with a fit which was supposed to be apo-
plectic, a few hom-3 before ; but was already sensible, and

140 A STRANGE STOEY.

out of immediate danger. After I had j^rescribed a few
simple remedies, I took aside the patient's wife, and
went with her to the parlour below-stairs, to make
some inquiry about her husband's ordinary regimen
and habits of life. These seemed sufficiently regular ;
I could discover no apparent cause for the attack,
which presented symjitoms not familiar to my ex-
perience. " Has your husband ever had such fits be-
fore ? "

" Xever ! "

*' Had he experienced any sudden emotion 1 Had
he heard any unexpected news? or had anything
happened to put him out 1 "

The woman looked much disturbed at these in-
quiries. I pressed them more urgently. At last she
burst into tears, and, clasping my hand, said, " Oh,
doctor, I ought to tell you — I sent for you on purpose
— yet I fear you will not believe me : my good man
has seen a ghost ! "

" A ghost ! " said I, repressing a smile. " Well, tell
me all, that I may prevent the ghost coming again."

The woman's story was prolix. Its substance was
this : Her husband, habitually an early riser, had left
his bed that morning still earlier than usual, to give
directions about some cattle that were to be sent for
sale to a neighbouring fair. An hour afterwards he
had been found by a shepherd, near the mausoleum,
apparently lifeless. On being removed to his own
house he had recovered speech, and, bidding all except
his wife leave the room, he then told her that, on walk-

A STRANGE STORY. 141

ing across the park towards the cattle-sheds, he had
seen what appeared to him at first a pale light by the
iron door of the mausoleum. On approaching nearer,
this light changed into the distinct and visible form of
his master, Sir Philip Derval, who was then abroad —
supposed to be in the East, where he had resided for
many years. The impression on the steward's mind
Avas so strong that he called out, " Oh ! Sir Philip ! "
when, looking still more intently, he perceived that
the face was that of a corpse. As he continued to
gaze, the apparition seemed gradually to recede, as if
vanishing into the sepulchre itself He knew no
more ; he became unconscious. It was the excess of
the poor woman's alarm, on hearing this strange tale,
that made her resolve to send for me instead of the
parish apothecary. She fancied so astounding a cause
for her husband's seizure could only be properly dealt
with by some medical man reputed to have more than
ordinary learning. And the steward himself objected
to the apothecary in the immediate neighbourhood,
as more likely to annoy him by gossip than a physi-
cian from a comparative distance.

I took care not to lose the confidence of the good
wife by parading too quickly my disbelief in the
phantom her husband declared that he had seen ; but
as the story itself seemed at once to decide the nature
of the fit to be epileptic, I began to tell her of similar
delusions which, in my experience, had occurred to
those subjected to epilepsy, and finally soothed her
into the conviction that the apparition was clearly

142 A STEANGE STORY.

reducible to natural causes. Afterwards I led her on
to talk about Sir Philip Derval, less from any curio-
sity I felt about the absent proprietor than from a
desire to re-familiarise her own mind to his image as a
living man. The steward had been in the service of
Sir Philip's father, and had known Sir Philip himself
from a child. He was warmly attached to his master,
whom the old woman described as a man of rare
benevolence and great eccentricity, which last she
imputed to his studious habits. He had succeeded to
the title and estates as a minor. For the first few
years after attaining his majority, he had mixed much
in the world. "When at Derval Court his house had
been filled with gay companions, and was the scene
of lavish hospitality. But the estate was not in pro-
portion to the grandeur of the mansion, still less to
the expenditure of the owner. He had become greatly
embarrassed ; and some love disappointment (so it
was rumoured) occurring simultaneously with his pe-
cuniary difficulties, he had suddenly changed his Avay
of life, shut himself up from his old friends, lived in
seclusion, taking to books and scientific pursuits, and
as the old woman said, vaguely and expressively, " to
odd ways." He had gradually, by an economy that
towards himself was penurious, but which did not
preclude much judicious generosity to others, cleared
off his debts, and, once more rich, he had suddenly
quitted the country and taken to a life of travel. He
was now about forty-eight years old, and had "been
eighteen years abroad. He wrote frequently to his

A STRANGE STOKY. 143

steward, giving him minute and thonglitful instruc-
tions in regard to the employment, comforts, and
homes of the peasantry, but peremptorily ordering
him to spend no money on the grounds and mansions,
stating, as a reason why the latter might be allowed
to fall into decay, his intention to pull it down when-
ever he returned to England.

I stayed some time longer than my engagements
well warranted at my patient's house, not leaving till
the sufferer, after a quiet sleep, had removed from his
bed to his arm-chair, taking food, and seemed perfectly
recovered from his attack.

Eiding homeward, I mused on the difference that
education makes, even pathologically, between man
and man. Here was a brawny inhabitant of rural
fields, leading the healthiest of lives, not conscious of
the faculty we call imagination, stricken down almost
to Death's door by his fright at an optical illusion,
explicable, if examined, by the same simple causes
which had impressed me the night before with a
moment's belief in a sound and a spectre — me who,
thanks to sublime education, went so quietly to sleep
a few minutes after, convinced that no phantom, the
ghostliest that ear ever heard or eye ever saw, can be
anything else but a nervous phenomenon.

CHAPTEK XXII.

That evening I went to ]\Irs Poyntz's : it was one of her
ordinary " reception nights," and I felt that she -would
naturally expect my attendance as " a proper attention."

I joined a group engaged in general conversation,
of which Mrs Poyntz herself made the centre, knitting
as usual — rapidly while she talked, slowly when she
listened.

Without mentioning the visit I had paid that
morning, I turned the conversation on the different
country places in the neighbourhood, and then inci-
dentally asked, " "What sort of a man is Sir Pliilip
Derval? Is it not strange that he should suffer so
fine a place to fall into decay ? " The answers I re-
ceived added little to the information I had already
obtained. Mrs Poyntz knew nothing of Sir PhiHp
Derval, except as a man of large estates, whose rental
had been greatly increased by a rise in the value of

property he possessed in the town of L j and

which lay contiguous to that of her husband. Two or
three of the older inhabitants of the Hill had remem-
bered Sir Philip in his early days, when he was gay,
high-spirited, hospitable, lavish. One observed that

A STRANGE STORY. 145

the only person in L whom he had admitted to

his subsequent seclusion was Dr Lloyd, who was then
without practice, and Avhom he had employed as an
assistant in certain chemical experiments.

Here a gentleman struck into the conversation.

He was a stranger to me and to L , a visitor to

one of the dwellers on the Hill, who had asked leave
to present him to its queen as a great traveller and an
accomplished antiquary.

Said this gentleman : " Sir Philip Derval ! I know
him. I met him in the East. He was then still,
I believe, very fond of chemical science, a clever,
odd, philanthropical man ; had studied medicine, or
at least practised it ; Avas said to have made many
marvellous cures. I became acquainted with him in
Aleppo. He had come to that town, not much fre-
quented by English travellers, in order to inquire into
the murder of two men, of whom one was his friend
and the other his countryman."

" This is interesting, " said Mrs Poyntz, dryly.
" We who live on this innocent Hill all love stories
of crime ; murder is the pleasantest subject you could
have hit on. Pray give us the details."

" So encouraged," said the traveller, good-humour-
edly, " I will not hesitate to communicate the little I
know. In Aleppo, there had lived for some years a
man who was held by the natives in great reverence.
He had the reputation of extraordinary wisdom, but
was difficult of access; the lively imagination of the
Orientals invested his character with the fascinations

VOL. I. K

146 A STRANGE STORY.

of fable ; in short, Haroun of Aleppo was popularly
considered a magician. Wild stories were told of his
powers, of his preternatural age, of his hoarded trea-
sures. Apart from such, disputable titles to homage,
there seemed no question, from all I heard, tbat his
learning was considerable, his charities extensive, his
manner of life irreproachably ascetic. He appears to
have resembled those Arabian sages of the Gothic age
to whom modern science is largely indebted — a mystic
enthusiast, but an earnest scholar. A wealthy and
singular Englishman, long resident in another part of
the East, afflicted by some languishing disease, took a
journey to Aleppo to consult this sage, who, among his
other acquirements, was held to have discovered rare
secrets in medicine — his countrymen said, in ' charms.'
One morning, not long after the Englishman's arrival,
Haroun was found dead in his bed, apparently strangled,
and the Englisbman, who lodged in another part of the
tovm, bad disappeared ; but some of his clothes, and
a crutch on which he habitually supported himself,
were found a few miles distant from Aleppo, near
the roadside. There appeared no doubt that he,
too, had been murdered, but his corpse could not be
discovered. Sir Philip Derval had been a loving
disciple of this Sage of Aleppo, to whom he assured
me he owed not only that knowledge of medicine
Avhich, by report. Sir Philip possessed, but the insight
into various truths of nature, on the promulgation of
which, it was evident. Sir Philip cherished the ambi-
tion to found a philosophical celebrit}'' for himself."

A STEANGE STOKY. 147

" Of what description were those truths of nature?"
I asked, somewhat sarcasticallj'.

" Sir, I am unable to tell you, for Sir Philip did
not inform me, nor did I much care to ask ; for what
may be revered as truths in Asia are usually despised
as dreams in Europe. To return to my story. Sir
Philip had been in Aleppo a little time before the
murder; had left the Englishman under the care of
Haroun ; he returned to Aleppo on hearing the tragic
events I have related, and was busied in collecting
such evidence as could be gleaned, and instituting
inquiries after our missing countryman, at the time
that I myself chanced to arrive in the city. I assisted
in his researches, but without avail. The assassins
remained undiscovered. I do not myself doubt that
they were mere vulgar robbers. Sir Philip had a
darker suspicion, of which he made no secret to me ;
but as I confess that I thought the suspicion ground-
less, you will pardon me if I do not repeat it.
Whether, since I left the East, the Englishman's re-
mains have been discovered, I know not. Very pro-
bably; for I understand that his heirs have got hold
of what fortune he left — less than was generally sup-
posed. But it was reported that he had buried great
treasures, — a rumour, however absurd, not altogether
inconsistent with his character."

" "What was his character?" asked Mrs Poyntz.

" One of evil and sinister repute. He was regarded
with terror by the attendants who had accompanied
him to Aleppo. But he had lived in a very remote

148 A STRANGE STORY.

part of the East, little known to Europeans, and, from
all I could learn, had there established an extraordinary
power, strengthened by superstitious awe. He was
said to have studied deeply that knowledge which the
philosophers of old called ' occult,' not, like the Sage
of Aleppo, for benevolent, but for malignant ends.
He was accused of conferring with evil spirits, and
filling his barbaric court (for he lived in a kind of
savage royalty) with charmers and sorcerers. I sus-
pect, after all, that he was only, like myself, an ardent
antiquary, and cunningly made use of the fear he
inspired in order to secure his authority, and prosecute
in safety researches into ancient sepulchres or temples.
His great passion was, indeed, in excavating such re-
mains in his neighbourhood — with what result I know
not, never having penetrated so far into regions infested
by robbers and pestiferous with malaria. He wore the
Eastern dress, and always carried jewels about him. I
came to the conclusion that for the sake of these jewels
he was murdered, perhaps by some of his own servants
(and, indeed, two at least of his suite were missing),
who then at once buried his body, and kept their own
secret. He was old, very infirm ; could never have
got far from the town without assistance." ,

" You have not yet told us his name," said Mrs
Poyntz.

" His name was Grayle."

" Grayle ! " exclaimed Mrs Poyntz, dropping her
work — " Louis Grayle 1 "

A STEAJsTtE STOEY. 149

" Yes ; Louis Grajle. You could not have known
liim?"

" Known him ! Xo. But I have often heard my
father speak of him. Such, then, was the tragic end
of that strong dark creature, for whom, as a young girl
in the nursery, I used to feel a kind of fearful admir-
ing interest ! "

" It is your turn to narrate now," said the traveller.

And we all drew closer round our hostess, who re-
mained silent some moments, her brow thoughtful, her
work suspended.

" "Well," said she at last, looking round as with a
lofty air, which seemed half defying, " force and courage
are always fascinating, even when they are quite in the
wrong. I go with the world, because the world goes

with me ; if it did not " Here she stopped for a

moment, clenched the firm white hand, and then scorn-
fully waved it, left the sentence unfinished, and broke
into another.

" Going with the Avorld, of course we must march
over those who stand against it. But when one man
stands single-handed against our march, we do not
despise him ; it is enough to crush. I am very glad I
did not see Louis Grayle when I was a girl of sixteen."
Again she paused a moment — and resumed : " Louis
Grayle was the only son of a usurer, infamous for the
rapacity with which he had acquired enormous wealth.
Old Grayle desired to rear his heir as a gentleman ;
sent him to Eton ; boys are always aristocratic ; his

150 A STEANGE STOEY.

birth -R'as soon thrown in his teeth — he was fierce ; he
struck boys bigger than himself — fought till he was
half killed. My father was at school with him ; de-
scribed, him as a tiger-whelp. One day he — still a fag
— struck a sixth-form boy. Sixth-form boys do not
fight fags ; they punish them. Louis Grayle was
ordered to hold out his hand to the cane ; he received
the blow, drew forth his schoolboy knife, and stabbed
the punisher. After that he left Eton. I don't think
he was publicly expelled — too mere a child for that
honour — but he was taken or sent away ; educated with
great care under the first masters at home ; when he
was of age to enter the University, old Grayle was dead.
Louis was sent by his guardians to Cambridge, with
acquirements far exceeding the average of young men,
and with unlimited command of money. My father
was at the same college, and described him again —
haughty, quarrelsome, reckless, handsome, aspiring,
brave. Does that kind of creature interest you, my
dears ? " (appealing to the ladies).

"La!" said Miss Brabazon; "a horrid usurer's
son ! "

" Ay, true ; the vulgar proverb says it is good to be
born with a silver spoon in one's mouth ; so it is when
one has one's own family crest on it ; but when it is a
spoon on which people recognise their family crest, and
cry out, ' Stolen from our plate-chest,' it is a heritage
that outlaws a babe in his cradle. However, young
men at college who want money are less scrupulous
about descent than boys at Eton are. Louis Grayle

A STRANGE STOEY. 151

found, while at college, plenty of well-born acquaint-
ances willing to recover from him some of the plunder
his father had extorted from theirs. He was too wild
to distinguish himself by academical honours ; but my
father said that the tutors of the college declared there
were not six undergraduates in the University who
knew as much hard and dry science as wild Louis Grayle.
He went into the world, no doubt, hoping to shine ;
but his father's name was too notorious to admit the son
into good society. The Polite "World, it is true, does not
examine a scutcheon with the nice eye of a herald, nor
look upon riches with the stately contempt of a stoic
— still the Polite World has its family pride and its
moral sentiment. It does not like to be cheated — I
mean, in money matters ; and when the son of the man
who has emptied its purse and foreclosed on its acres,
rides by its club-windows, hand on haunch and -head
in the air, no lion has a scowl more awful, no hysena a
laugh more dread, than that same easy, good-tempered,
tolerant, polite, well-bred World which is so pleasant
an acquaintance, so languid a friend, and — so remorse-
less an enemy. In short, Louis Grayle claimed the
right to be courted — he was shunned ; to be admired
— he was loathed. Even his old college acquaintances
were shamed out of knowing him. Perhaps he could
have lived through all this had he sought to glide
quietly into position ; but he wanted the tact of the
well-bred, and strove to storm his way, not to steal it.
Eeduced for companions to needy parasites, he braved
and he shocked all decorous opinion by that ostenta-

152 A STKANGE STOEY.

tion of excess which made Eichelieus and Lanzuns the
rage. But then Eicheheus and Lauzuns were dukes !
He now very naturally took the Polite World into
hate — gave it scorn for scorn. He would ally himself
with Democracy ; his wealth could not get him into a
club, but it would buy him into Parliament ; he could
not be a Lauzun, nor, perhaps, a Mirabeau, but he
might be a Danton. He had plenty of knowledge
and audacity, and with knowledge and audacity a good
hater is sure to be eloquent. Possibly, then, this poor
Louis Grayle might have made a great figure, left his
mark on his age and his name in history ; but in con-
testing the borough, which he was sure to carry, he had
to face an opponent in a real line gentleman whom his
father had ruined, cool and high-bred, with a tongue
like a rapier, a sneer like an adder. A quarrel of
course j Louis Grayle sent a challenge. The fine gen-
tleman, known to be no coward (fine gentlemen never
are), was at first disposed to refuse with contempt.
But Grayle had made himself the idol of the mob ;
and at a word from Grayle the fine gentleman might
have been ducked at a pump or tossed in a blanket —
that would have made him ridiculous ; to be shot at
is a trifle, to be laughed at is serious. He therefore
condescended to accept the challenge, and my father
was his second.

" It was settled, of course, according to English cus-
tom, that both combatants should fire at the same time
and by signal. The antagonist fired at the right mo-
ment ; his ball grazed Louis Grayle's temple. Louis

A STRANGE STORY. 153

Grayle had not fired. He now seemed to the seconds
to take slow and deliberate aim. They called out to
him not to fire — they were rushing to prevent him —
when the trigger was pulled, and his opponent fell dead
on the field. The fight was, therefore, considered unfair ;
Louis Grayle was tried for his life ; he did not stand
the trial in person.* He escaped to the Continent ;
hurried on to some distant uncivilised lands — could
not be traced — reappeared in England no more. The
lawyer who conducted his defence pleaded skilfully.
He argued that the delay in firing was not intentional,
therefore not criminal — the effect of the stun which the
wound in the temple had occasioned. The judge was
a gentleman, and summed up the evidence so as to di-
rect the jury to a verdict against the low wretch who
had murdered a gentleman. But the jurors were not
gentlemen, and Grayle's advocate had of course excited
their sympathy for a son of the people whom a gentle-
man had wantonly insulted — the verdict was man-
slaughter. But the sentence emphatically marked the
aggravated nature of the homicide — three years' im-
prisonment. Grayle eluded the prison, but he was a
man disgraced and an exile — his ambition blasted, his
career an outlaw's, and his age not yet twenty-three.
My father said that he was supposed to have changed his
name ; none knew what had become of him. And so
this creature, brilliant and daring, whom, if born under

* Mrs Poyntz here makes a mistake in law, which, though very
evident, her listeners do not seem to have noticed. Her mistake
wiU be referred to later.

154 A STRANGE STORY.

better auspices, we might now be all fawning on, cring-
ing to — after living to old age, no one knows h.ow —
dies, murdered at Aleppo, no one, you say, knows by
whom."

" I saw some account of liis death in the papers
about three years ago," said one of the party; "but
the name was misspelt, and I had no idea that it was
the same man who had fought the duel which Mrs
Colonel Poyntz has so graphically described. I have a
very vague recollection of the trial ; it took place when
I was a boy, more than forty years since. The affair
made a stir at the time, but was soon forgotten."

"Soon forgotten," said Mrs Poyntz; "ay, what is
not 1 Leave your place in the world for ten minutes,
and when you come back somebody else has taken it ;
but when you leave the world for good, who remem-
bers that you had ever a place even in the parish
register ] "

" Nevertheless," said I, " a great poet has said, finely
and truly,

*■' ' The sun of Homer shines upon us still.' "

" But it does not shine upon Homer ; and learned
folks tell me that we know no more who and what
Homer was, if there was ever a single Homer at all, or
rather a whole herd of Homers, than we know about
the man in the moon — if there be one man there, or
millions of men. Now, my dear Miss Brabazon, it will
be very kind in you to divert our thoughts into chan-
nels less gloomy. Some pretty French air Dr

Fenwick, I have something to say to you." She drew

A STRANGE STORY. 155

rue towards the window. " So Anne Ashleigh writes
roe word that I am not to mention your engagement.
Do you think it quite prudent to keep it a secret ? "

" Ido not see how prudence is concerned in keeping
it secret one way or the other — it is a mere matter of
feeling. Most people wish to abridge, as far as they
can, the time in which their private arrangements are
the topic of public gossip."

" Public gossip is sometimes the best security for the
due completion of private arrangements. As long as
a girl is not known to be engaged, her betrothed must
be prepared for rivals. Announce the engagement, and
rivals are warned off."

" I fear no rivals."

" Do you not 1 Bold man ! I suppose you will write
to Lilian 1"

" Certainly."

" Do so, and constantly. By the way, Mrs Ashleigh,
before she went, asked me to send her back Lady
Haughton's letter of invitation. What for 1 to show
to you?"

" Yery likely. Have you the letter still 1 May I
see it 1 "

" Not just at present. When Lilian or Mrs Ashleigh
writes to you, come and tell me how they like their
visit, and what other guests form the party."

Therewith she turned away and conversed apart with
the traveller.

Her words disquieted me, and I felt that they were
meant to do so — wherefore I could not guess. But

156 A STRANGE STORY.

there is no language on earth, which has more words
with a double meaning than that spoken by the Clever
AVoman, who is never so guarded as when she appears
to be frank.

As I walked home thoughtfully, I was accosted by a
young man, the son of one of the wealthiest merchants
in the town, I had attended him with success some
months before in a rheumatic fever; he and his family
were much attached to me.

"Ah, my dear Fenwick, I am so glad to see you ; I
owe you an obligation of which you are not aware — an
exceedingly pleasant ti'avelling companion. I came
with him to-day from London, where I have been sight-
seeing and holiday-making for the last fortnight."

" I suppose you mean that you kindly bring me a
patient 1 "

" Xo, only an admirer. I was staying at Fenton's
Hotel. It so happened one day that I had left in the
coffee-room your last work on the 'Vital Principle,'
which, by the by, the bookseller assures me is selling
immensely among readers as non-professional as my-
self. Coming into the coffee-room again, I found a
gentleman reading the book. I claimed it politely ;
he as politely tendered his excuse for taking it. We
made acquaintance on the spot. The next day Ave
were intimate. He expressed great interest and curio-
sity about your theory and your experiments. I told
him I knew you. You may guess if I described you
as less clever in your practice than you are in your
writings. And, in short, he came with me to L ,

A STKAXGE STORY. 157

partly to see our flourishing town, principally on my
promise to introduce him to you. My mother, you
know, has what she calls a cUjeuner to-morrow — de-
jeuner and dance. You will be there?"

" Thank you for reminding me of her invitation. I
will avail myself of it if I can. Your new friend will
be present? "Who and what is he? A medical stu-
dent ? "

" Xo; a mere gentleman at ease, but seems to have
a good deal of general information. Yery young;
apparently very rich ; wonderfully good-looking. I
am sure you will like him ; everybody must."

" It is quite enough to prepare me to like him that
he is a friend of yours." And so we shook hands and
parted.

CHAPTER XXIII.

It was late in tlie afternoon of the following day before
I was able to join the party assembled at the merchant's
house ; it was a villa about two miles out of the town,
pleasantly situated amidst flower-gardens celebrated in
the neighbourhood for their beauty. The breakfast
had been long over ; the company was scattered over
the lawn ; some formed into a dance on the smooth
lawn ; some seated under shady awnings ; others glid-
ing amidst parterres, in which all the glow of colour
took a glory yet more vivid under the flush of a bril-
liant sunshine and the ripple of a soft western breeze.
Music, loud and lively, mingled with the laughter of
happy children, who formed much the larger number
of the party.

Standing at the entrance of an arched trellis that
led from the hardier flowers of the lawn to a rare col-
lection of tropical plants under a lofty glass dome
(connecting, as it were, the familiar vegetation of the
North with that of the remotest East), was a form that
instantaneously caught and fixed my gaze. The entrance
of the arcade Avas covered with parasite creepers, in
prodigal luxuriance, of variegated gorgeous tints, —

A STEASGE STOET. 13©

:ad£t, gclden, pnrple; and the foaoj an ideaKwud ^-
:re of man's youth fresh from the hand cf STatnre,
^tood liteiallj in a frame of hloomiBL

i^erer hare I seen hnman &ee so radiant as that
Young man'sL There vas in the aspect an indeaedhafale
something that litexaDj dazded Jks one eontinaed to
gaze, it iras irith snrpzise ; one was fcrced to acknow-
ledge that in the featmes themselres these was no
ianltless legolazify; nor was the joong man's siatnrr
impceing — abont the iiriH«n«» he^iL Sot ibe ^Sbci
of the whole was not less tranarffndfnfc laa^ eyes.
iitspeakafafy histrons j a most hannonioiis eoloming :
aji expTession of ctmtagiDns animation and jssjoa^aesBB :
3,nd the form itself so CTitJcally fine, that the vdded
strength of its idnews was hest shown in the lightiMSiB
and grace of its movements.

He was resting one hand eareles&ify on the gnMpn
- :<cks of a child that had nestled itself agnnst his knees.
l>3king up to his&oe i« Hmt .gil«»iit Inrjing iwnaidgy mith.
^aich children regard something too stiangd^ heantifcL.
for noisy admiration; he himself was eoDvexsmg witii
the host, an old grey-Judred, goaty man, propped en. Ms
cmtched stick, and figtenii^ with^ a look of moanifril
rUTy. To the wealth of the obi man all the flowers in
* 33it garden owed uifiir renewed deb^it m tli'? «inrm™<ffl»
iir and son- Oh! that his wealth eonli rr^f— ::
'"•"mwafftf one honr of the youth whose incan " '
tedde him, Ijoid, indeed, of CreatuMij; ::
^OTen into his crown of heanty, its enjoyriT
lo his sceptre of hope and

160 A STEANGE STORY.

I was startled by tlie hearty voice of the merchant's
son : " Ah, my dear Fenwick, I was afraid yon would
not come — you are late. There is the new friend of
whom I spoke to you last night ; let me now make you
acquainted with him." He drew my arm in his, and
led me up to the young man, where he stood under the
arching flowers, and whom he then introduced to me
hy the name of Margrave.

Nothing could be more frankly cordial than Mr
Margrave's manner. In a few minutes I found myself
conversing with him familiarly, as if we had been
reared in the same home, and sported together in the
same playground. His vein of talk was peculiar, off-
hand, careless, shifting from topic to topic with a bright
rapidity.

He said that he liked the place ; proposed to stay
in it some weeks ; asked my address, which I gave to
him ; promised to call soon at an early hour, while my
time was yet free from professional visits. I endea-
voured, when I went away, to analyse to myself the
fascination which this young stranger so notably exer-
cised over all who approached him; and it seemed to
me, ever seeking to find material causes for all moral
effects, that it arose from the contagious vitality of that
rarest of all rare gifts in highly civilised circles — perfect
health ; that health which is in itself the most exqui-
site luxury ; which, finding happiness in the mere sense
of existence, diffuses round it, like an atmosphere, the
harmless hilarity of its bright animal being. Health,
to the utmost perfection, is seldom known after child-

A STRANGE STORY. 161

hood ; health to the utmost cannot be enjoyed by those
who overwork the brain, or admit the sure Avear and
tear of the passions. The creature I had just seen gave
me the notion of youth in the golden age of the poets
— the youth of the careless Arcadian, before nymph or
shepherdess had vexed his heart Avith a sigh.

CHAPTER XXIV.

The house I occupied at L was a quaint, old-
fashioned building — a corner-house. One side, in which
was the front entrance, looked upon a street which, as
there were no shops in it, and it was no direct thorough-
fare to the busy centres of the town, was always quiet,
and at some hours of the day almost deserted. The
other side of the house fronted a lane ; opposite to it
was the long and high wall of the garden to a Young
Ladies' Boarding- School. My stables adjoined the
house, abutting on a row of smaller buildings, with
little gardens before them, chiefly occupied by mer-
cantile clerks and retired tradesmen. Ey the lane there
was a short and ready access both to the high turnpike
road, and to some pleasant walks through green mea-
dows and along the banks of a river.

This house I had inhabited since my arrival at

L , and it had to me so many attractions, in a

situation sufficiently central to be convenient for pa-
tients, and yet free from noise, and favourable to
ready outlet into the country for such foot or horse
exercise as my professional avocations would allow me
to carve for myself out of what the Latin poet calls the

A STRANGE STORY. 163

"solid day," that I had refused to change it for one
better suited to my increased income ; but it was not
a house which Mrs Ashleigh would have Hked for Lilian.
The main objection to it in the eyes of the "genteel"
was, that it had formerly belonged to a member of the
healing profession, who united the shop of an apothecary
to the diploma of a surgeon ; but that shop had given
the house a special attraction to me, for it had been
built out on the side of the house which fronted the
lane, occupying the greater portion of a small gravel
court, fenced from the road by a low iron palisade,
and separated from the body of the house itself by a
short and narrow corridor that communicated with the
entrance-hall. This shop I turned into a rude study
for scientific experiments, in which I generally spent
some early hours of the morning, before my visiting
patients began to arrive. I enjoyed the stillness of its
separation from the rest of the house; I enjoyed the
glimpse of the great chestnut-trees, which overtopped
the wall of the school-garden; I enjoyed the ease with
which, by opening the glazed sash-door, I could get out,
if disposed for a short walk, into the pleasant fields ;
and so completely had I made this sanctuary my own,
that not only my man-servant knew that I was never
to be disturbed when in it, except by the summons of a
patient, but even the housemaid was forbidden to enter
it with broom or duster, except upon special invitation.
The last thing at night, before retiring to rest, it was
the man-servant's business to see that the sash-window
was closed, and the gate to the iron palisade locked;

164 A STRANGE STORY.

but during tlie daytime I so often went out of the house
by that private way that the gate was then very seldom
locked, nor the sash-door bolted from within. In the
town of L there was little apprehension of house-
robberies — especially in the daylight ; and certainly in
this room, cut off from the main building, there was
nothing to attract a vulgar cupidity. A few of the
apothecary's shelves and cases still remained on the
walls, with, here and there, a bottle of some chemical
preparation for experiment. Two or three worm-eaten
wooden chairs ; two or three shabby old tables ; an
old walnut-tree bureau, without a lock, into which
odds and ends were confusedly thrust, and sundry
ugly-looking inventions of mechanical science, were,
assuredly, not the articles which a timid proprietor
would guard with jealous care from the chances of
robbery. It wiU be seen later why I have been thus
prolix in description. The morning after I had met
the young stranger by whom I had been so favourably
impressed, I was up as usual, a little before the sun,
and long before any of my servants were astir. I went
first into the room I have mentioned, and which I
shall henceforth designate as my study, opened the
window, unlocked the gate, and sauntered for some
minutes up and down the silent lane skirting the op-
posite wall, and overhung by the chestnut-trees rich
in the garniture of a glorious summer ; then, refreshed
for work, I re-entered my study and was soon absorbed
in the examination of that now well-known machine,
which was then, to me at least, a novelty ; invented,

A STRAIsTtE STOEY. 165

if I remember right, by Dubois-Eeymond, so distin-
guished by his researches into the mysteries of organic
electricity. It is a wooden cylinder fixed against the
edge of a table ; on the table two vessels filled with
salt and water are so placed that, as you close your
hands on the cylinder, the fore-finger of each hand can
drop into the water ; each of the vessels has a metallic
plate, and communicates by wires with a galvanometer
with its needle. JSTow the theory is, that if you clutch
the cylinder firmly -with the right hand, leaving the
left perfectly passive, the needle in the galvanometer
will move from west to south ; if, in Kke manner, you
exert the left arm, leaving the right arm passive, the
needle wiU. deflect from west to north. Hence, it is
argued that the electric current is induced through the
agency of the nervous system, and that, as human "Will
produces the muscular contraction requisite, so is it
human Will that causes the deflection of the needle.
I imagined that if this theory were substantiated by
experiment, the discovery might lead to some sublime
and unconjectured secrets of science. For human
Will, thus actively effective on the electric current,
and all matter, animate or inanimate, having more or
less of electricity, a vast field became opened to con-
jecture. By what series of patient experimental de-
duction might not science arrive at the solution of
problems which the E"ewtonian law of gravitation does

not suffice to solve ; and But here I halt. At

the date which my story has reached, my mind never
lost itself long in the Cloudland of Guess.

166 A STRANGE STORY.

I was dissatisfied with my experiment. The needle
stirred, indeed, but erratically, and not in directions
which, according to the theory, should correspond to
my movement. I was about to dismiss the trial with
some uncharitable contempt of the foreign philoso-
pher's dogmas, when I heard a loud ring at my street
door. "While I paused to conjecture whether my
servant was yet up to attend to the door, and which
of my patients was the most likely to summon me
at so unseasonable an hour, a shadow darkened my
window. I looked up, and to my astonishment beheld
the brilliant face of Mr Margrave. The sash to the
door was already partially opened ; he raised it higher
and walked into the room. "Was it you who rang
at the street door, and at this hour 1 " said I.

" Yes ; and observing, after I had rung, that all the
shutters were still closed, I felt ashamed of my own
rash action, and made off rather than brave the re-
proachful face of some injured housemaid, robbed of
her morning dreams. I turned down that pretty lane
— lured by the green of the chestnut-trees — caught
sight of you through the window, took courage, and
here I am ! You forgive me 1 " While thus speaking,
he continued to move along the Uttered floor of the
dingy room, with the undulating restlessness of some
wild animal in the confines of its den ; and he now
went on, in short fragmentary sentences, very shghtly
linked together, but smoothed, as it were, into har-
mony by a voice musical and fresh as a skylark's
warble. "Morning dreams, indeed! dreams that

A STRANGE STORY. 167

waste the life of such a morning. Eosy magnificence
of a summer dawn ! Do you not pity the fool who
prefers to lie abed, and to dream rather than to live 1
"What ! and you, strong man, with those noble limbs,
in this den ! Do you not long for a rush through the
green of the fields, a bath in the blue of the river ? "

Here he came to a pause, standing still in the grey
light of the growing day, with eyes whose joyous lustre
forestalled the sun's, and lips which seemed to laugh
even in repose.

But presently those eyes, as quick as they were
bright, glanced over the walls, the floor, the shelves,
the phials, the mechanical inventions, and then rested
full on my cylinder fixed to the table. He approached,
examined it curiously, asked what it was 1 I explain-
ed. To gratify him, I sat down and renewed my ex-
periment, with equally ill-success. The needle, which
should have moved from west to south, describing an
angle of from 30'' to 40° or even 50°, only made a few
troubled, undecided oscillations.

" Tut ! " cried the young man, " I see what it is ;
you have a wound in your right hand."

That was true. I had burnt my hand a few days
before in a chemical experiment, and the sore had not
healed.

"Well," said I, "and what does that matter 1 "

"Everything ; the least scratch in the skin of the
hand produces chemical actions on the electric current,
independently of your will. Let me try."

He took my place, and in a moment the needle in

168 A STEANGE STORY.

the galvanometer responded to his grasp on the cylin-
der, exactly as the inventive philosopher had stated to
he the due residt of the experiment.

I was startled.

" But how came you, Mr Margrave, to be so well
acquainted vdth a scientific process, little known, and
but recently discovered 1 "

" I well acquainted ! not so. But I am fond of all
experiments that relate to animal life. Electricity,
especially, is full of interest."

On that I drew him out (as I thought), and he talk-
ed volubly. I was amazed to find this young man, in
whose brain I had conceived thought kept one careless
holiday, was evidently familiar with the physical sci-
ences, and especially with chemistry, which was my
own study by predilection. But never had I met with
a student in whom a knowledge so extensive was mixed
up with notions so obsolete or so crotchety. In one
sentence he showed that he had mastered some late
discovery by Faraday or Liebig ; in the next sentence
he was talking the wild fallacies of Cardon or Van Hel-
mont. I burst out laughing at some paradox about
sympathetic powders, which he enounced as if it were
a recognised truth.

" Pray tell me," said I, " who was your master in
physics 1 — for a cleverer pupil never had a more crack-
brained teacher."

"!N"o," he answered, with his merry laugh, "it is
not the teacher's fault. I am a mere parrot ; just
cry out a few scraps of learning picked up here and

A STEAXGE STOKY. 169

there. But, however, I am fond of all researches into
Nature — all guesses at her riddles. To tell you the
truth, one reason why I have taken to you so heartily
is not only that your published work caught my fancy
in the dip which I took into its contents (pardon me
if I say dip ; I never do more than dip into any book),

but also because young tells me that which all

whom I have met in this town confirm, viz., that you
are one of those few practical chemists who are at once
exceedingly cautious and exceedingly bold — -willing to
try every new experiment, but submitting experiment
to rigid tests. "Well, I have an experiment running
wild in this giddy head of mine, and I want you,
some day when at leisure, to catch it, fix it as you
have fixed that cylinder : make something of it. I
am sure you can."

"What is it?"

" Something akin to the theories in your work.
You woidd replenish or preserve to each special con-
stitution the special substance that may fail to the
equilibrium of its health. Eut you own that in a large
proportion of cases the best cure of disease is less to
deal with the disease itself than to support and stimu-
late the whole system, so as to enable Nature to cure
the disease and restore the impaired equilibrium by her
own agencies. Thus, if you find that in certain cases
of nervous debility a substance like nitric acid is effica-
cious, it is because the nitric acid has a virtue in lock-
ing up, as it were, the nervous energy — that is, pre-
venting all undue waste. Again, in some cases of what

17Q A STRANGE STORY.

is commonly called feverish, cold, stimulants like am-
monia assist Nature itself to get rid of the disorder
that oppresses its normal action ; and, on the same
principle, I apprehend, it is contended that a large
average of human lives is saved in those hospitals
which have adopted the supporting system of ample
nourishment and alcoholic stimulants."

" Your medical learning surprises me," said I, smil-
ing ; " and without pausing to notice where it deals
somewhat superficially with disputable points in gen-
eral, and my own theory in particular, I ask you for
the deduction you draw from your premises."

" It is simply this : that to all animate bodies, how-
ever various, there must be one principle in common —
the vital principle itself. What if there be one certain
means of recruiting that principle 1 and what if that
secret can be discovered ? "

" Pshaw ! The old illusion of the medieval em-
pirics,"

" !N"ot so. But the medieval empirics were great
discoverers. You sneer at Van Helmont, who sought,
in water, the principle of all things ; but Van Helmont
discovered in his search those invisible bodies called
gases. Now the principle of life must be certainly
ascribed to a gas.* And whatever is a gas, chemistry

* "According to the views we have mentioned, we must ascribe
life to a gas ; that is, to an aeriform body." — Liebig, ' Organic Chem-
istry/ Pkyfair's translation, p. 363. It is perhaps not less super-
fluous to add that Liebig does not support the \'iews " according to
which life must be ascribed to a gas," than it would be to state had
Dugald Stewart been quoted as writing, "According to the views

A STRANGE STORY. 171

should not despair of producing ! But I can argue no
longer now — never canargue long at a stretch — we
are wasting the morning ; and, joy ! the sun is up !
See ! Out ! come out ! out ! and greet the great Life-
giver face to face."

we have mentioned, the mind is but a bundle of impressions," that
Dugald Stewart was not supporting, but opposing, the views of
David Hume. The quotation is merely meant to show, in the
shortest possible compass, that there are views entertained by spec-
ulative reasoners of our day which, according to Liebig, would lead
to the inference at which Margrave so boldly arrives. Margrave is,
however, no doubt, led to his belief by his reminiscences of Van
Helmont, to whose discovery of gas he is referring. Van Helmont
plainly affirms "that the arterial spirit of our life is of the nature
of a gas ;" and in the same chapter (on the fiction of elementary
complexions and mixtures) says, " Seeing that the spii'it of our life,
SLQce it is a gas, is most mightily and swiftly affected by any other
gas," &c. He repeats the same dogma in his treatise on Long Life,
and indeed very generally throughout his writings, obseiwing, iu his
chapter on the Vital Air, that the spirit of life is a salt sharp vapour,
made of the arterial blood, &;c. Liebig, therefore, in confuting some
modern notions as to the nature of contagion by miasma, is leading
their reasonings back to that assumption in the da^\^l of physiologi-
cal science by which the discoverer of gas exalted into the principle
of life the substance to which he first gave the name now so fami-
liarly known. It is nevertheless just to Van Helmont to add that
his conception of the vital principle was very far from being as
purely materialistic as it would seem to those unacquainted with
his writings ; for he carefully distinguishes that principle of life
which he ascribes to a gas, and by which he means the sensuous
animal life, from the intellectual immortal principle of soul. Van
Helmont, indeed, was a sincere believer of Divine Revelation. " The
Lord Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life," says with earnest
humility this daring genius, in that noble chapter "on the complet-
ing of the mind by the 'jirayer of silence,' and the lo\ing offering
up of the heart, soul, and strength to the obedience of the Divine
■will," from which some of the most eloquent of recent philosophers,
arguing against materialism, have borrowed largely in support and
in ornament of their lofty cause.

172 A STRANGE STORY.

I could not resist the young man's invitation. In
a few minutes we were in tlie quiet lane under the
glinting chestnut-trees. Margrave was chanting, low,
a wild tune — words in a strange language.

"What words are those? no European language, I
think j for I know a little of most of the languages
which are spoken in our quarter of the globe, at least
hy its more civUised races."

" Civilised races ! What is civilisation 1 Those
words were uttered by men who founded empires
when Europe itself was not civilised ! Hush, is it
not a grand old air ? " And lifting his eyes towards
the sun, he gave vent to a voice clear and deep as a
mighty bell. The air was grand — the words had a
sonorous swell that suited it, and they seemed to me
jubilant and yet solemn. He stopped abruptly, as a
path from the lane had led us into the fields, already
half-bathed in. sunlight — dews glittering on the hedge-
rows.

" Your song," said I, " would go well with the clash
of cymbals or the peal of the organ. I am no judge
of melody, but this strikes me as that of a religious
hymn."

"I compliment you on the guess. It is a Persian
fije-worshipper's hymn to the sun. The dialect is
very different from modern Persian. Cyrus the Great
might have chanted it on his march upon Babylon."

"And where did you learn it 1 "

" In Persia itself."

"You have travelled much — learned much — and

A STRANGE STORY. 173

are so young and so fresh. Is it an impertinent
question if I ask whether your parents are yet living,
or are you wholly lord of yourself 1 "

** Thank you for the question — pray make my
answer known in the town. Parents I have not —
never had,"

" 'Nexev had parents ! "

" Well, I ought rather to say that no parents ever
owned me. I am a natural son — a vagabond — a
nobody. "When I came of age I received an anony-
mous letter, informing me that a sum — I need not
say what, but more than enough for aU I need —
was lodged at an English banker's in my name ; that
my mother had died in my infancy; that my father
was also dead — but recently; that as I was a child of
love, and he was unwilling that the secret of my birth
should ever be traced, he had provided for me, not by
will, but in his life, by a sum consigned to the trust
of the friend who now wrote to me ; I need give
myself no trouble to learn more ; faith, I never did.
I am young, healthy, rich — yes, rich ! Kow you
know all, and you had better tell it, that I may win
no man's courtesy and no maiden's love upon false
pretences. I have not even a right, you see, to the
name I bear. Hist ! let me catch that squirrel."

With what a panther-like bound he sprang ! The
squirrel eluded his grasp, and was up the oak-tree ; in
a moment he was up the oak-tree too. In amazement
I saw him rising from bough to bough ; — saw his bright
eyes and glittering teeth through the green leaves ;

174 A STRANGE STOEY.

presently I heard the sharp piteous cry of the squirrel
— echoed by the youth's merry lai:gh — and down,
through that maze of green, Margrave came, dropping
on the grass and bounding up, as Mercury might have
bounded with his wings at his heels.

" I have caught him — what pretty brown eyes ! "
Suddenly the gay expression of his face changed to
that of a savage ; the squirrel had wrenched itself
half-loose, and bitten him. The poor brute ! In an
instant its neck was Avrung — its body dashed on the
ground ; and that fair young creature, every feature
quivering with rage, was stamping his foot on his
victim again and again ! it was horrible. I caught
him by the arm indignantly. He tamed round on
me like a wild beast disturbed from its prey — his
teeth set, his hand lifted, his eyes like balls of fire.
" Shame ! " said I, calmly ; " shame on you ! "
He continued to gaze on me a moment or so — his
eye glaring, his breath panting ; and then, as if mas-
tering himself with an involuntary effort, his arm
dropped to his side, and he said quite humbly, "I
beg your pardon ; indeed I do. I was beside myself
for a moment ; I cannot bear pain ; " and he looked
in deep compassion for himself at his wounded hand,
" Venomous brute ! " And he stamped again on the
body of the squirrel, already crushed out of shape.
I moved away in disgust, and walked on.
But presently I felt my arm softly drawn aside,
and a voice, dulcet as the coo of a dove, stole its way
into my ears. There was no resisting the charm with

I

A STRANGE STORY. 175

which this extraordinary mortal could fascinate even
the hard and the cold — nor them, perhaps, the least.
For as you see in extreme old age, when the heart
seems to have shrunk into itself, and to leave but
meagre and nipped affections for the nearest relations
if grown up, the indurated egotism softens at once
towards a playful child ; or as you see in middle life
some misanthrope, whose nature has been soured by
wrong and sorrow, shrink from his own species, yet
make friends with inferior races and respond to the
caress of a dog, — so, for the worldling or the cynic,
there was an attraction in the freshness of this joyous
favourite of ^N'ature ; — an attraction like that of a
beautiful child, spoilt and wayward, or of a graceful
animal, half docile, half fierce.

"But," said I, with a smile, as I felt all displeasure
gone, " such indulgence of passion for such a trifle is
surely unworthy of a student of philosophy ! "

" Trifle," he said, dolorously. " But I tell you it is
pain ; pain is no trifle. I suffer. Look ! "

I looked at the hand, which I took in mine. The
bite no doubt had been sharp ; but the hand that lay
in my own was that which the Greek sculptor gives to
a gladiator — not large (the extremities are never large
in persons whose strength comes from the just propor-
tion of all the members, rather than the factitious and
partial force which continued muscular exertion will
give to one part of the frame, to the comparative
weakening of the rest), but with the firm-knit joints,
the solid fingers, the finished nails, the massive palm,

176 A STEANGE STORY.

the supple polished skin, in which we recognise what
Nature designs the human hand to be — the skiUed,
swift, mighty doer of all those marvels which win
iN'ature herself from the wilderness.

" It is strange," said I, thoughtfully; "but your sus-
ceptibility to suffering confirms my opinion, which is
different from the popular belief — viz., that pain is
most acutely felt by those in whom, the animal organ-
isation being perfect, and the sense of vitality exqui-
sitely keen, every injury or lesion finds the whole
system rise, as it were, to repel the mischief and com-
municate the consciousness of it to all those nerves
which are the sentinels to the garrison of life. Yet
my theory is scarcely borne out by general fact. The
Indian savages must have a health as perfect as yours,
a nervous system as fine. Witness then- marvellous
accuracy of ear, of eye, of scent, probably also of touch,
yet they are indifferent to physical pain ; or must I
mortify your pride by saying that they have some
moral quality defective in you which enables them to
rise superior to it 1"

" The Indian savages," said Margrave, sullenly,
"have not a health as perfect as mine; and in what
you call vitaUty — the blissful consciousness of Kfe —
they are as sticks and stones compared to me."

" How do you know 1 "

" Because I have lived with them. It is a fallacy to
suppose that the savage has a health superior to that
of the civilised man, — if the civUised man be but tem-
perate ; — and even if not, he has the stamina that can

A STRANGE STORY. 177

resist for years the effect of excesses wliicli would de-
stroy the savage in a month. As to the savage's fine
perceptions of sense, such do not come from exquisite
equilibrium of system, but are hereditary attributes
transmitted from race to race, and strengthened by
training from infancy. But is a pointer stronger and
healthier than a mastiff, because the pointer, through
long descent and early teaching, creeps stealthily to
his game and stands to it motionless? I will talk of
this later; now I suffer ! Pain, pain ! Has life any ill
but pain?"

It so happened that I had about me some roots of
the white lily, which I meant, before returning home,
to leave with a patient suffering from one of those acute
local inflammations in which that simple remedy often
affords great relief. I cut up one of these roots, and
bound the cooling leaves to the wounded hand with
my handkerchief.

" There," said I. " Fortunately, if you feel pain more
sensibly than others, you will recover from it more
quickly."

And in a few minutes my companion felt perfectly
relieved, and poured out his gratitude with an extra-
vagance of expression and a beaming delight of coun-
tenance which positively touched me.

" I almost feel," said I, " as I do when I have stilled
an infant's wailing, and restored it smiling to its mo-
ther's breast."

" You have done so. I am an infant, and Nature is
my mother. Oh, to be restored to the full joy of life,

VOL. I. M

178 A STEANGE STORY.

the scent of wild flowers, the song of birds, and this
air — summer air — summer air ! "

I know not why it was, but at that moment, look-
ing at him and hearing him, I rejoiced that Lilian was
not at L .

" Eut I came out to bathe. Can we not bathe in
that stream 1 "

" No. You would derange the bandage round your
hand ; and for all bodily ills, from the least to the
gravest, there is nothing like leaving ISTature at rest the
moment we have hit on the means which assist her
own efforts at cure."

" I obey then ; but I so love the water !"

" You swim, of course 1 "

"Ask the fish if it swim. Ask the fish if it can
escape me ! I delight to dive down — down ; to plunge
after the startled trout, as an otter does ; and then to
get amongst those cool, fragrant reeds and bulrushes,
or that forest of emerald weed which one sometimes
finds waving under clear rivers. Man ! man ! could
you live but an hour of my life, you would know how
horrible a thing it is to die ! "

" Yet the dying do not think so ; they pass away
calm and smiling, as you will one day."

"I — I! die one day — die!" and he sank on the
grass, and buried his face amongst the herbage, sobbing
aloud.

Before I coidd get through half-a-dozen words,
meant to soothe, he had once more bounded up, dashed
the tears from his eyes, and was again singing some

A STEAXGE STORY. 179

wild, barbaric cbant. Abstracting itself from the ap-
peal to its outward sense by melodies of whicli tbe
language was unknown, my mind soon grew absorbed
in meditative conjectures on the singular nature, so
wayward, so impulsive, wbich bad forced intimacy on
a man grave and practical as myself.

I was puzzled how to reconcile so passionate a child-
ishness, so undisciplined a want of self-control, with an
experience of mankind so extended by travel, with an
education, desultory and irregular indeed, but which
must, at some time or other, have been familiarised to
severe reasonings and laborious studies. In Margrave
there seemed to be wanting that mysterious something
which is needed to keep our faculties, however severally
brilliant, harmoniously linked together — as the string
by which a child mechanically binds the wild-flowers
it gathers ; shaping them at choice into the garland or
the chain.

CHAPTEE XXV.

My intercourse with Margrave grew habitual and fami-
liar. He came to my house every morning l^efore sun-
rise ; in the evenings we were again brought together ;
sometimes in the houses to which we were both iavited,
sometimes at his hotel, sometimes in my own home.

Nothing more perplexed me than his aspect of ex-
treme youthfulness, contrasted with the extent of the
travels, Avhich, if he were to be believed, had left little
of the known world unexplored. One day I asked him,
bluntly, how old he was 1

" How old do I look ? How old should you suppose
me to be 1 "

" I should have guessed you to be about twenty, till
you spoke of having come of age some years ago."

"Is it a sign of longevity when a man looks much
younger than he is 1 "

" Conjoiaed with other signs, certaioly ! "

" Have I the other signs ? "

" Yes, a magnificent, perhaps a matchless, constitu-
tional organisation. But you have evaded my question
as to your age; was it an impertinence to put it ? "

" No. I came of age — let me see — three years ago."

A STRANGE STORY. 181

" So long since 1 Is it possible 1 I wish I had your
secret ! "

" Secret ! What secret 1 "

" The secret of preserving so much of boyish fresh-
ness in the wear and tear of man -like passions and
man -like thoughts."

" You are still young yourself — under forty 1 "

" Oh, yes ! some years under forty."

" And N'ature gave you a grander frame and a finer
symmetry of feature than she bestowed on me."

" Pooh ! pooh ! You have the beauty that must
charm the eyes of woman, and that beauty in its sunny
forenoon of youth. Happy man! if you love — and
wish to be sure that you are loved again."

" What you call love — the unhealthy sentiment, the
feverish folly — I left behind me, I think for ever,
when "

" Ay, indeed — when 1 "

" I came of age ! "

" Hoary cynic ! and you despise love ! So did I
once. Your time may come."

" I think not. Does any animal, except man, love
its fellow she-animal as man loves woman 1 "

*' As man loves woman ? "No, I suppose not."

" And why should the subject animals be wiser than
their king 1 But, to return — you would like to have
my youth and my careless enjoyment of youth?"

" Can you ask — who would not 1 " Margrave looked
at me for a moment with unusual seriousness, and then,
in the abrupt changes common to his capricious tem-

182

A STRANGE STORY.

perament, began to sing softly one of Ids barbaric chants
— a chant, different from any I had heard him sing
before — made either by the modulation of his voice or
the nature of the tune — so sweet that, little as music
generally affected me, this thrilled to my very heart's
core. I drew closer and closer to him, and murmured
when he paused,

" Is not that a love-song 1 "
I " 1^0," said he ; " it is the song by which the serpent-
! charmer charms the serpent."

CHAPTER XXYL

I^'CREASED intimacy with my new acquaintance did not
diminish the charm of his society, though it brought
to Hght some starthng defects, both in his mental and
moral organisation. I have before said that his know-
ledge, though it had swept over a wide circuit and
dipped into curious, unfrequented recesses, was desul-
tory and erratic. It certainly was not that knowledge,
sustained and aspiring, which the poet assures us is
" the wing on which we mount to heaven." So, in his
faculties themselves there were singular inequahties, or
contradictions. His power of memory in some things
seemed prodigious, but when examined it was seldom
accurate ; it could apprehend, but did not hold to-
gether with a binding grasp, what metaphysicians call
" complex ideas." He thus seemed unable to put it to
any steadfast purpose in the sciences of which it re-
tained, vaguely and loosely, many recondite principles.
For the sublime and beautiful in literature he had no
taste whatever. A passionate lover of nature, his ima-
gination had no response to the arts by which nature
is expressed or idealised; wholly unaffected by poetry
or painting. Of the fine arts, music alone attracted

184 A STRANGE STORY.

and pleased laim. His conversation was often eminently
suggestive, touching on much, whether in books or
mankind, that set one thinking, but I never remember
him to have uttered any of those lofty or tender senti-
ments which, form the connecting links between youth
and genius. For if poets sing to the young, and the
young hail their own interpreters in poets, it is because
the tendency of both is to idealise the realities of life;
finding everywhere in the Eeal a something that is
noble or fair, and making the fair yet fairer, and the
noble nobler still.

In Margrave's character there seemed no special vices,
no special virtues ; but a wonderful vivacity, joyousness,
animal good -humour. He was singularly temperate,
having a dislike to wine, perhaps from that purity of
taste wliich belongs to health absolutely perfect. Xo
healthful child likes alcohols ; no animal, except man,
prefers wine to water.

But his main moral defect seemed to me, in a want
of sympathy, even where he professed attachment. He
who could feel so acutely for himself, be unmanned by
the bite of a squirrel, and sob at the thought that he
should one day die, was as callous to the sufferings of
another as a deer who deserts and butts from him a
woimded comrade.

I give an instance of this hardness of heart where I
shordd have least expected to find it in him.

He had met and joined me as I was walking to visit
a patient on the outskirts of the town, when we fell in
with a group of children, just let loose for an hour or

J

A STRANGE STOEY. 185

two from their day-school. Some of these cliildren
joyously recognised him as having j^layed with them at
their homes ; they ran up to him, and he seemed as
glad as themselves at the meeting.

He suffered them to drag him along with them, and
became as merry and sportive as the youngest of the
troop.

"Well," said I, laughing, "if you are going to play
at leap-frog, pray don't let it be on the highroad, or
you will be run over by carts and draymen ; see that
meadow just in front to the left — off with you there ! "

"With all my heart," cried Margrave, "while you
pay your visit. Come along, boys."

A little urchin, not above six years old, but who was
lame, began to cry; he could not run, — he should be
left behind.

Margrave stooped. " Climb on my shoulder, Httle
one, and I'll be your horse."

The child dried its tears, and delightedly obeyed.

" Certainly," said I to myself, " Margrave, after all,
must have a nature as gentle as it is simple. What
other young man, so courted by all the allurements
that steal innocence from pleasure, would stop in the
thoroughfares to play with children 1 "

The thought had scarcely passed through my mind
when I heard a scream of agony. IMargrave had leap-
ed the railing that divided the meadow from the road,
and in so doing, the poor child, perched on his shoul-
der, had, perhaps from surprise or fright, loosened its
hold and fallen heavily — its cries were piteous. Mar-

186 A STRANGE STORY.

grave clapped his hands to his ears — uttered an ex-
clamation of anger — and not even stopping to lift up
the boy, or examine what the hurt was, called to the
other children to come on, and was soon rolling with
them on the grass, and pelting them with daisies.
When I came up, only one child remained by the suf-
ferer— his little brother, a year older than himself.
The child had fallen on his arm, which was not broken,
but violently contused. The pain must have been in-
tense. I carried the child to its home, and had to re-
main there some time. I did not see Margrave till the
next morning. When he then called, I felt so indig-
nant that I could scarcely speak to him. When at last
I rebuked him for his inhumanity, he seemed surprised,
with difficulty remembered the circumstance, and then
merely said — as if it were the most natural confession
in the world —

" Oh, nothing so discordant as a child's waU. I hate
discords. I am pleased with the company of children,
but they must be children who laugh and play. Well !
why do you look at me so sternly 1 What have I said
to shock you 1 "

" Shock me — you shock manhood itself ! Go ; I
cannot talk to you now. I am busy."

But he did not go ; and his voice was so sweet, and
his ways so winning, that disgust insensibly melted
into that sort of forgiveness one accords (let me repeat
the illustration) to the deer that forsakes its comrade.
The poor thing knows no better. And what a gTaceful
beautiful thing this was !

A STEAXGE STOEY. 187

The fascination — I can give it no other name — whicli
Margrave exercised, was not confined to me, it was uni-
versal j old, young, high, low, man, woman, child, all
felt it. Never in Low Town had stranger, even the
most distinguished by fame, met with a reception so
cordial — so flattering. His frank confession that he was
a natural son, far from being to his injury, served to
interest people more in him, and to prevent all those
inquiries in regard to his connections and antecedents
which would otherwise have been afloat. To be sure,
he was evidently rich ; at least he had plenty of money.
He lived in the best rooms in the principal hotel ; was
very hospitable ; entertained the families Avith whom
he had grown intimate ; made them bring their children
— music and dancing after dinner. Among the houses
in which he had established familiar acquaintance was
that of the mayor of the town, who had bought Dr
Lloyd's collection of subjects in natural history. To
that collection the mayor had added largely by a very
recent purchase. He had arranged these various speci-
mens, which his last acquisitions had enriched by the
interesting carcasses of an elephant and a hippopotamus,
in a large wooden building contiguous to his dwelling,
which had been constructed by a former proprietor (a
retired foxhunter) as a riding-house. And being a man
who much affected the diffusion of knowledge, he pro-
posed to open this museum to the admiration of the
general public, and at his death to bequeath it to the
Athenaeum or Literary Institute of his native town.
Margrave, seconded by the influence of the mayor's

188 A STKANGE STOKY.

daughters, liad scarcely been three days at L be-
fore he had persuaded this excellent and public-spirited
functionary to inaugurate the opening of his museum by
the popular ceremony of a ball. A temporary corri-
dor should unite the drawing-rooms, which were on
the ground-floor, with the building that contained the
collection ; and thus the fete would be elevated above
the frivolous character of a fashionable amusement,
and consecrated to the solemnisation of an intellectual
institute. Dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea, the
mayor announced his intention to give a ball that
should include the surrounding neighbourhood, and be
worthy, in all expensive respects, of the dignity of him-
self and the occasion. A night had been fixed for the
ball — a night that became memorable indeed to me !
The entertainment was anticipated with a lively in-
terest, in which even the Hill condescended to share.
The Hill did not much patronise mayors in general ;
but when a mayor gave a ball for a purpose so patriotic,
and on a scale so splendid, the Hill liberally acknow-
ledged that Commerce was, on the whole, a thing which
the Eminence might now and then condescend to ac-
knowledge Avithout absolutely derogating from the rank
■which Providence had assigned to it amongst the High
Places of earth. Accordingly, the Hill was permitted
by its Queen to honour the first magistrate of Low
Town by a promise to attend his ball. No"\v, as this
festivity had originated in the suggestion of Margrave,
so, by a natural association of ideas, every one, in
talking of the ball, talked also of Margrave.

A STRANGE STORY. 189

The Hill had at first affected to ignore a stranger
whose debut had been made in the mercantile circle of
Low Town. But the Queen of the Hill now said sen-
tentiously, " This new man in a few days has become
a Celebrity. It is the policy of the HiU to adopt
Celebrities, if the Celebrities pay respect to the Pro-
prieties. Dr Fenwick is requested to procure Mr
Margrave the advantage of being known to the Hill."

I found it somewhat difficult to persuade Margrave
to accept the HiU's condescending overture. He
seemed to have a dislike to all societies pretending
to aristocratic distinction — a dislike expressed with a
fierceness so unwonted, that it made one suppose he
had at some time or other been subjected to mortifica-
tion by the supercilious airs that blow upon heights so
elevated. However, he yielded to my instances, and
accompanied me one evening to Mrs Poyntz's house.
The Hill was encamped there for the occasion. Mrs
Poyntz was exceedingly civil to him, and after a few
commonplace speeches, hearing that he was fond of
music, consigned him to the caressing care of Miss
Brabazon, who was at the head of the musical depart-
ment in the Queen of the Hill's administration.

Mrs Poyntz retired to her favourite seat near the
window, inviting me to sit beside her ; and while she
knitted in silence, in silence my eye glanced towards
Margrave in the midst of the group assembled round
the piano.

Whether he was in more than usually high spirits,
or whether he was actuated by a malign and impish

190 A STKANGE STOEY.

desire to upset the established laws of decomm by
which the gaieties of the Hill were habitually subdued
into a serene and somewhat pensive pleasantness, I
know not ; but it was not many minutes before the
orderly aspect of the place was grotesquely changed.

Miss Brabazon having come to the close of a com-
plicated and dreary sonata, I heard Margrave abruptly
ask her if she could play the Tarantella, that famous
ISTeapolitan air which is founded on the legendary
belief that the bite of the tarantula excites an irresis-
tible desire to dance. On that high-bred spinster's
confession that she was ignorant of the air, and had
not even heard of the legend, Margrave said, " Let me
play it to you, with variations of my own." Miss
Brabazon graciously yielded her place at the instru-
ment. Margrave seated himself — there was great
curiosity to hear his performance. Margrave's fingers
rushed over the keys, and there was a general start, the
prelude was so unlike any known combination of har-
monious sounds. Then he began a chant — song I can
scarcely call it— words certainly not in Italian, perhaps
in some uncivilised tongue, perhaps in impromptu
gibberish. And the torture of the instrument now
commenced in good earnest : it shrieked, it groaned,
[■wilder and noisier. Beethoven's Storm, roused by the
''fell touch of a German pianist, were mild in compari-
son ; and the mighty voice, dominating the anguish
of the cracking keys, had the full diapason of a chorus.
Certainly I am no judge of music, but to my ear the
discord was terrific — to the ears of better-informed

A STEAXGE STORY. 191

amateurs it seemed ravishing. All were spell-bound ;
even Mrs Poyntz paused from her knitting, as the
Fates paused from their web at the lyre of Orpheus.
To this breathless delight, however, soon succeeded a
general desire for movement. To my amazement, I
beheld these formal matrons and sober fathers of fami-
lies forming themselves into a dance, turbulent as a
children's ball at Christmas. And when, suddenly-
desisting from his music, Margrave started up, caught
the skeleton hand of lean Miss Brabazon, and whirled
ber into the centre of the dance, I coi;ld have fancied
myself at a witch's sabbat. My eye turned in scandal-
ised alarm towards Mrs Poyntz. That great creature
seemed as much astounded as myself. Her eyes were
fixed on the scene in a stare of positive stupor. For
the first time, no doubt, in her life she was overcome,
deposed, dethroned. The awe of her presence was
literally whirled away. The dance ceased as suddenly
as it had begun. Darting from the galvanised mummy
whom he had selected as his partner, ^Margrave shot to
Mrs Poyntz's side, and said, " Ten thousand pardons for
quitting you so soon, but the clock warns me that I
have an engagement elsewhere." In another moment
be was gone.

The dance halted, people seemed slowly returning
to their senses, looking at each other bashfully and
ashamed.

" I could not help it, dear," sighed Miss Brabazon
at last, sinking into a chair, and casting her deprecat-
ing, fainting eyes upon the hostess.

192 A STRANGE STOEY.

"It is witchcraft," said fat Mrs Bruce, wiping her
forehead.

" Witchcraft ! " echoed Mrs Poyntz ; " it does in-
deed look like it. An amazing and portentous exhi-
bition of animal spirits, and not to be endured by the
Proprieties. Where on earth can that young savage
have come from 1 "

" From savage lands," said I. " So he says."

"Do not bring him here again," said Mrs Poyntz.
" He would soon turn the Hill topsy-turvy. But how
charming ! I should like to see more of him," she
added in an under voice, " if he would call on me some
morning, and not in the presence of those for whose
Proprieties I am responsible. Jane must be out in
her ride with the Colonel."

Margrave never again attended the patrician festivi-
ties of the Hill. Invitations were poured upon him,
especially by Miss Brabazon and the other old maids,
but in vain.

*' Those people," said he, " are too tame and civil-
ised for me ; and so few young persons among them.
Even that girl Jane is only young on the surface ; in-
side, as old as the World or her mother. I like youth,
real youth — I am young, I am young ! "

And, indeed, I observed he would attach himself
to some young person, often to some child, as if with
cordial and special favour, yet for not more than an
hour or so, never distinguishmg them by the same
preference when he next met them. I made that re-
mark to him, in rebuke of his fickleness, one evening

A STRANGE STORY. 193

■\vlien he had found nie at work on my Ambitious
Book, reducing to rule and measure the Laws of
Mature,

" It is not fickleness," said he ; " it is necessity."

" J^ecessity ! Explain yourself"

" I seek to find what I have not found," said he ;
"it is my necessity to seek it, and among the young;
and disappointed in one, I turn to the other. Neces-
sity again. But find it at last I must."

" I suppose you mean what the young usually seek
in the young ; and if, as you said the other day, you
have left love behind you, you now wander back to
re-find it."

" Tush ! If I may judge by the talk of young fools,
love may be found every day by him who looks out
for it. What I seek is among the rarest of all dis-
coveries. You might aid me to find it, and in so
doing aid yourself to a knowledge far beyond all that
your formal experiments can bestow."

" Prove your words, and command my services,"
said I, smiling somewhat disdainfully.

" You told me that you had examined into the
alleged phenomena of animal magnetism, and proved
some persons who pretend to the gift Avhich the Scotch
call second-sight to be bungling impostors. You were
right. I have seen the clairvoyants who drive their
trade in this town ; a common gipsy could beat them
in their own calling. But your experience must have
shown you that there are certain temperaments in
which the gift of the Pythoness is stored, unknown

VOL. I. X

194 A STRANGE STOEY.

to the possessor, undetected by the common observer ;
but the signs of which should be as apparent to the
modern physiologist as they were to the ancient priest."

" I at least, as a physiologist, am ignorant of the
signs — what are they?"

" I should despair of making you comprehend them
by mere verbal description. I could guide your obser-
vation to distinguish them unerringly were living sub-
jects before us. But not one in a million has the gift
to an extent available for the purposes to which the
wise would apply it. Many have imperfect glimpses
— few, few, indeed, the unveiled, lucent sight. They
who have but the imperfect glimpses, mislead and
dupe the minds that consult them ; because, being some-
times marvellously right, they excite a credulous be-
lief in their general accuracy ; and as they are but
translators of dreams in their own brain, their assur-
ances are no more to be trusted than are the dreams of
commonplace sleepers. But where the gift exists to
perfection, he who knows how to direct and to profit
by it should be able to discover all that he desires to
know for the guidance and preservation of his own life.
He will be forewarned of every danger, forearmed in the
means by which danger is avoided. For the eye of
the true Pythoness matter has no obstruction, space
no confines, time no measurement."

" My dear Margrave, you may well say that creatures
so gifted are rare ; and, for my part, I would as soon
search for a imicorn, as, to use your affected expression,
for a Pythoness."

A STRANGE STORY. 195

" jS'evertlieless, whenever there comes across the ]]
course of your practice some young creature to whom '
all the evil of the world is as yet unknown, to whom
the ordinary cares and duties of the world are strange
and unwelcome ; who from the earliest dawn of reason
has loved to sit apart and to muse ; before whose eyes
visions pass unsolicited; who converses with those
who are not dwellers on the earth, and beholds in the
space landscapes which the earth does not reflect "

" Margrave, Margrave ! of whom do you speak 1 "

" Whose frame, though exquisitely sensitive, has
still a health and a soundness in which you recognise
no disease ; whose mind has a truthfulness that you
know cannot deceive you, and a simple intelligence too
clear to deceive itself j who is moved to a mysterious
degree by all the varying aspects of external nature —
innocently joyous, or unaccountably sad ; — when, I
say, such a being comes across your experience, inform
me ; and the chances are that the true Pythoness is
found."

I had Hstened wdth vague terror, and with more than
one exclamation of amazement, to descriptions which
brought Lilian Ashleigh before me ; and I now sat
mute, bewildered, breathless, gazing upon Margrave,
and rejoicing that, at least, Lilian he had never seen.

He returned my own gaze steadily, searchingly, and
then, breaking into a slight laugh, resumed :

" You caU my word * Pythoness ' affected. I know
of no better. My recollections of classic anecdote and
history are confused and dim ; but somewhere I have

196 A STRANGE STORY.

read or heard that the priests of Delphi were accus-
tomed to travel chiefly into Thrace or Thessaly in
search of the virgins who might fitly administer their
oracles, and that the oracles gradually ceased in repute
as the priests became unable to discover the organisation
requisite in the priestesses, and supplied by craft and
imposture, or by such imperfect fragmentary develop-
ments as belong now to professional clairvoyants, the
gifts which Nature failed to aff"ord. Indeed, the demand
was one that must have rapidly exhausted so limited
a supply. The constant strain upon faculties so wear-
ing to the vital functions in their relentless exercise,
under the artful stimulants by which the priests
heightened their power, was mortal, and no Python-
ess ever retained her life more than three years from
the time that her gift was elaborately trained and
developed."

" Pooh ! I know of no classical authority for the
details you so confidently cite. Perhaps some such
legends may be found in the Alexandrian Platonists,
but those mystics are no authority on such a subject.
After all," I added, recovering from my first surprise,
or awe, " the Delphic oracles were proverbially am-
biguous, and their responses might be read either way ;
a proof that the priests dictated the verses, though
their arts on the unhappy priestess might throw her
into real convulsions ; and the real convulsions, not the
false gift, might shorten her life. Enough of such
idle subjects ! Yet no ! one question more. If you
found your Pythoness, what then?"

A STKAXGE STOEY. 197

" What then ? Why, through her aid I might dis-
cover the process of an experiment which your practical
science would assist me to complete."

" Tell me of what kind is your experiment; and
precisely because such little science as I possess is ex-
clusively practical, I may assist you without the help
of the Pythoness."

Margrave was silent for some minutes, passing his
hand several times across his forehead, which was a
frequent gesture of his ; and then rising, he answered,
in listless accents :

" I cannot say more now, my brain is fatigued ; and
you are not yet in the right mood to hear me. By
the way, how close and reserved you are with me ! "

" How so 1 "

" You never told me that you were engaged to be
married. You leave me, who thought to have won
your friendship, to hear what concerns you so inti-
mately from a comparative stranger."

" Who told you ? "

"That woman with eyes that pry and lips that
scheme, to whose house you took me."

" Mrs Poyntz ! is it possible 1 When 1 "

"This afternoon. I met her in the street — she
stopped me, and, after some unmeaning talk, asked ' if
I had seen you lately ; if I did not find you very ab-
sent and distracted ; no wonder — ^you were in love.
The young lady was away on a visit, and wooed by a
dangerous rival.'"

" Wooed by a dangerous rival ! "

198 A STRAIN- GE STORY.

" Very rich, good-looking, young. Do you fear
him 1 You turn pale."

" I do not fear, except so far as lie wlio loves truly,
loves humbly, and fears not that another may be pre-
ferred, but that another may be worthier of preference
than liimself. But that Mrs Poyntz should tell you
aU this does amaze me. Did she mention the name
of the young lady ? "

" Yes ; Lilian Ashleigh. Henceforth be more frank
with me. Who knows 1 I may help you. Adieu."

CHAPTEE XXYII.

"When IMargrave had gone, I glanced at the clock —
not yet nine. I resolved to go at once to Mrs Poyntz.
It was not an evening on which she received, but
doubtless she would see me. She owed me an explan-
ation. How thus carelessly divulge a secret she had
been enjoined to keep 1 and this rival, of whom I was
ignorant ? It was no longer a matter of wonder that
Margrave should have described Lilian's peculiar idio-
syncrasies in his sketch of his fabulous Pythoness.
Doubtless, Mrs Poyntz had, with unpardonable levity
of indiscretion, revealed all of which she disapproved
in my choice. But for what object 1 Was this her
boasted friendship for me? Was it consistent with
the regard she professed for Mrs Ashleigh and Lilian ?
Occupied by these perplexed and indignant thoughts,
I arrived at Mrs Poyntz's house, and was admitted to
her presence. She was fortunately alone ; her daughter
and the Colonel had gone to some party on the Hill.
I would not take the hand she held out to me on
entrance ; seated myself in stern displeasure, and pro-
ceeded at once to inquire if she had really betrayed to
Mr Margrave the secret of my engagement to Lilian.

200 A STKAIs^GE STORY.

" Yes, Allen Fenwick ; I have this day told, not
only Mr Margrave, but every person I met who is
likely to tell it to some one else, the secret of your
engagement to Lilian Ashleigh. I never promised to
conceal it ; on the contrary, I wrote word to Anne
Ashleigh that I would therein act as my own judg-
ment counselled me. I think my words to you were
that 'public gossip was sometimes the best security
for the fulfilment of private engagements.' "

" Do you mean that Mrs or Miss Ashleigh recoils
from the engagement with me, and that I should
meanly compel them both to fulfil it by calling in the

public to censure them — if — if Oh, madam, tliis is

worldly artifice indeed ! "

" Be good enough to listen to me quietly. I have
never yet showed you the letter to Mrs Ashleigh,
written by Lady Haughton, and delivered by Mr
Vigors. That letter I will now show to you ; but
before doing so I must enter into a preliminary ex-
planation. Lady Haughton is one of those women
who love power, and cannot obtain it except through
wealth and station — by her own intellect never obtain
it. When her husband died she was reduced from
an income of twelve thousand a-year to a jointure of
twelve hundred, but with the exclusive guardianship
of a young son, a minor, and adequate allowances for
the charge : she continued, therefore, to preside as
mistress over the establishments in town and country;
still had the administration of her son's wealth and
rank. She stinted his education in order to maintain

A STRANGE STORY. 201

her ascendancy over him. He became a brainless pro-
digal— spendthrift aUke of health and fortune. Alarm-
ed, she saw that, probably, he would die young and a
beggar ; his only hope of reform was in marriage. She
reluctantly resolved to marry him to a penniless, well-
born, soft-minded young lady whom she knew she could
control : just before this marriage was to take place he
was killed by a fall from his horse. The Haughton
estate passed to his cousin, the luckiest young man
alive ; the same Ashleigh Sumner who had already
succeeded, in default of male issue, to poor Gilbert
Ashleigh's landed possessions. Over this young man
Lady Haughton could expect no influence. She would
be a stranger in his house. But she had a niece !
Mr Vigors assured her the niece was beautiful. And
if the niece could become Mrs Ashleigh Sumner, then
Lady Haughton would be a less unimportant iN'obody
in the world, because she would still have her nearest
relation in a Somebody at Haughton Park. Mr Vigors
had his own pompous reasons for approving an alliance
which he might help to accomplish. The first step
towards that alliance was obviously to bring into recip-
rocal attraction the natural charms of the young lady
and the acquired merits of the young gentleman. Mr
Vigors could easily induce his ward to pay a visit to
Lady Haughton, and Lady Haughton had only to ex-
tend her invitations to her niece ; hence the letter to
Mrs Ashleigh, of which Mr Vigors was the bearer, and
hence my advice to you, of which you can now under-
stand the motive. Since you thought Lilian Ashleigh

202 A STKANGE STORY.

the only woman you could love, and since I thought
there were other women in the world who might do as
well for Ashleigh Sumner, it seemed to me fair for all
parties that Lilian should not go to Lady Haughton's
in ignorance of the sentiments with which she had in-
spired you. A girl can seldom be sure that she loves
until she is sure that she is loved. And now," added
Mrs Poyntz, rising and walking across the room to her
bureau — " now I will show you Lady Haughton's in-
vitation to Mrs Ashleigh. Here it is ! "

I ran my eye over the letter, which she thrust into
my hand, resuming her knitw^ork while I read.

The letter was short, couched in conventional terms
of hollow affection. The writer blamed herself for
having so long neglected her brother's widow and
child ; her heart had been wrapped up too much in
the son she had lost ; that loss had made her turn to
the ties of blood still left to her ; she had heard much
of Lilian from their common friend, Mr Vigors ; she
longed to embrace so charming a niece. Then followed
the invitation and the postscript. The postscript ran
thus, so far as I can remember : " "Whatever my own
grief at my irreparable bereavement, I am no egotist ;
I keep my sorrow to myself. You will find some
pleasant guests at my house ; among others our joint
connection, young Ashleigh Sumner."

" Women's postscripts are proverbial for their signifi-
cance," said Mrs Poyntz, when I had concluded the
letter and laid it on the table ; " and if I did not at
once show you this hypocritical effusion, it was simply

A STRANGE STORY. 203

because at the name Ashleigh. Sumner its object be-
came transparent, not perhaps to poor Anne Ashleigh
nor to innocent Lilian, but to my knowledge of the
parties concerned, as it ought to be to that shrewd, in-
telligence which you derive partly from nature, partly
from the insight into life which a true physician can-
not fail to acquire. And if I know anythuig of you,
you would have romantically said, had you seen the
letter at first, and understood its covert intention,
' Let me not shackle the choice of the woman I love,
and to whom an alliance so coveted in the eyes of the
world might, if she were left free, be proffered.' "

"I should not have gathered from the postscript
all that you see in it, but had its purport been so sug-
gested to me, you are right, I should have so said.
Well, and as Mr Margrave tells me that you informed
him that I have a rival, I am now to conclude that
the rival is Mr Ashleigh Sumner ? "

" Has not Mrs Ashleigh or Lilian mentioned him in
writing to you 1 "

" Yes, both ; Lilian very slightly ; INIrs Ashleigh
with some praise, as a young man of high character,
and very courteous to her."

" Yet, though I asked you to come and tell me who
were the guests at Lady Haughton's, you never did so."

" Pardon me ; but of the guests I thought nothing,
and letters addressed to my heart seemed to me too
sacred to talk about. And Ashleigh Sumner then
courts Lilian ! How do you know 1 "

" I know everything that concerns me ; and here,

204 A STRANGE STORY.

the explanation is simple. My aunt, Lady Delafield,
is staying with Lady Haughton. Lady Delafield is
one of the women of fashion who shine hy their own
light ; Lady Haughton shines by borrowed light, and
borrows every ray she can find."

" And Lady Delafield writes you word "

"That Ashleigh Sumner is caught by Lilian's
beauty."

" And Lilian herself "

" "Women like Lady Delafield do not readily believe
that any girl could refuse Ashleigh Sumner. Con-
sidered in himself, he is steady and good-looking ; con-
sidered as owner of Ivirby Hall and Haughton Park,
he has, in the eyes of any sensible mother, the virtues
of Cato and the beauty of Antinous."

I pressed my hand to my heart — close to my heart
lay a letter from Lilian — and there was no word in
that letter which showed that her heart was gone from
mine. I shook my head gently, and smiled in con-
fiding triumph.

Mrs Poyntz surveyed me with a bent brow and a
compressed lip.

"I understand your smile," she said, ironically.
" Very likely Lilian may be quite untouched by this
young man's admiration, but Anne Ashleigh may be
dazzled by so brilliant a prospect for her daughter.
And, in short, I thought it desirable to let your engage-
ment be publicly known throughout the town to-day ;
that information will travel — it will reach Ashleigh
Sumner through Mr Vigors, or others in this neigh-

A STRANGE STORY. 205

bourhood, with whom I know that he corresponds.
It will bring affairs to a crisis, and before it may be
too late. I think it well that Ashleigh Sumner should
leave that house ; if he leave it for good, so much the
better. And, perhaps, the sooner Lilian returns to
L the lighter your own heart Avill be."

"And for these reasons you have published the
secret of- "

" Your engagement 1 Yes. Prepare to be con-
gratulated wherever you go. And now, if you hear
either from mother or daughter that Ashleigh Sumner
has proposed, and been, let us say, refused, I do not
doubt that in the pride of your heart you will come
and tell me."

" Eely upon it I will ; but, before I take leave,
allow me to ask why you described to a young man
like Mr Margrave — whose wild and strange humours
you have witnessed and not approved — any of those
traits of character in Miss Ashleigh which distinguish
her from other girls of her age 1 "

" I ? You mistake. I said nothing to him of her
character. I mentioned her name, and said she was
beautiful ; that was all."

" I^ay, you said she was fond of musing, of solitude ;
that in her fancies she believed in the reality of visions
which might flit before her eyes as they flit before the
eyes of all imaginative dreamers."

"I^ot a word did I say to Mr Mai'grave of such
peculiarities in Lilian ; not a word more than what I
have told you, on my honour ! "

206 A STRANGE STORY.

Still incredulous, tut disguising my incredulity witli
that convenient smile by whicli we accomplish so
much of the polite dissimulation indispensable to the
decencies of civilised life, I took my departure, returned
home, and wrote to Lilian.

CHAPTEE XXVIII.

The conversation witli Mrs Poyntz left my mind rest-
less and disquieted. I had no doubt, indeed, of Lilian's
truth; but could I be sure that the attentions of a young
man, with advantages of fortune so brilliant, would not
force on her thoughts the contrast of the humbler lot
and the duller walk of life in which she had accepted
as companion a man removed from her romantic youth
less by disparity of years than by gravity of pursuits 1
And would my suit now be as welcomed as it had
been by a mother even so unworldly as Mrs Ash-
leigh? "WTiy, too, should both mother and daughter
have left me so unprepared to hear that I had a rival 1
"Why not have implied some consoling assurance that
such rivalry need not cause me alarm ? Lilian's letters,
it is true, touched but little on any of the persons
round her — they were filled with the outpourings of
an ingenuous heart, coloured by the glow of a golden
fancy. They were written as if in the "svide world we
two stood apart, alone, consecrated from the crowd by
the love that, in linking us together, had hallowed each
to the other. ^Mrs Ashleigh's letters were more general
and diffusive, detailed the habits of the household,

208 A STRANGE STOEY.

sketched the guests, intimated her continued fear of
Lady Haughton, but had said nothing more of Mr
Ashleigh Sumner than I had repeated to Mrs Poyntz.
However, in my letter to Lilian I related the intelli-
gence that had reached me, and impatiently I awaited
her reply.

Three days after the interview with Mrs Poyntz,
and two days before the long -anticipated event of the
mayor's ball, I was summoned to attend a nobleman
who had lately been added to my list of patients, and

whose residence was about twelve miles from L .

The nearest way was through Sir Philip Derval's park.
I went on horseback, and proposed to stop on the way
to inquire after the steward, whom I had seen but once
since his fit, and that was two days after it, when he
called himself at my house to thank me for my attend-
ance, and to declare that he was quite recovered.

As I rode somewhat fast through the park, I came,
however, upon the steward, just in front of the house.
I reined in my horse and accosted him. He looked
very cheerful.

" Sir," said he, in a whisper, " I have heard from Sir
Philip ; his letter is dated since — since ; my good woman
told you what I saw ; well, since then. So that it must
have been all a delusion of mine, as you told her. And
yet, well — well — we will not talk of it, doctor. But I
hope you have kept the secret. Sir PhiKp would not
like to hear of it, if he comes back."

" Your secret is quite safe with me. But is Sir Philip
likely to come back 1 "

A STRANGE STOEY. 209

" I hope so, doctor. His letter is dated Paris, and
that's nearer home than he has been for many years ;
and — but bless me — some one is coming out of the
house 1 a young gentleman ! Who can it be?"

I looked, and to my surprise I saw Margrave de-
scending the stately stairs that led from the front door.
The steward turned towards him, and I mechanically
followed, for I was curious to know what had brought
Margrave to the house of the long-absent traveller.
. It was easily explained. Mr Margrave had heard at

L much of the pictures and internal decorations of

the mansion. He had, by dint of coaxing (he said, with
his enchanting laugh), persuaded the old housekeeper
to show him the rooms.

"It is against Sir PhUip's positive orders to show
the house to any stranger, sir; and the housekeeper
has done very wrong," said the steward.

" Pray don't scold her. I daresay Sir Philip would
not have refused me a permission he might not give to
I every idle sight-seer. Fellow -travellers have a free-
masonry with each other ; and I have been much in
the same far countries as himself. I heard of him there,
and could tell you more about him, I daresay, than
you know yourself."

" You, sir ! pray do then."

" The next time I come," said Margrave, gaily ; and,
with a nod to me, he glided off through the trees of
the neighbouring grove, along the winding footpath
that led to the lodge.

" A very cool gentleman," muttered the steward ;

VOL. I. 0

210 A STRAXGE STORY.

but what pleasant ways lie has ! You seem to know
him, sir. Who is he — may I ask?"

^ "Mr Margrave. A visitor at L ; and he has

heen a great traveller, as he says ; perhaps he met Sir
Philip abroad."

" I must go and hear what he said to Mrs Gates :
excuse me, sir, but I am so anxious about Sir Philip."

" If it be not too great a favour, may I be allowed the
same privilege granted to Mr IMargrave 1 To judge by
the outside of the house, the inside must be worth
seeing; still, if it be against Sir Philip's positive
orders "

" His orders were, not to let the Court become a
show-house — to admit none without my consent ; but
I should be ungrateful indeed, doctor, if I refused that
consent to you."

I tied my horse to the rusty gate of the terrace-walk,
and followed the steward up the broad stairs of the
terrace. The great doors were unlocked. We entered
a lofty hall with a domed ceiling ; at the back of the
hall the grand staircase ascended by a double flight.
The design was undoubtedly A^anbrugh's, an architect
who, beyond all others, sought the effect of grandeur
less in space than in proportion. But Yanbrugh's
designs need the relief of costume and movement, and
the forms of a more pompous generation, in the brav-
ery of velvets .and laces, glancing amid those gilded
columns, or descending with stately tread those broad
palatial stairs. His halls and chambers are so made
for festival and throng, that they become like deserted

A STRANGE STORY. 211

theatres, inexpressibly desolate, as we miss the glitter
of the lamps and the movement of the actors.

The housekeeper had now appeared ; a quiet, timid
old woman. She excused herself for admitting Mar-
grave— not very intelligibly. It was plain to see that
she had, in truth, been unable to resist what the steward
termed his " pleasant ways."

As if to escape from a scolding, she talked volubly
all the time, bustling nervously through the rooms,
along which I followed her guidance with a hushed
footstep. The principal apartments were on the ground-
floor, or rather a iloor raised some ten or fifteen feet
above the ground ; they had not been modernised since
the date in which they were built. Hangings of faded
silk; tables of rare marble, and mouldered gilding;
comfortless chairs at drill against the walls ; pictures,
of which connoisseurs alone could estimate the value,
darkened by dust or blistered by sun and damp, — made
a general character of discomfort. On not one room,
on not one nook, still lingered some old smile of home.

Meanwhile I gathered from the housekeeper's ramb-
ling answers to questions put to her by the steward, as
I moved on, glancing at the pictures, that Margrave's
visit that day was not his first. He had been to the
house twice before ; his ostensible excuse that he was
an amateur in pictures (though, as I had before ob-
1 served, for that department of art he had no taste) ;
but each time he had talked much of Sir Philip. He
said that, though not personally known to him, he had
resided in the same towns abroad, and had friends

212 A STRANGE STORY.

equally intimate with Sir Philip ; but when the stew-
ard inquired if the visitor had given any information as
to the absentee, it became very clear that Margrave
had been rather asking questions than volunteering
intelligence.

We had now come to the end of the state apart-
ments, the last of which was a library. " And," said
the old woman, " I don't wonder the gentleman knew
Sir Philip, for he seemed a scholar, and looked very
hard over the books, especially those old ones by the
fireplace, which Sir Philip, Heaven bless him, was
always poring into."

Mechanically I turned to the shelves by the fire-
place, and examined the volumes ranged in that de-
partment. I found they contained the works of those
writers whom we may class together under the title of
mystics — lamblichus and Plotinus ; Swedenborg and
Behmen ; Sandivogius, Van Helmont, Paracelsus, Car-
dan. "Works, too, were there, by writers less renowned,
on astrology, geomancy, chiromancy, &c. I began to
understand among what class of authors Margrave had
picked up the strange notions with which he was apt
to interpolate the doctrines of practical philosophy.

" I suppose this library was Sir Philip's usual sit-
ting-room 1 " said I.

" i^o, sir; he seldom sat here. This was his study ; "
and the old woman opened a small door, masked by
false book-backs. I followed her into a room of mode-
rate size, and evidently of much earlier date than the
rest of the house. "It is the only room left of an

A STRANGE STORY. 213

older mansion," said the steward, in answer to my re-
mark. " I have heard it was spared on account of the
chimney-piece. But there is a Latin inscription which
will tell you all ahout it. I don't know Latin my-
self."

The chimney-piece reached to the ceiling. The frieze
of the lower part rested on rude stone caryatides ; the
upper part was formed of oak panels very curiously
carved in the geometrical designs favoured by the taste
prevalent in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, but
different from any I had ever seen in the drawings of
old houses. And I was not quite unlearned in such
matters, for my poor father was a passionate antiquary
in all that relates to medieval art. The design in the
oak panels was composed of triangles interlaced with
varied ingenuity, and enclosed in circular bands in-
scribed with the signs of the zodiac.

On the stone frieze supported by the caryatides,
immediately under the wood -work, was inserted a
metal plate, on which Avas written, in Latin, a few
lines to the effect that " in this room, Simon Forman,
the seeker of hidden truth, taking refuge from unjust
persecution, made those discoveries in nature which he
committed, for the benefit of a wiser age, to the charge
of his protector and patron, the worshipful Sir Miles
Derval, knight."

Forman ! The name was not quite unfamiliar to
me ; but it was not without an effort that my memory
enabled me to assign it to one of the most notorious
af those astrologers or soothsayers whom the super-

214 A STRANGE STORY.

stition of an earlier age alternately persecuted and
honoured.

The general character of the room was more cheerful
than the statelier chambers I had hitherto passed
through, for it had still the look of habitation. The
arm-chair by the fireplace ; the knee-hole writing-table
beside it ; the sofa near the recess of a large bay-win-
dow, with book-prop and candlestick screwed to its
back; maps, coiled in their cylinders, ranged under
the cornice ; low strong safes, skirting two sides of
the room, and apparently intended to hold papers and
title-deeds ; seals carefully affixed to their jealous locks.
Placed on the top of these old-fashioned receptacles
were articles familiar to modern use ; a fowliug-piece
here ; fishing-rods there ; two or three simple flower-
vases ; a .pile of music-books ; a box of crayons. All
in this room seemed to speak of residence and owner-
ship— of the idiosyncrasies of a lone single man, it is
true, but of a man of one's own time — a country gentle-
man of plain habits but not uncultivated tastes.

I moved to the window ; it opened by a sash upon a
large balcony, from which a wooden stair wound to a
little garden, not visible in front of the house, sur-
rounded by a thick grove of evergreens, through which
one broad vista was cut ; and that vista was closed by
a YiQVf of the mausoleum.

I stepped out into the garden — a patch of sward
with a fountain in the centre — and parterres, now more
filled with weeds than flowers. At the left corner was
a tall wooden summer-house or pavilion — its door wide

A STRANGE STOEY. 215

open. " Oh, that's where Sir Philip used to study
many a long summer's night," said the steAvard.

" What ! in that damp pavilion 1 "

" It was a pretty place enough then, sir ; but it is
very old — they say as old as the room you have just
left."

" Indeed, I must look at it, then."

The walls of the summer-house had once been painted
in the arabesques of the Renaissance period; but the
figures were now scarcely traceable. The wood-work
had started in some places, and the sunbeams stole
through the chinks and played on the floor, which was
formed from old tiles quaintly tesselated and in trian-
gular patterns, similar to those I had observed in the
chimney-piece. The room in the pavilion was large
fui-nished with old worm-eaten tables and settles.

" It was not only here that Sir Philip studied, but
sometimes in the room above," said the steward.

" How do you get to the room above 1 Oh ! I see ;
a staircase in the angle." I ascended the stairs with
some caution, for they were crooked and decayed; and,
on entering the room above, comprehended at once
why Sir Philip had favoured it.

The cornice of the ceding rested on pilasters, within
which the compartments were formed into open un-
glazed arches, surrounded by a railed balcony. Through
these arches, on three sides of the room, the eye com-
manded a magnificent extent of prospect. On the
fourth side the view was bounded by the mausoleum.
In this room was a large telescope ; and on stepping

216 A STRANGE STORY.

into the balcony, I saw that a winding stair mounted
thence to a platform on the top of the pavilion — per-
haps once used as an observatory by Forman himself.

" The gentleman -who was here to-day was very
much pleased with this look-out, sir," said the house-
keeper.

" Who would not be ? I suppose Sir Philip has a
taste for astronomy."

" I daresay, sir," said the steward, looking grave ;
" he likes most out-of-the-way things."

The position of the sun now warned me that my
time pressed, and that I should have to ride fast to
reach my new patient at the hour appointed. I there-
fore hastened back to my horse, and spurred on, won-
dering whether, in that chain of association which so
subtly links our pursuits in manhood to our impres-
sions in childhood, it was the Latin inscription on the
chimney-piece that had originally biassed Sir Philip
Derval's literary taste towards the mystic jargon of the
books at which I had contemptuously glanced.

CHAPTEK XXIX.

I DID not see Margrave the following day, but the
next morning, a little after sunrise, he walked into my
study, according to his ordinary habit.

" So you know something about Sir Philip Dervalf
said I. " What sort of a man is he 1 "

" Hateful ! " cried Margrave ; and then, checking
himself, burst out into his merry laugh. "Just like my
exaggerations ! I am not acquainted with anything to
his prejudice. I came across his track once or twice
in the East. Travellers are always apt to be jealous of
each other."

" You are a strange compound of cynicism and
credulity. But I should have fancied that you and
Sir Philip would have been congenial spirits, when I
found, among his favourite books. Van Helmont and
Paracelsus. Perhaps you, too, study Swedenborg, or,
worse still, Ptolemy and Lilly '? "

" Astrologers 1 JSTo ! They deal with the future !
I live for the day ; only I wish the day never had a
morrow ! "

" Have you not, then, that vague desire for the
something heyond ; that not unhappy, but grand dis-

23 8 A STRANGE STORY,

content with the limits of the immediate Present, from
which man takes his passion for improvement and pro-
gress, and from which some sentimental philosophers
have deduced an argument in favour of his destined
immortality 1 "

" Eh ! " said Margrave, with as vacant a stare as that
of a peasant whom one has addressed in Hebrew,
" What farrago of words is this 1 I do not compre-
hend you."

" With your natural abilities," I asked with interest,
" do you never feel a desire for fame ] "

" Fame ? Certainly not. I cannot even understand
it!"

"Well, then, would you have no pleasure in the
thought that you had rendered a service to humanity'?"

Margrave looked bewildered: after a moment's pause,
he took from the table a piece of bread that chanced
to be there, opened the window, and threw the crumbs
into the lane. The sparrows gathered round the
crumbs.

" Now," said Margrave, " the sparrows come to that
dull pavement for the bread that recruits their Kves in
this world ; do you believe that one sparrow would be
silly enough to fly to a house-top for the sake of some
benefit to other sparrows, or to be chirruped about
after he was dead 1 I care for science as the sparrow
cares for bread ; it may help me to something good for
my own life ; and as for fame and humanity, I care for
them as the sparrow cares for the general interest and
posthumous approbation of sparrows ! "

A STEANGE STORY. 219

"Margrave, there is one tiling in you that perplexes
me more than all else — human puzzle as you are — La
your many eccentricities and self-contradictions."

" What is that one thing in me most perplexing 1 "

" This ; that in your enjoyment of N'ature you have
all the freshness of a child ; but when you speak of
]\Ian and his objects in the vs^orld, you talk in the vein
of some worn-out and hoary cynic. At such times,
were I to close my eyes, I should say to myself, 'What
Aveary old man is thus venting his spleen against the
ambition which has failed, and the love which has for-
saken him? ' Outwardly the very personation of youth,
and revelhng like a butterfly in the warmth of the sun
and the tints of the herbage, why have you none of
the golden passions of the young — their bright dreams
of some impossible love — their sublime enthusiasm for
some unattainable glory ] The sentiment you have
just clothed in the illustration by which you place
yourself on a level with the sparrows, is too mean and
too gloomy to be genuine at your age. Misanthropy
is among the dismal fallacies of greybeards. No man,
till man's energies leave him, can divorce himself from
the bonds of our social kind."

"Our kind — your kind, possibly! But I "

He swept his hand over his brow, and resumed, in
strange, absent, and wistful accents : " I wonder what
it is that is wanting here, and of which at moments I
have a dim reminiscence." Again he paused, and, gaz-
ing on me, said, with more appearance of friendly
interest than I had ever before remarked in his coun-

220 A STRANGE STORY.

tenance, " You are not looking "well. Despite your
great physical strength, you suffer like your own sick-
ly patients."

'•' True ! I suffer at this moment, but not from
bodily pain."

" You have some cause of mental disquietude 1 "

" Who in this world has not 1 "

"I never have."

" Because you own you have never loved ; certainly,
you never seem to care for any one but yourself ; and
in yourself you find an unbroken sunny hoKday — high
spirits, youth, health, beauty, wealth. Happy boy ! "

At that moment my heart was heavy within me.

Margrave resumed : —

"Among the secrets which your knowledge places
at the command of your art, what would you give for
one which would enable you to defy and to deride a
rival where you place your affections, which could lock
to yourself, and imperiously control, the will of the
being whom you desire to fascinate, by an influence
paramount, transcendant 1 "

"Love has that secret," said I, "and love alone."

" A power stronger than love can suspend, can
change love itself. But if love be the object or dream
of your life, love is the rosy associate of youth and
beauty. Beauty soon fades, youth soon departs.
What if in nature there were means by which beauty
and youth can be fixed into blooming duration — means
that could arrest the course, nay, repair the effects, of
time on the elements that make up the human frame 1"

A STEAXGE STORY. 221

" Silly boy ! Have the Eosicrucians bequeathed to
you a prescription for the elixir of life 1 "

" If I had the prescription I should not ask your
aid to discover its ingredients."

"And is it in the hope of that notable discovery
you have studied chemistry, electricity, and magnetism 1
Again I say, silly boy ! "

Margrave did not heed my reply. His face was
overcast, gloomy, troubled.

" That the vital principle is a gas," said he, abruptly,
" I am fully convinced. Can that gas be the one
which combines caloric with oxygen 1 "

" Phosoxygen 1 Sir Humphry Davy demonstrates
that gas not to be, as Lavoisier supposed, caloric,
but light, combined with oxygen ; and he suggests,
not indeed that it is the vital principle itself, but the
pabulum of life to organic beings." *

"Does he?" said Margrave, his face clearing up.
" Possibly, possibly then, here we approach the great
secret of secrets. Look you, Allen Fenwick, I promise
to secure to you unfailing security from all the jealous
fears that now torture your heart ; if you care for that
fame which to me is not worth the scent of a flower,
the balm of a breeze, I will impart to you a knowledge
which, in the hands of ambition, would dwarf into
commonplace the boasted wonders of recognised science.
I will do all this, if, in return, but for one month you
will give yourself up to my guidance in Avhatever ex-

* See Sir Humpliry Davy on Heat, Light, and the Combinations
of Li<'ht.

222 A STRANGE STORY.

periments I ask, no matter how "wild they may seem
to yon."

" My dear Margrave, I reject your hribes as I would
reject the moon and the stars which a child might
offer to me in exchange for a toy. But I may give the
child its toy for nothing, and I may test your experi-
ments for nothing some day when I have leisure."

I did not hear Margrave's answer, for at that mo-
2iient my servant entered with letters. LiHan's hand !
Tremblingly, breathlessly, I broke the seal. Such a
loving, bright, happy letter; so sweet in its gentle
cliiding of my wrongful fears. It was implied rather
than said that Ashleigh Sumner had proposed and
been refused. He had now left the house. LiHan
and her mother were coming back ; in a few days
we should meet. In this letter were enclosed a few
lines from Mrs Ashleigh. She was more explicit
about my rival than Lilian had been. If no allusion
to his attentions had been made to me before, it was
from a delicate consideration for myself. Mrs Ash-
leigh said that "the young man had heard from L

of our engagement, and — disbelieved it ; " but, as Mrs
Poyntz had so shrewdly predicted, hurried at once to
the avowal of his own attachment, and the offer of his
own hand. On Lilian's refusal his pride had been
deeply mortified. He had gone away manifestly in
more anger than sorrow. " Lady Delafield, dear Mar-
garet Poyntz's aunt, had been most kind in trying to
soothe Lady Haughton's disappointment, which was
rudely expressed — so rudely," added Mrs Ashleigh,

A STRANGE STORY. 223

"that it gives us an excuse to leave sooner than had
been proposed — which I am very glad of. Lady Dela-
field feels much for Mr Sumner ; has invited him to
visit her at a place she has near Worthing : she leaves
to-morrow in order to receive him ; promises to recon-
cile him to our rejection, which, as he was my poor
Gilbert's heir, and was very friendly at first, would be
a great relief to my mind. Lilian is well, and so
happy at the thoughts of coming back."

When I lifted my eyes from these letters I was as a
new man, and the earth seemed a new earth. I felt
as if I had realised Margrave's idle dreams — as if youth
could never fade, love could never grow cold.

"You care for no secrets of mine at this moment,"
said Margrave, abruptly.

"Secrets," I murmured; "none now are worth
knowing. I am loved — I am loved ! "

" I bide my time," said Margrave ; and as my eyes
met his, I saw there a look I had never seen in those
eyes before — sinister, wrathful, menacing. He turned
away, went out through the sash-door of the study ;
and as he passed towards the fields under the luxuriant
chestnut-trees, I heard his musical, barbaric chant —
the song by Avhich the serpent-charmer charms the
serpent, — sweet, so sweet — the very birds on the
boughs hushed their carol as if to listen.

CHAPTER XXX.

I CALLED that day on Mrs Poyntz, and communicated
to her the purport of the glad news I had received.

She was still at work on the everlasting knitting, her
firm fingers linking mesh into mesh as she listened;
and when I had done, she laid her skein deliberately
down, and said, in her favourite characteristic formula,

" So at last 1 — that is settled ! "

She rose and paced the room as men are apt to do
in reflection — women rarely need such movement to
aid their thoughts — her eyes were fixed on the floor,
and one hand was lightly pressed on the palm of the
other — the gesture of a musing reasoner who is ap-
proaching the close of a difficult calculation.

At length she paused, fronting me, and said, dryly,

" Accept my congratulations — life smiles on you now
— guard that smile, and when we meet next, may we
be even firmer friends than we are now ! "

" When we meet next — that will be to-night — you
surely go to the mayor's great ball 1 All the Hill de-
scends to Low Town to-night."

" 'No ; we are obliged to leave L this afternoon

— in less than two hours we shall be gone — a family

A STRANGE STORY. 225

engagement. We may be weeks away ; you will excuse
me, then, if I take leave of you so unceremoniously.
Stay, a motherly word of caution. That friend of yours,
Mr Margrave ! Moderate your intimacy with him ;
and especially after you are married. There is in that
stranger, of whom so little is known, a something which
I cannot comprehend — a something that captivates,
and yet revolts. I find him disturbing my thoughts,
perplexing my conjectures, haunting my fancies — T,
plain woman of the world ! Lilian is imaginative :
beware of her imagination, even when sure of her heart.

Beware of Margrave. The sooner he quits L , the

better, believe me, for your peace of mind. Adieu, I
must prepare for our journey."

" That woman," muttered I, on quitting her house,
" seems to have some strange spite against my poor
Lilian, ever seeking to rouse my own distrust of that
exquisite nature which has just given me such proof
of its truth. And yet — and yet — is that woman so
wrong here 1 True ! Margrave with his wild notions,
his strange beauty ! — true — true — he might dangerously
encourage that turn for the mystic and visionary which
distresses me in Lilian. Lilian should not know him.
How induce him to leave L 1 Ah — those experi-
ments on which he asks my assistance 1 I might
commence them when he comes again, and then invent
some excuse to send him for completer tests to the
famous chemists of Paris or Berlin."

CHAPTEE XXXI.

It is the night of the mayor's ball ! The guests are
assembling fast ; county families twelve miles round
have been invited, as well as the principal families of
the town. All, before proceeding to the room set apart
for the dance, move in procession through the museum
— homage to science before pleasure.

The building was brilliantly lighted, and the effect
was striking, perhaps because singular and grotesque.
There, amidst stands of flowers and evergreens, lit up
with coloured lamps, were grouped the dead represen-
tatives of races all inferior — some deadly — to man. The
fancy of the ladies had been permitted to decorate and
arrange these types of the animal world. The tiger
glared with glass eyes from amidst artificial reeds and
herbage, as from his native jungle ; the grisly white
bear peered from a mimic iceberg. There, in front,
stood the sage elephant, facing a hideous hippopotamus;
whilst an anaconda twined its long spire round the
stem of some tropical tree in zinc. In glass cases,
brought into full light by festooned lamps, were dread
specimens of the reptile race — scorpion and vampire,

A STRANGE STORY. 227

and col)ra capella, with, insects of gorgeous hues, not a
few of them with venomed stings.

But the chief boast of the collection was in the va-
rieties of the genus Simla — baboons and apes, cMm-
panzees, with their human visage, mockeries of man,
from the dwarf monkeys perched on boughs lopped
from the mayor's shrubberies, to the formidable ourang-
outang, leaning on his huge club.

Every one expressed to the mayor admiration ; to
each other antipathy, for this unwonted and somewhat
ghastly, though instructive, addition to the revels of a
ball-room.

Margrave, of course, was there, and seemingly quite
at home, gliding from group to group of gaily-dressed
ladies, and brilliant with a childish eagerness to play
off the showman. Many of these grim fellow-creatures
he declared he had seen, played, or fought with. He
had something true or false to say about each. In his
high spii'its he contrived to make the tiger move, and
imitated the hiss of the terrible anaconda. All that he
did had its grace, its charm; and the buzz of admira-
tion, and the flattering glances of ladies' eyes, followed
him wherever he moved.

However, there was a general feeling of relief when
the mayor led the way from the museum into the ball-
room. In provincial parties guests arrive pretty much
within the same hour, and so few who had once paid
their respects to the apes and serpents, the hijDpopota-
mus and the tiger, were disposed to repeat the visit,
that long before eleven o'clock the museum was as

228 A STEAN^GE STORY.

free from the intrusion of human life as the wilderness
in which its dead occupants had been born.

I had gone my round through the rooms, and, little
disposed to be social, had crept into the retreat of a
window-niche, pleased to think myself screened by its
draperies ; — not that I was melancholy, far from it —
for the letter I had received that morning from Lilian
had raised my whole being into a sovereignty of happi-
ness high beyond the reach of the young pleasure-
hunters, whose voices and laughter blended with that
vulgar music.

To read her letter again I had stolen to my nook —
and now, sure that none saw me kiss it, I replaced it
in my bosom. I looked through the parted curtain ;
the room was comparatively empty; but there, through
the open folding-doors, I saw the gay crowd gathered
round the dancers, and there again, at right angles, a
vista along the corridor afforded a glimpse of the great
elephant in the deserted museum.

Presently I heard, close beside me, my host's voice,

" Here's a cool corner, a pleasant sofa, you can have

it all to yourself : what an honour to receive you under

my roof, and on this interesting occasion ! Yes, as you

say, there are great changes in L since you left

us. Society has much improved. I must look about
and find some persons to introduce to you. Clever !
oh, I know your tastes. We have a wonderful man —
a new doctor. Carries all before him — very high
character, too — good old family — greatly looked up to,
even apart from his profession. Dogmatic a little — a

A STEAXGE STOKY. 229

Sir Oracle — ' Lets no dog bark ; ' you remember the
quotation — Shakespeare. "Where on earth is he 1 My
dear Sir Philip, I am sure you "would enjoy his con-
versation."

Sir Philip ! Could it be Sir Philip Derval, to whom
the mayor was giving a flattering, yet scarcely propi-
tiatory, description of myself? Curiosity combined
■with a sense of propriety in not keeping myself an
unsuspected listener : I emerged from the curtain, but
silently, and reached the centre of the room before the
mayor perceived me. He then came up to me eagerly,
linked his arm in mine, and, leading me to a gentleman
seated on a sofa, close by the window I had quitted,
said —

" Doctor, I must present you to Sir Philip Derval,

just returned to England, and not six hours in L .

If you would like to see the museum again. Sir Philip,
the doctor, I am sure, will accompany you."

" Ko, I thank you ; it is painful to me, at present,
to see, even under your roof, the collection which my
poor dear friend, Dr Lloyd, was so proudly beginning
to form when I left these parts."

" Ay, Sir Philip — Dr Lloyd was a worthy man in
his way, but sadly duped in his latter years ; took to
mesmerism, only think ! But our young doctor here
showed him up, I can tell you."

Sir Philip, who had acknowledged my first introduc-
tion to his acquaintance by the quiet courtesy with
which a well-bred man goes through a ceremony that
custom enables him to endure with equal ease and

230 A STRANGE STOEY.

indifference, now evinced by a slight change of manner
how little the mayor's reference to my dispute with
Dr Lloyd advanced me in his good opinion. He
turned away -with a bow more formal than his first
one, and said, calmly —

" I regret to hear that a man so simple-minded and
so sensitive as Dr Lloyd should have provoked an
encounter in which I can well conceive him to have
been worsted. With your leave, Mr Mayor, I will
look into your ball-room. I may perhaps find there
some old acquaintances."

He walked towards the dancers, and the mayor,
linking his arm in mine, followed close behind, saying,
in liis loud hearty tones —

"Come along you too, Dr Fen wick ; my girls are
there ; you have not spoken to them yet."

Sir Philip, who was then half-way across the room,
turned round abruptly, and, looking me full in the
face, said — •

"Fenwick, is your name Fenwick? — Alien Fen-
wick ] "

"That is my name, Sir Philip."

" Then permit me to shake you by the hand ; you
are no stranger, no mere acquaintance to me. Mr
Mayor, we will look into your ball-room later : do not
let us keep you now from your other guests."

The mayor, not in the least offended by being thus
summarily dismissed, smiled, walked on, and was soon
lost amongst the crowd.

Sir Philip, still retaining my hand, reseated himself

A STKANGE STORY. 231

on the sofa, and I took my place by his side. The
room was still deserted : now and then a straggler
from the ball-room looked in for a moment, and then
sauntered back to the central place of attraction.

"I am trying to guess," said I, "how my name
should be known to you. Possibly you may, in some
visit to the Lakes, have known my father? "

"'No ; I know none of your name but yourself — if,
indeed, as I doubt not, you are the Allen Fenwick to
whom I owe no small obligation. You were a medical
student at Edinburgh in the year ? "

"Yes."

" So ! At that time there was also at Edinburgh
a young man named Eichard Strahan. He lodged in
a fourth flat in the Old Town."

" I remember him very well."

" And you remember, also, that a fire broke out at
night in the house in which he lodged ; that when it
was discovered, there seemed no hope of saving him.
The flames wrapt the lower part of the house ; the
staircase had given way. A boy, scarcely so old as
himself, was the only human being in the crowd who
dared to scale the ladder, that even then scarcely
reached the windows from which tlie smoke rolled in
volumes ; that boy penetrated into the room — found
the inmate almost insensible — rallied, supported, drag-
ged him to the window — got him on the ladder —
saved his life then — and his life later, by nursing with
a woman's tenderness, through the fever caused by
terror and excitement, the fellow -creature he had

232 A STEANGE STOKY.

rescued by a man's daring. The name of that gallant
student was Allen Fenwick ; and Eichard Strahan is
my nearest living relation. Are we friends now 1 "

I answered confusedly. I had almost forgotten the
circumstances referred to. Eichard Strahan had not
been one of my more intimate companions ; and I had
never seen nor heard of him since leaving college, I
inquired what had becOme of him.

" He is at the Scotch bar," said Sir Philip, " and of
course without practice. I understand that he has
fair average abilities, but no application. If I am
rightly informed, he is, however, a thoroughly honour-
able, upright man, and of an affectionate and grateful
disposition."

" I can answer for all you have said in his praise.
He had the qualities you name too deeply rooted in
youth to have lost them now."

Sir Philip remained for some moments in a musing
silence. And I took advantage of that silence to
examine him Avith more minute attention than I had
done before, much as the first sight of him had struck
me.

He was somewhat below the common height. So
delicately formed that one might call him rather fragile
than slight. But in his carriage and air there was
remarkable dignity. His countenance was at direct
variance with his figure. For as delicacy was the
attribute of the last, so power was unmistakably the
characteristic of the first. He looked fully the age
his steward had ascribed to him — about forty-eight ;

A STKANGE STORY. 233

at a superficial glance, more ; for his hair was prema-
turely white — not grey, hut white as snow. But his
eyebrows were still jet black, and his eyes, equally
dark, were serenely bright. His forehead was magni-
ficent— lofty and spacious, and with only one slight
wrinkle between the brows. His complexion was sun-
burnt, showing no sign of weak health. The outUne
of his lips was that which I have often remarked in
men accustomed to great dangers, and contracting in
such dangers the habit of self-reliance ; firm and quiet,
compressed without an eflCort. And the power of this
very noble countenance was not intimidating, not
aggressive; it was mild — it was benignant. A man
oppressed by some formidable tyranny, and despairing
to find a protector, would, on seeing that face, have
said, " Here is one who can protect me, and who will !"

Sir Philip was the first to break the silence.

" I have so many relations scattered over England,
that fortunately not one of them can venture to calcu-
late on my property if I die childless, and therefore
not one of them can feel himself injured when, a few
weeks hence, he shall read in the newspapers that Sir
Philip Derval is married. But for Eichard Strahan,
at least, though I never saw him, I must do something
before the newspapers make that announcement. His
sister was very dear to me."

" Your neighbours. Sir Philip, will rejoice at your
marriage, since, I presume, it may induce you to settle
amongst them at Derval Court."

" At Derval Court ! I!n'o ! I sliall not settle there."

234 A STRANGE STORY.

Again he paused a moment or so, and tlien went on.
" I have long lived a wandering life, and in it learned
much that the wisdom of cities cannot teach. I return
to my native land with a profound conviction that the
happiest life is the life most in common with all. I
have gone out of my way to do what I deemed good, and
to avert or mitigate what appeared to me evil. I pause
now and ask myself, whether the most virtuous exist-
ence be not that in which virtue flows spontaneously
from the springs of quiet everyday action ; — when a
man does good without restlessly seeking it, does good
unconsciously, simply because he is good and he lives 1
Better, perhaps, for me, if I had thought so long ago !
And now I come back to England with the intention
of marrying, late in life though it be, and with such
hopes of happiness as any matter-of-fact man may form.
But my home will not be at Derval Court. I shall
reside either in London or its immediate neighbour-
hood, and seek to gather round me minds by which I
can correct, if I cannot confide to them, the knowledge
I myself have acquired."

" iSTay, if, as I have accidentally heard, you are fond
of scientific pursuits, I cannot wonder that, after so
long an absence from England, you should feel interest
in learning what new discoveries have been made, what
new ideas are unfolding the germs of discoveries yet to
be. But pardon me if, in answer to your concluding
remark, I venture to say that no man can hope to
correct any error in his own knowledge, unless he has
the courage to confide the error to those who can cor-

A STKANGE STOEY. 235

rect. La Place lias said, ' Tout se tient clans la cliaine
immense des verites ; ' and the mistake Ave make m
some science we have specially cultivated, is often
only to he seen hy the light of a separate science, as
specially cultivated hy another. Thus, in the investi-
gation of truth, frank exposition to congenial minds
is essential to the earnest seeker."

" I am pleased with what you say," said Sir Philip,
" and I shall he still more pleased to find in you the
very confidant I require. But what was your contro-
versy with my old friend, Dr Lloyd 1 Do I under-
stand our host rightly, that it related to what in
Europe has of late days obtained the name of mes-
merism 1 "

I had conceived a strong desire to conciliate the
good opinion of a man who had treated me with so
singular and so familiar a kindness ; and it was sin-
cerely that I expressed my regret at the acerbity with
which I had assailed Dr Lloyd ; but of his theories
and pretensions I could not disguise my contempt.
I enlarged on the extravagant fallacies involved in a
fabulous " clairvoyance," which always failed when
put to plain test by sober-minded examiners. I did
not deny the effects of imagination on certain ner-
vous constitutions. " Mesmerism could cure nobody;
credulity could cure many. There was the well-known
story of the old woman tried as a witch ; she cured
agues by a charm ; she owned the impeachment, and
was ready to endure gibbet or stake for the truth of
her talisman ; more than a mesmerist would for the

236 A STKANGE STORY.

truth of bis passes ! And the charm was a scroll of
gibberish sewn in an old bag and given to the woman
in a freak by the judge himself when a young scamp
on the circuit. But the charm cured 1 Certainly ;
just as mesmerism cures. Fools believed in it. Faith,
that moves mountains, may well cure agues."

Thus I ran on, supporting my views with anecdote
and facts, to which Sir Philip listened with placid
gravity.

When I had come to an end, he said, " Of mesmer-
ism, as practised in Europe, I know nothing, except by
report. I can well understand that medical men may
hesitate to admit it amongst the legitimate resources
of orthodox pathology ; because, as I gather from what
you and others say of its practice, it must, at the best,
be far too uncertain in its application to satisfy the
requirements of science. Yet an examination of its
pretensions may enable you to perceive the truth that
lies hid in the powers ascribed to witchcraft ; bene-
volence is but a weak agency compared to malignity ;
magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles
of sorcery. On this, however, I say no more at pre-
sent. But as to that which you appear to reject as
the most preposterous and incredible pretension of
the mesmerists, and which you designate by the word
' clairvoyance,' it is clear to me that you have never
yourself witnessed even those very imperfect exhibi-
tions which you decide at once to be imposture. I
say imperfect, because it is only a limited number of
persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist

A STRANGE STORY. 237

can aflfect, and by such means, unaided by other means,
it is rarely indeed that the magnetic sleep advances
beyond the first vague, shadowy twilight dawn of that
condition to which only in its fuller developments I
would apply the name of ' trance.' But still trance is
as essential a condition of being as sleep or as waking,
having privileges peculiar to itself. By means within
the range of the science that explores its nature and
its laws, trance, unlike the clairvoyance you describe,
is producible in every human being, however unim-
pressible to mere mesmerism."

" Producible in every human being ! Pardon me if
I say that I will give any enchanter his own terms
who will produce that effect upon me."

" Will you ? You consent to have the experiment
tried on yourself ] "

" Consent most readily."

" I will remember that promise. But to return to
the subject. By the word trance I do not mean ex-
clusively the spiritual trance of the Alexandrian
Platonists. There is one kind of trance, — that to
which all human beings are susceptible, — in which
the soul has no share ; for of this kind of trance, and
it was of this I spoke, some of the inferior animals
are susceptible : and, therefore, trance is no more a
proof of soul than is the clairvoyance of the mesmer-
ists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep, which last
has been called a proof of soul, though any man who
has kept a dog must have observed that dogs dream
as vividly as we do. But in this trance there is an

238 A STRANGE STOEY.

extraordinary cerebral activity — a projectile force given
to the mind — distinct from the soul, — by which it
sends forth its own emanations to a distance in spite
of material obstacles, just as a floAver, in an altered
condition of atmosphere, sends forth the particles of
its aroma. This should not surprise you. Your
thought travels over land and sea in your waking
state; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in trance
may acquire an intensified force. There is, however,
another kind of trance which is truly called spiritual,
a trance much more rare, and in which the soul en-
tirely supersedes the mere action of the mind."

" Stay," said I ; " you speak of the soul as some-
thing distinct from the mind. What the soul may
be, I cannot jjretend to conjecture. But I cannot
separate it from the intelligence ! "

" Can you not ! A blow on the brain can destroy the

intelligence 1 Do you think it can destroy the soul ?

' From Marlbro's eyes the tears of dotage flow.
And Swift expires, a driveller and a show.'

Towards the close of his life even Kant's giant intellect
left him. Do you suppose that in these various arche-
types of intellectual man the soul was worn out by the
years that loosened the strings or made tuneless the I
keys of the perishing instrument on which the mind ;
must rely for all notes of its music 1 If you can-
not distinguish the operations of the mind from the
essence of the soul, I know not by what rational in-
ductions you arrive at the conclusion that the soul is
imperishable."

A STRANGE STORY. 239

I remained silent. Sir Philip fixed on me his dark
eyes quietly and searchingly, and, after a short pause,
said —

" Almost every known body in nature is susceptible
of three several states of existence — the solid, the
liquid, the aeriform. These conditions depend on the
quantity of heat they contain. The same object at
one moment may be liquid ; at the next moment
solid ; at the next aeriform. The water that flows
before your gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or
ascend into air as a vapour. Thus is man susceptible
of three states of existence — the animal, the mental,
the spiritual ; and according as he is brought into
relation or affinity with that occult agency of the
whole natural world, which we familiarly call heat,
and which no science has yet explained — which no
scale can weigh, and no eye discern — one or the other
of these three states of being prevails, or is subjected."

I still continued silent, for I was unwilling dis-
courteously to say to a stranger, so much older than
myself, that he seemed to me to reverse all the maxims
of the philosopher to which he made pretence, in
founding speculations audacious and abstruse upon
unanalogous comparisons that would have been fan-
tastic even in a poet. And Sir Philip, after another
pause, resumed with a half smile —

" After Avhat I have said, it will perhaps not very
much surprise you when I add, that but for my belief
in the powers I ascribe to trance we should not be
known to each other at this moment."

240 A STRANGE STORY.

" How 1 — pray explain ! "

" Certain circumstances, wliich I trust to relate to
you in detail hereafter, have imposed on me the duty
to discover, and to bring human laws to bear upon, a
creature armed with terrible powers of evil. This
monster — for, without metaphor, monster it is, not man
like ourselves — has, by arts superior to those of ordinary
fugitives, however dexterous in concealment, hitherto
for years eluded my research. Through the trance of
an Arab child, who, in her waking state, never heard
of his existence, I have learned that this being is in

England — is in L . I am here to encounter him.

I expect to do so this very night, and under this very
roof."

" Sir Philip ! "

" And if you wonder, as you well may, why I have
been talking to you with this startling unreserve, know
that the same Arab child, on whom I thus implicitly
rely, informs me that your life is mixed up with that
of the being I seek to unmask and disarm — to be de-
stroyed by his arts or his agents — or to combine in the
causes by which the destroyer himself shall be brought
to destruction."

" My life ! — your Arab child named me, Allen Fen-
wick '? "

" My Arab child told me that the person in whom
I should thus naturally seek an ally was he who had
saved the life of the man whom I then meant for my
heir, if I died unmarried and childless. She told me
that I should not be many hours in this town, which

A STRAXGE STOEY. 241

she described minutely, before you would be made
known to me. She described this house, with yonder
lights and yon dancers. In her trance she saw us
sitting together, as we now sit. . I accepted the invita-
tion of our host, when he suddenly accosted me on
entering the town, confident that I should meet you
here, without even asking whether a person of your
name were a resident in the place ; and now you know
why I have so freely unbosomed myself of much that
might Avell make you, a physician, doubt the soundness
of my understanding. The same infant, whose vision
has been realised up to this moment, has warned me
also that I am here at great peril. What that peril
may be I have declined to learn, as I have ever de-
clined to ask from the future what affects only my own
life on this earth. That life I regard with supreme
indifference, conscious that I have only to discharge,
while it lasts, the duties for which it is bestowed on
me, to the best of my imperfect power; and aware that
minds the strongest and souls the purest may fall into
the sloth habitual to predestinarians, if they suffer the
action due to the present hour to be awed and para-
lysed by some grim shadow on the future ! It is only
where, irrespectively of aught that can menace myself,
a light not struck out of my own reason can guide me to
disarm evil or minister to good, that I feel privileged
to avail myself of those mirrors on which things, near
and far, reflect themselves calm and distinct as the
banks and the mountain peaks are reflected in the glass
of a lake. Here, then, under this roof, and by your

VOL. I. Q

242 A STRANGE STORY.

side, I shall behold him who — Lo ! the moment has
come — I behold him now ! "

As he spoke these last words, Sir Philip had risen,
and, startled by his action and voice, I involuntarily
rose too,

Eesting one hand on my shoulder, he pointed with
the other towards the threshold of the ball-room.
There, the prominent figure of a gay group — the sole
male amidst a fluttering circle of silks and lawn, of
flowery wreaths, of female loveliness, and female frip-
pery— stood the radiant image of Margrave. His eyes
were not turned towards us. He was looking down,
and his light laugh came soft, yet ringing, through the
general murmur.

I turned my astonished gaze back to Sir Philip —
yes, unmistakably it was on Margrave that his look
was fixed.

Impossible to associate crime with the image of that
fair youth ! Eccentric notions — fantastic speculations
— vivacious egotism — defective benevolence — yes. But
crime ! — ]S"o — impossible.

" Impossible," I said, aloud. As I spoke, the group
had moved on. Margrave was no longer in sight. At
the same moment some other guests came from the
ball-room, and seated themselves near us.

Sir Philip looked round, and, observing the deserted
museum at the end of the corridor, drew me into it.

When we were alone, he said in a voice quick and
low, but decided —

"It is of importance that I should convince you at

A STRANGE STORY. 243

once of the nature of tliat i^rodigy which is more hos-
tile to mankind than the wolf is to the sheepfold. JS'o.H/
words of mine could at present suffice to clear your
sight from the deception which cheats it. I must en-
able you to judge for yourself. It must be now and
here. He Avill learn this night, if he has not learned
already, that I am in the town. Dim and confused
though his memories of myself may be, they are me-
mories still ; and he well knows what cause he has to
dread me. I must put another in possession of his
secret. Another, and at once ! For all his arts will
be brought to bear against me, and I cannot foretell
their issue. Go, then ; enter that giddy crowd — select
that seeming young man — bring him hither. Take
care only not to mention my name ; and when here
turn the key in .the door, so as to prevent interruption
— five minutes will suffice."

" Am I sure that I guess whom you mean 1 The
young light-hearted man ; known in this place under
the name of Margrave? The young man with the
radiant eyes, and the curls of a Grecian statue 1 "

"The same ; him whom I pointed out. Quick ! bring
him hither."

My curiosity was too much roused to disobey. Had
I conceived that Margrave, in the heat of youth, had
committed some offence which placed him in danger of
the law, and in the power of Sir Philip Derval, I pos-
sessed enough of the old borderers' black-mail loyalty
to have given the man whose hand I had familiarly
clasped a hint and a help to escape. But all Su" Philip's

244 A STRANGE STORY.

talk had teen so out of the reach of common sense,
that I rather expected to see him confounded by some
eggregious illusion than Margrave exposed to any well-
grounded accusation. All, then, that I felt as I walked
into the ball-room and approached Margrave, was that
curiosity which, I think, any one of my readers will
acknowledge that, in my position, he himself would
have felt.

Margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining
them, but talking with a young couple in the ring. I
drew him aside.

" Come with me for a few minutes into the museum ;
I wish to talk to you."

" What about 1 — an experiment 1 "

" Yes, an experiment."

" Then I am at your service."

In a minute more he had followed me into the de-
solate dead museum. I looked round, but did not see
Sir Phihp.

CHAPTEE XXXII.

Margrave threw himself on a seat just under the
great anaconda; I closed and locked the door. When
I had done so, my eye fell on the young man's face,
and I was surprised to see that it had lost its colour ;
that it showed great anxiety, great distress ; that his
hands were visibly trembling.

" What is this ] " he said in feeble tones, and raising
himself half from his seat as if with great effort. " Help
me up — come away ! Something in this room is hostile
to me — hostile, overpowering ! What can it be ] "

"Truth and my presence," answered a stern, low
voice ; and Sir Philip Derval, whose slight form the
huge bulk of the dead elephant had before obscured
from my view, came suddenly out from the shadow
into the full rays of the lamps which lit up, as if for
Man's revel, that mocking catacomb for the playmates
of Nature which he enslaves for his service or slays for
his sport. As Sir Philip spoke and advanced. Mar-
grave sank back into his seat, shrinking, collapsing,
nerveless ; terror the most abject expressed in his
staring eyes and parted lips. On the other hand, the
simple dignity of Sir Philip Derval's bearing, and the

246 A STRANGE STOEY.

inild power of his countenance, were alike inconceiv-
ably heightened. A change had come over the whole
man, the more impressive because wholly undefinable.

Halting oj)posite Margrave, he uttered some words
in a language unknown to me, and stretched one hand
over the young man's head. Margrave at once became
stiff and rigid as if turned to stone. Sir Philip said
to me —

" Place one of those lamj)s on the floor— there, by
his feet."

I took down one of the coloured lamps from the
mimic tree round which the huge anaconda coiled its
spires, and placed it as I was told.

" Take the seat opposite to him and watch."

I obeyed.

Meanwhile, Sir Philip had drawn from his breast-
pocket a small steel casket, and I observed, as he
opened it, that the interior was subdivided into several
compartments, each with its separate lid ; from one of
these he took and sprinkled over the flame of the lamp
a few grains of a powder, colourless and sparlding as
diamond dust ; in a second or so, a dehcate perfume,
wholly unfamihar to my sense, rose from the lamp.

" You would test the condition of trance ; test it,
and in the spirit."

And, as he spoke, his hand rested lightly on my
head. Hitherto, amidst a surprise not unmixed with
awe, I had preserved a certain defiance, a certain dis-
trust. I had been, as it were, on my guard.

But as those words were spoken, as that hand rest-

A STRANGE STOEY. 247

ed on my head, as that perfume arose from the lamp,
all power of will deserted me. Mj first sensation was
that of passive subjugation : but soon I was aware of
a strange intoxicating effect from the odour of the lamp,
round which there now played a dazzling vapour. The
room swam before me. Like a man oppressed by a
nightmare, I tried to move, to cry out, feeling that to
do so would suffice to burst the thrall that bound
me : in vain.

A time that seemed to me inexorably long, but
which, as I found afterwards, could only have occupied
a few seconds, elapsed in this preliminary state, which,
however powerless, was not without a vague luxurious
sense of delight. And then suddenly came pain —
pain, that in rapid gradations passed into a rending
agony. Every bone, sinew, nerve, fibre of the body,
seemed as if wrenched open, and as if some hitherto
unconjectured Presence in the vital organisation were
forcing itself to light with all the pangs of travail.
The veins seemed swollen to bursting, the heart labour-
ing to maintain its action by fierce spasms. I feel
in this description how language fails me. Enough,
that the anguish I then endured surpassed all that I
have ever experienced of physical pain. This dread-
ful interval subsided as suddenly as it had commenced.
I felt as if a something undefinable by any name had
rushed from me, and in that rush that a struggle was
over. I was sensible of the passive bliss which attends
the release from torture, and then there grew on me a
wonderful calm, and, in that calm, a consciousness of

248 A STKANCtE STOEY.

some lofty intelligence immeasurably beyond that
wliicb human memory gathers from earthly knowledge.
I saw before me the still rigid form of Margrave, and
my sight seemed, with ease, to penetrate through its
covering of flesh, and to survey the mechanism of the
whole interior being.

" View that tenement of clay which now seems so
fair, as it was when I last beheld it, three years ago, in
the house of Haroun of Aleppo ! "

I looked, and gradually, and as shade after shade
falls on the mountain-side, while the clouds gather,
and the sun vanishes at last, so the form and face on
which T looked changed from exuberant youth into
infirm old age. The discoloured wrinkled skin, the
bleared dim eye, the flaccid muscles, the brittle sapless
bones. Nor was the change that of age alone ; the ex-
pression of the countenance had passed into gloomy
discontent, and in every furrow a passion or a vice
had sown the seeds of grief.

And the brain now opened on my sight, with all its
labyrinth of cells. I seemed to have the clue to every
winding in the maze.

I saw therein a moral world, charred and ruined, as,
in some fable I have read, the world of the moon is de-
scribed to be ; yet withal it was a brain of magnificent
formation. The powers abused to evil had been ori-
ginally of rare order ; imagination, and scope : the
energies that dare ; the faculties that discover. But
the moral part of the brain had failed to dominate the
mental. Defective veneration of what is good or great ;

A STKAXGE STORY. 249

cynical disdain of what is riglit and just ; in fine, a great
intellect first misguided, then perverted, and now fall-
ing with the decay of the body into ghastly but im-
posing ruins. Such was the world of that brain as it
had been three years ago. And still continuing to gaze
thereon, I observed three separate emanations of light ;
the one of a pale red hue, the second of a pale azure,
the third a silvery spark.

The red light, which grew paler and paler as I look-
ed, undulated from the brain along the arteries, the
veins, the nerves. And I murmured to myself, " Is
this the principle of animal life ? "

The azure light equally permeated the frame, cross-
ing and uniting with the red, but in a separate and
distinct ray, exactly as, in the outer world, a ray of
light crosses or unites with a ray of heat, though in
itself a separate individual agency. And again I mur-
mured to myself, " Is this the principle of intellectual
being, directing or iufluencing that of animal life ;
with it, yet not of it 1 "

But the silvery spark ! What was that? Its centre
seemed the brain. But I could fix it to no single or-
gan. Nay, wherever I looked through the system, it
reflected itself as a star reflects itself upon water. And
I observed that while the red light was growing feebler
and feebler, and the azure light was confused, irregular
— now obstructed, now hurrying, now almost lost —
the silvery spark was unaltered, undisturbed. So in-
dependent of all which agitated and vexed the frame,
that I became strangely aware that if the heart stopped

250 A STRANGE STORY.

in its action, and the red light died out, if the brain
were paralysed, that energetic mind smitten into idiocy,
and the azure light wandering objectless as a meteor
wanders over the morass, — still that silver spark would
shine the same, indestructible by aught that shattered
its tabernacle. And I murmured to myself, " Can that
starry spark speak the presence of the soul 1 Does the
silver light shine within creatures to which no life im-
mortal has been promised by Divine Revelation 1 "

Involuntarily I turned my sight towards the dead
forms in the motley collection, and lo, in my trance or
my vision, life returned to them all ! To the elephant
and the serpent ; to the tiger, the vulture, the beetle,
the moth ; to the fish and the polypus, and to yon
mockery of man in the giant ape.

I seemed to see each as it lived in its native realm
of earth, or of air, or of water ; and the red light played
more or less warm through the structure of each, and
the azure light, though duller of hue, seemed to shoot
through the red, and communicate to the creatures an
intelligence far inferior indeed to that of man, but
sufficing to conduct the current of their wiU, and in-
fluence the cunning of their instincts. But in none,
from the elephant to the moth, from the bird in which
brain was the largest to the hybrid in which life seem-
ed to live as in plants — in none was visible the starry
silver spark. I turned my eyes from the creatures
around, back again to the form cowering under the
huge anaconda, and in terror at the animation which
the carcasses took in the awful illusions of that marvel-

A STKANGE STORY. 251

lous trance. For the tiger moved as if scenting blood,
and to the eyes of the serpent the dread fascination
seemed slowly returning.

Again I gazed on the starry spark in the form of the
man. And I murmured to myself, " But if this be the
soul, why is it so undisturbed and undarkened by the
sins which have left such trace and such ravage in the
world of the brain 1 " And gazing yet more intently
on the spark, I became vaguely aware that it was not
the soul, but the halo around the soul, as the star we
see in heaven is not the star itself, but its circle of rays.
And if the light itself was undisturbed and undarkened,
it was because no sins done in the body could anni-
hilate its essence, nor affect the eternity of its duration.
The light was clear within the ruins of its lodgment,
because it might pass away, but could not be extin-
guished.

But the soul itself in the heart of the light reflected
back on my own soul within me its ineffable trouble,
humiliation, and sorrow ; for those ghastly wrecks of
power placed at its sovereign command it was respon-
sible : and, appalled by its own sublime fate of duration,
was about to carry into eternity the account of its
mission in time. Yet it seemed that while the soul
was still there, though so forlorn and so guilty, even
the wrecks around it were majestic. And the soul,
whatever sentence it might merit, was not among the
hopelessly lost. For in its remorse and its shame, it
might still have retained what could serve for redemp-
tion. And I saw that the mind was storming the soul

252 A STEAXGE STORY.

in some terrible rebellious war — all of thought, of pas-
sion, of desire, tlirougb. which the azure light poured
its restless flow, were surging up round the starry spark,
as in siege. And I could not comprehend the war, nor
guess what it was that the mind demanded the soul to
yield. Only the distinction between the two was made
intelligible by their antagonism. And I saw that the
soul, sorely tempted, looked afar for escape from the
subjects it had ever so ill controlled, and who sought
to reduce to their vassal the power which had lost
authority as their king. I could feel its terror in the
sympathy of my own terror, the keenness of my own
supplicating pity. I knew that it was imploring re-
lease from the perils it confessed its want of strength
to encounter. And suddenly the starry spark rose
from the ruins and the tumult around it, — rose into
space and vanished. And where my soul had recog-
nised the presence of soul, there was a void. But the
red light burned still, becoming more and more vivid ;
and as it thus repaired and recruited its lustre, the
whole animal form which had been so decrepit, grew
restored from decay, grew into vigour and youth : and
I saw Margrave as I had seen him in the waking
world, the radiant image of animal life in the beauty
of its fairest bloom.

And over this rich vitality and this symmetric me-
chanism now reigned only, with the animal life, the
mind. The starry light fled and the soul vanished,
still was left visible the mind : mind, by which sensa-

A STKANGE STOEY. 253

tions convey and cumulate ideas, and muscles obey
volition : mind, as in those animals that have more
than the elementary instincts ; mind, as it might be in
men, were men not immortal. As my eyes, in the
Vision, followed the azure light, undulating, as before,
through the cells of the brain, and crossing the red
amidst the labyrinth of the nerves, I perceived that
the essence of that azure light had undergone a change ;
it had lost that faculty of continuous and concentrated
power by which man improves on the works of the
past, and weaves schemes to be developed in the future
of remote generations ; it had lost all sympathy in the
past, because it had lost all conception of a future be-
yond the grave ; it had lost conscience, it had lost
remorse ; the being it informed was no longer account-
able through eternity for the employment of time.
The azm-e light was even more vivid in certain organs
useful to the conservation of existence, as in those
organs I had observed it more vivid among some of the
inferior animals than it is in man — secretiveness, des-
tructiveness, and the ready perception of things im-
mediate to the wants of the day. And the azure light
was brilHant in cerebral cells, where before it had been
dark, such as those which harbour mirthfulness and
hope, for there the light was recruited by the exuber-
ant health of the joyous animal being. But it was
lead-Hke, or dim, in the great social organs through
which man subordinates his own interest to that of
his species, and utterly lost in those through which

254 A STEANGE STORY.

man is reminded of his duties to the throne of his
Maker.

In that marvellous penetration with which the
Yision endowed me, I perceived that in this mind,
though in energy far superior to many ; though re-
taining, from memories of the former existence, the
relics of a culture wide and in some things profound ;
though sharpened and quickened into formidable, if
desultory, force whenever it schemed or aimed at the
animal self- conservation which now made its master-
impulse or instinct; and though among the reminis-
cences of its state before its change were arts which I
could not comprehend, but which I felt were dark and
terrible, lending to a will never checked by remorse,
arms that no healthful philosophy has placed in the
arsenal of discijDlined genius ; thoiigh the mind in it-
self had an ally in a body as perfect in strength and
elasticity as man can take from the favour of nature —
still, I say, I felt that that mind wanted the something,
without which men never could found cities, frame
laws, bind together, beautify, exalt the elements of
this world, by creeds that habitually subject them to a
reference to another. The ant, and the bee, and the
beaver congregate and construct ; but they do not
improve. Man improves because the future impels
onward that which is not found in the ant, the bee,
and the beaver — that which was gone from the being
before me.

I shrank appalled into myself, covered my face with

A STEAXGE STORY. . 255

my hands, and groaned aloud, "Have I ever then
doubted that soul is distinct from mind ? "

A hand here again touched my forehead, the light
in the lamp was extinguished, I became insensible ;
and when I recovered I found myself back in the room
in which I had first conversed with Sir Philip Derval,
and seated, as before, on the sofa, by his side.

CHAPTEE XXXIII.

My recollections of all which I have just attempted to
describe were distinct and vivid ; except, with respect
to time, it seemed to me as if many hours must have
elapsed since I had entered the museum with Mar-
grave ; hut the clock on the mantelpiece met my eyes
as I turned them wistfully round the room ; and I
was indeed amazed to perceive that five minutes had
sufficed for all which it has taken me so long to narrate,
and which in their transit had hurried me through
ideas and emotions so remote from anterior experience.

To my astonishment now succeeded shame and in-
dignation— shame that I, who had scoffed at the possi-
biUty of the comparatively credible influences of mes-
meric action, should have been so helpless a puppet
under the hand of the slight fellow-man beside me,
and so morbidly impressed by j^hantasmagorical illu-
sions ; indignation that, by some fumes which had
special potency over the brain, I had thus been, as it
were, conjured out of my senses ; and, looking full in-
to the calm face at my side, I said, with a smile to
which I sought to convey disdain —

"I congratulate you, Sir PhiUp Derval, on havi

A STRANGE STORY. 257

learned in yonr travels in the East so expert a famil-
iarity with the tricks of its jugglers."

"The East has a proverb," answered Sir Philip,
quietly, " that the juggler may learn much from the
dervish, but the dervish can learn nothing from the
juggler. You will pardon me, however, for the effect
produced on you for a few minutes, whatever the
cause of it may be, since it may serve to guard your
whole life from calamities, to which it might otherwise
have been exposed. And however you may consider
that which you have just experienced to be a mere opti-
cal illusion, or the figment of a brain super-excited by
the fumes of a vapour, look within yourself and tell me
if you do not feel an inward and unanswerable convic-
tion that there is more reason to shun and to fear the
creature you left asleep under the dead jaws of the
giant serpent, than there would be in the serpent it-
self could himger again move its coils, and venom
again arm its fangs."

I was silent, for I could not deny that that convic-
tion had come to me.

" Henceforth, when you recover from the confusion
or anger which now disturbs your impressions, you
will be prepared to listen to my explanations and my
recital, in a spirit far different from that with which
you would have received them before you were sub-
jected to the experiment, which, allow me to remind
you, you invited and defied. You will now, I trust,
be fitted to become my confidant and my assistant —
you will advise with me how, for the sake of humanity

258 A STKANGE STOEY.

we should act together against the incarnate lie, the
anomalous prodigy which glides through the crowd in
the image of joyous heauty. For the present I quit
you. I have an engagement on worldly affairs in the

town this night. I am staying at L , which I

shall leave for Derval Court to-morrow evening.
Come to me there the day after to-morrow ; at any
hour that may suit you the hest. Adieu ! "

Here Sir Philip Derval rose and left the room. I
made no effort to detain him. Mj mind was too occu-
pied in striving to recompose itself, and account for the
phenomena that had scared it, and for the strength of
the impressions it still retained.

I sought to find natural and accountable causes for
effects so abnormal.

Lord Bacon suggests that the ointments with which
witches anointed themselves might have had the effect
of stopping the pores and congesting the brain, and
thus impressing the sleep of the unhappy dupes of
their own imagination with dreams so vivid that, on
waking, they were firmly convinced that they had
been borne through the air to the Sabbat

I remembered also having heard a distinguished
French traveller — whose veracity was unquestionable
— say that he had witnessed extraordinary effects
produced on the sensorium by certain fumigations used
by an African pretender to magic. A person of how-
ever healthy a brain, subjected to the influence of
these fumigations, was induced to believe that he saw
the most frightful apparitions.

i

A STRANGE STORY. 259

However extraordinary such efTects, they were not
incredible — not at variance with our notions of the
known laws of nature. And to the vapour, or the
odours which a powder applied to a lamp had called
forth, I was, therefore, prepared to ascribe properties
similar to those which Bacon's conjecture ascribed to
the witches' ointment, and the French traveller to the
fumigations of the African conjuror.

But, as I came to that conclusion, I was seized with
an intense curiosity to examine for myself those chemical
agencies with which Sir Philip Derval appeared so
familiar — to test the contents in that mysterious
casket of steel. I also felt a ciuiosity no less eager,
but more, in spite of myself, intermingled with fear,
to learn all that Sir Philip had to communicate of the
past history of Margi-ave. I could but suppose that
the young man must indeed be a terrible criminal, for
a person of years so grave, and station so high, to inti-
mate accusations so vaguely dark, and to use means
so extraordinary, in order to enlist my imagination
rather than my reason against a youth in whom there
appeared none of the signs which suspicion interprets
into guilt.

"While thus musing, I Ufted my eyes and saw Mar-
grave himself there, at the threshold of the baU-room
— there, where Sir Philip had first pointed him out as
the criminal he had come to L to seek and dis-
arm; and now, as then, Margrave was the radiant
centre of a joyous group : not the young boy-god
lacchus amidst his nymphs could, in Grecian frieze or

260 A STRANGE STORY.

picture, have seemed more the type of the sportive,
hilarious vitality of sensuous nature. He must have
passed, unobserved by me in my preoccupation of
thought, from the museum, and across the room in
■which I sat ; and now there was as little trace in that
animated countenance of the terror it had exhibited at
Sir Philip's approach, as of the change it had under-
gone in my trance or my phantasy.

But he caught sight of me — left his young compan-
ions— came gaily to my side.

"Did you not ask me to go with you into that
museum about half an hour ago, or did I dream that
I went with youl"

" Yes ; you went with me into that museum."

"Then, pray, what dull theme did you select to set
me asleep there?"

I looked hard at him, and made no reply. Some-
what to my relief, I now heard my host's voice —

"Why, Fenwick, what has become of Sir Philip
Derval?"

" He has left ; he had business." And, as I spoke,
again I looked hard on Margrave.

His countenance now showed a change ; not sur-
prise, not dismay, but rather a play of the lip, a flash
of the eye, that indicated complacency — even triumph.

"So! Sir Philip Derval! He is in L ; he

has been here to-night 1 So ! as I expected."

"Did you expect itf said our host. "Xo one else
did. Who could have told you?"

"The movements of men so distinguished need

A STEAXGE STORY. 261

never take us by surprise. I knew lie was in Paris
the other day. It is natural eno' that he should come
here. I was prepared for his coming."

]\Iargrave here turned away towards the window,
which he threw open, and looked out.

"There is a storm in the air," said he, as he con-
tinued to gaze into the night.

Was it possible that Margrave was so wholly uncon-
scious of what had passed in the museum as to include
in oblivion even the remembrance of Sir Philip Der-
val's presence before he had been rendered insensible
or laid asleep? Was it now only for the first time

that he learned of Sir Philip's arrival in L , and

visit to that house 1 Was there any intimation of
menace in his words and his aspect 1

I felt that the trouble of my thoughts communicated
itself to my countenance and manner ; and, longing for
solitude and fresh air, I quitted the house. "VMien I
found myself in the street, I turned round and saw
Margrave still standing at the open window, but he
did not appear to notice me ; his eyes seemed fixed
abstractedly on space.

CHAPTEE XXXIV.

I WALKED on slowly and with the downcast brow of a
man absorbed in meditation. I had gained the broad
jDlace in which the main streets of the town converged,
when I was overtaken by a violent storm of rain. I
sought shelter under the dark archway of that entrance
to the district of Abbey Hill, which was still called
Monk's Gate. The shadow within the arch was so
deep that I was not aware that I had a companion
till I heard my own name, close at my side. I recog-
nised the voice, before I could distinguish the form, of
Sir Philip Derval.

"The storm will soon be over," said he, quietly.
" I saw it coming on in time. I fear you neglected
the first warning of those sable clouds, and must be
already drenched."

I made no reply, but moved involuntarily away
towards the mouth of the arch.

" I see that you cherish a grudge against me ! "
resumed Sir Philip. " Are you, then, by nature
vindictive 1 "

Somewhat softened by the friendly tone of this re-
proach, I answered, half in jest, half in earnest, —

A STKAXGE STORY. 263

" You must own, Sir Philip, that I have some little
reason for the uncharitable anger your question im-
putes to me. But I can forgive you on one condition."

" What is that 1 "

"The possession, for half an hour, of that mysteri-
ous steel casket which you carry about with you, and
full permission to analyse and test its contents."

"Your analysis of the contents," returned Sir Philip,
dryly, " would leave you as ignorant as before of the
uses to which they can be applied. But I will own
to you frankly, that it is my intention to select some
confidant among men of science, to whom I may safely
communicate the wonderful properties which certain
essences in that casket possess. I invite your acquaint-
ance, nay, your friendship, in the hope that I may
find such a confidant in you. But the casket contains
other combinations, which, if wasted, could not be
re-supplied ; at least by any process which the great
Master from whom I received them placed within
reach of my knowledge. In this they resemble the
diamond ; Avhen the chemist has found that the dia-
mond afibrds no other substance by its combustion
than pure cai-bonic acid gas, and that the only chemi-
cal difference between the costliest diamond and a
lump of pure charcoal is a proportion of hydrogen less
than soooo^^ P^^'^ ^^ ^^® weight of the substance — can
the chemist make you a diamond 1

"These, then, the more potent, but also the more
perilous of the casket's contents, shall be explored by
no science, submitted to no test. They are the keys

264 A STEANGE STORY.

to masked doors in tlie ramparts of Nature, which, no
mortal can pass through without rousing dread sen-
tries never seen upon this side her wall. The powers
they confer are secrets locked in my hreast, to be lost
in my grave ; as the casket which lies on my hreast
shall not be transferred to the hands of another, till
all the rest of my earthly possessions pass away with
my last breath in life, and my first in eternity."

" Sir Philip Derval," said I, struggling against the
appeals to fancy or to awe, made in words so strange,
uttered in a tone of earnest conviction, and heard
amidst the glare of the lightning, the howl of the
winds, and the roll of the thunder — " Sir Philip Der-
val, you accost me in language which, but for my ex-
perience of the powers at your command, I should
hear with the contempt that is due to the vaunts of a
mountebank, or the pity we give to the morbid beliefs
of his dupe. As it is, I decline the confidence with
which you would favour me, subject to the conditions
which it seems you would impose. My profession
abandons to quacks all drugs which may not be ana-
lysed— all secrets which may not be fearlessly told.
I cannot visit you at Derval Court. I cannot trust
myself, voluntarily, again in the power of a man, who
has arts, of which I may not examine the nature, by
which he can impose on my imagination and steal
away my reason."

" Eeflect well before you decide," said Sir Philip,
with a solemnity that was stern. " If you refuse to
be warned and to be armed by me, your reason and

A STRANGE STORY. 265

your imagination will alike be subjected to influences
which I can only explain by tellmg you that there is
truth in those immemorial legends which depose to
the existence of magic."

"Magic!"

" There is magic of two kinds — the dark and evil,
appertaining to witchcraft or necromancy; the pure
and beneficent, which is but philosophy, applied to
certain mysteries in JS"ature remote from the beaten
tracks of science, but which deepened the wisdom of
ancient sages, and can yet unriddle the myths of de-
parted races."

" Sir Philip," I said, with impatient and angry in-
terruption, " if you think that a jargon of this kind be
worthy a man of your acquirements and station, it is
at least a waste of time to address it to me. I am led
to conclude that you desire to make use of me for
some purpose which I have a right to suppose honest
and blameless, because all you know of me is, that I
rendered to your relation services which cannot lower
my character in your eyes. If your object be, as you
have intimated, to aid you in exposing and disabling
a man whose antecedents have been those of guilt,
and who threatens with danger the society which
receives him, you must give me proofs that are not
reducible to magic ; and you must prepossess me
against the person you accuse, not by powders and
fumes that disorder the brain, but by substantial
statements, such as justify one man in condemning
another. And, since you have thought fit to convince

266 A STRANGE STORY.

me that there are chemical means at your disposal,
by which the imagination can he so affected as to
accept, temporarily, illusions for realities, so I again
demand, and now still more decidedly than before,
that while you address yourself to my reason, whether
to explain your object or to vindicate your charges
against a man whom I have admitted to my acquaint-
ance, you will divest yourself of aU means and agencies
to warp my judgment, soillicit and fraudulent as those
which you own yourself to possess. Let the casket, with
all its contents, be transferred to my hands, and pledge
me your word that, in giving that casket, you reserve
to yourself no other means by which chemistry can be
abused to those influences over physical organisation,
which ignorance or imposture may ascribe to — magic."

" I accept no conditions for my confidence, though
I think the better of you for attempting to make
them. If I live, you will seek me yourself, and
implore my aid. Meanwhile, listen to me, and "

" N'o ; I prefer the rain and the thunder to the
whispers that steal to my ear in the dark from one
of whom I have reason to beware."

So saying, I stepped forth, and at that moment the
lightning flashed through the arch, and brought into
fuU view the face of the man beside me. Seen by
that glare, it was pale as the face of a corpse, but its
expression was compassionate and serene.

I hesitated, for the expression of that hueless coun-
tenance touched me ; it was not the face which inspires
distrust or fear.

A STEAXGE STOEY. 267

"Come," said I, gently; "grant my demand. The
casket "

" It is no scruple of distrust that now makes that
demand ; it is a curiosity which in itself is a fearful
tempter. Did you now possess what at this moment
you desire, how bitterly you would repent ! "

" Do you still refuse my demand ? "

"I refuse."

"If then you really need me, it is you who will
repent."

I passed from the arch into the open space. The
rain had passed, the thundpr was more distant. I
looked back when I had gained the opposite side of
the way, at the angle of a street which led to my own
house. As I did so, again the skies lightened, but the
flash was comparatively slight and evanescent j it did
not penetrate the gloom of the arch ; it did not bring
the form of Sir Philip into view ; but, just imder the
base of the outer buttress to the gateway, I descried
the outline of a dark figure, cowering down, huddled
up for shelter, the outline so indistinct, and so soon
lost to sight as the flash faded, that I could not dis-
tinguish if it were man or brute. If it were some
chance passer-by, who had sought refuge from the
rain, and overheard any part of our strange talk,
"the listener," thought I, with a half-smile, "must
have been mightily perplexed."

CHAPTEE XXXV.

On reacliiiig my own home, I found my servant sitting
up for me with the information that my attendance
was immediately required. Tlie little boy whom Mar-
grave's carelessness had so injured, and for whose in-
jury he had shown so little feeling, had been weakened
by the confinement which the nature of the injury
required, and for the last few days had been generally
ailing. The father had come to my house a few minutes
before I reached it, in great distress of mind, saying
that his child had been seized with fever, and had
become delirious. Hearing that I was at the mayor's
house, he had hurried thither in search of me.

I felt as if it were almost a relief to the troubled
and haunting thoughts which tormented me, to be
summoned to the exercise of a famiKar knowledge.
I hastened to the bedside of the little sufferer, and
soon forgot all else in the anxious struggle for a human
life. The struggle promised to be successful ; the
worst symptoms began to yield to remedies prompt
and energetic, if simple. I remained at the house,
rather to comfort and support the parents than because
my continued attendance was absolutely needed, tiU

A STRANGE STORY. 269

the night was well-nigh gone ; and all cause of im-
mediate danger having subsided, I then found myself
once more in the streets. An atmosphere palely clear
in the grey of dawn had succeeded to the thunder-
clouds of the stormy night ; the street-lamps, here
and there, burned wan and still. I was walking slowly
and wearily, so tu'ed out that I was scarcely conscious
of my own thoughts, when, in a narrow lane, my feet
stopped almost mechanically before a human form
stretched at full length in the centre of the road, right
in my path. The form was dark in the shadow thrown
from the neighbouring houses. " Some poor drunk-
ard," thought I, and the humanity inseparable from
my calling not allowing me to leave a fellow-creature
thus exposed to the risk of being run over by the first
drowsy waggoner who might pass along the thorough-
fare, I stooped to rouse and to lift the form. What
was my horror when my eyes met the rigid stare of a
dead man's ! I started, looked again ; it was the face
of Sir Philip Derval ! He was lying on his back, the
countenance upturned, a dark stream oozing from the
breast — murdered by two ghastly wounds — murdered
not long since ; the blood was stiU warm. Stunned
and terror-stricken, I stood bending over the body.
Suddenly I was touched on the shoulder.

" Hollo ! what is this 1 " said a gruff voice.

" Murder ! " I answered in hoUow accents, wliich
sounded strangely to my own ear.

" Murder ! so it seems." And the policeman who
had thus accosted me lifted the body.

270 A STEAXGE STORY.

" A gentleman by his dress. How did tMs happen ?
How did you come here 1 " and the policeman glanced
suspiciously at me.

At this moment, however, there came up another
policeman, in whom I recognised the young man
whose sister I had attended and cured.

" Dr Fenwick," said the last, lifting his hat respect-
fully, and at the sound of my name his fellow-police-
man changed his manner, and muttered an apology.

I now collected myself sufficiently to state the
name and rank of the murdered man. The poKcemen
"bore the body to their station, to which I accompanied
them. I then returned to my own house, and had
scarcely sunk on my bed when sleep came over me.
But what a sleep ! !N"ever till then had I known how
awfully distinct dreams can be. The phantasmagoria
of the naturalist's collection revived. Life again,
awoke in the serpent and the tiger, the scorpion mov-
ed, and the vulture flapped its wings. And there was
Margrave, and there Sir Philip ; but their position of
power was reversed. And Margrave's foot was on the
breast of the dead man. Still I slept on till I was
roused by the summons to attend on Mr Vigors, the
magistrate to whom the police had reported the murder,

I dressed hastily and went forth. As I passed
through the street, I found that the dismal news had
already spread. I was accosted on my way to the
magistrate by a hundred eager, tremulous, inquiring
tongues.

The scanty evidence I could impart was soon given.

A STKANGE STOEY. 271

My introduction to Sir Philip at tlie mayor's house,
our accidental meeting under the arch, my discovery
of the corpse some hours afterwards on my return
from my patient, my professional belief that the deed
must have been done a very short time, perhaps but
a few minutes before I chanced upon its victim. But,
in that case, how account for the long interval that
had elapsed between the time in which I had left Sir
Philip under the arch, and the time in which the
murder must have been committed ? Sir Philip could
not have been wandering through the streets all those
hours. This doubt, however, was easily and speedUy
cleared up. A Mr Jeeves, who was one of the princi-
pal solicitors in the town, stated that he had acted as
Sir PhiHp's legal agent and adviser ever since Sir
Philip came of age, and was charged with the exclu-
sive management of some valuable house property

which the deceased had possessed in L ; that

when Sir Philip had arrived in the town late in the
afternoon of the pre^'ious day, he had sent for Mr
Jeeves ; informed him that he. Sir Philip, was en-
gaged to be married ; that he washed to have fuU
and minute information as to the details of his house
property (which had greatly increased in value since
his absence from England), in connection with the
settlements his marriage would render necessary ; and
that this information was also required by him in re-
spect to a codicil he desired to add to his will.

He had, accordingly, requested Mr Jeeves to have
all the books and statements concerning the property

272 A STRANGE STORY.

ready for his inspection tliat night, when he would
call, after leaving the ball which he had promised the
mayor, whom he had accidentally met on entering the
town, to attend. Sir Philip had also asked Mr Jeeves
to detain one of his clerks in his office, in order to
serve, conjointly with Mr Jeeves, as a witness to the
codicil he desired to add to his will. Sir Philip had
accordingly come to Mr Jeeves's house a little before
midnight ; had gone carefully through all the state-
ments prepared for him, and had executed the fresh
codicil to his testament, which testament he had in
their previous interview given to Mr Jeeves's care seal-
ed up. Mr Jeeves stated that Sir Philip, though a
man of remarkable talents and great acquirements, was
extremely eccentric, and of a very peremptory temper,
and that the importance attached to a promptitude for
which there seemed no pressing occasion, did not sur-
prise him in Sir Philip as it might have done in an
ordinary client. Sir Philip said, indeed, that he should
devote the next mornmg to the draft for his wedding
settlements, according to the information of his pro-
perty which he had acquired ; and after a visit of very
brief duration to Derval Court, should quit the neigh-
bourhood and return to Paris, where his intended
bride then was, and in which city it had been settled
that the marriage ceremony should take place.

Mr Jeeves had, however, observed to him, that if he
Avere so soon to be married, it was better to postpone
any revision of testamentary bequests, since after mar-
riage he would have to make a new will altogether.

A STRANGE STORY. 273

And Sir Philip had simply answered,

" Life is uncertain ; who can be sure of the mor-
row 1 "

Sir Philip's visit to Mr Jeeves's house had lasted
some hours, for the conversation between them had
branched off from actual business to various topics.
Mr Jeeves had not noticed the hour when Sir Philip
went ; he could only say that, as he attended him to the
street-door, he observed, rather to his own surprise,
that it Avas close upon daybreak.

Sir Philip's body had been found not many yards
distant from the hotel at which he had put up, and to
which, therefore, he was evidently returning when he
left Mr Jeeves : an old-fashioned hotel, which had

been the principal one at L when Sir Philip left

England, though now outrivalled by the new and
more central establishment in which Margrave was
domiciled.

The primary and natural supposition was, that Sir
Philip had been murdered for the sake of plunder ;
and this supposition was borne out by the fact to
which his valet deposed, viz., —

That Sir Philip had about his person, on going to
the mayor's house, a purse containing notes and sover-
eigns ; and this purse was now missing.

The valet, who, though an Albanian, spoke English
fluently, said that the purse had a gold clasp, on which
Sir Philip's crest and initials were engraved. Sir
Philip's watch was, however, not taken.

And now, it was not without a quick beat of the

VOL. I. 8

274 A STRANGE STOEY.

heart that I heard the valet declare that a steel casket,
to which Sir Philip attached extraordinary value, and
always carried about with him, was also missing.

The Albanian described this casket as of ancient
Eyzantine workmanship, opening with a peculiar
spring, only known to Sir Philip, in whose possession
it had been, so far as the servant knew, about three
years ; when, after a visit to Aleppo, in which the
servant had not accompanied him, he had first ob-
served it in his master's hands. He was asked if this
casket contained articles to account for the value Sir
Philip set on it — such as jewels, bank-notes, letters of
credit, &c. The man replied that it might possibly do
so ; he had never been allowed the opportunity of
examining its contents ; but that he was certain the
casket held medicines, for he had seen Sir Philip take
from it some small phials, by which he had performed
great cures in the East, and especially during a pestil-
ence which had visited Damascus, just after Sir Philip
had arrived at that city on quitting Aleppo. Almost
every European traveller is supposed to be a physician ;
and Sir Philip was a man of great benevolence, and the
servant firmly believed him also to be of great medical
skill. After this statement, it was very naturally and
generally conjectured that Sir Philip was an amateur
disciple of homoeopathy, and that the casket contained
the phials or globules in use among homoeopathists.

"Whether or not Mr Vigors enjoyed a vindictive
triumph in making me feel the weight of his autho-
rity, or whether his temper was ruffled in the excite-

A STRANGE STORY. 275

ment of so grave a case, I cannot say ; but his manner
was stern and his tone discourteous in the questions
which he addressed to me. Nor did the questions
themselves seem very pertinent to the object of inves-
tigation.

" Pray, Dr Fenwick," said he, knitting his brows,
and fixing his eyes on me rudely, " did Sir Philip
Derval, in his conversation with you, mention the
steel casket which, it seems, he carried about with
himi"

I felt my countenance change slightly as I answered,
"Yes."

" Did he tell you what it contained 1 "

"He said it contained secrets."

"Secrets of what nature? medicinal or chemical?
Secrets which a physician might be curious to learn
and covetous to possess? "

This question seemed to me so offensively signifi-
cant, that it roused my indignation, and I answered
haughtily, that " a physician of any degree of merited
reputation did not much believe in, and still less covet,
those secrets in his art which were the boast of quacks
and pretenders."

" My question need not offend you, Dr Fenwick.
I put it in another shape : Did Sir Philip Derval so
boast of the secrets contained in his casket, that a
quack or pretender might deem such secrets of use to
him?"

" Possibly he might, if he believed in such a boast."

" Humph ! — he might if he so beheved. I have

276 A STRANGE STORY.

no more questions to put to you at present, Dr Fen-
■wick."

Little of any importance in connection witli the
deceased, or his murder, transpired in the course of
that day's examination and inquiries.

The next day, a gentleman distantly related to the
young lady to whom Sir Philip was engaged, and who
had been for some time in correspondence with the

deceased, arrived at L . He had been sent for at

the suggestion of the Albanian servant, who said that
Sir Philip had stayed a day at this gentleman's house
in London, on his way to L from Dover.

The new-comer, whose name was Danvers, gave a
more touching pathos to the horror which the murder
had excited. It seemed that the motives which had
swayed Sir Philip in the choice of his betrothed, were
singularly pure and noble. The young lady's father —
an intimate college friend — had been visited by a sud-
den reverse of fortune, which had brought on a fever
that proved mortal. He had died some years ago,
leaving his only child penniless, and had bequeathed
her to the care and guardianship of Sir Philip.

The orphan received her education at a convent near
Paris ; and when Sir Philip, a few weeks since, arrived
in that city from the East, he offered her his hand and
fortune. " I know," said Mr Danvers, " from the con-
versation I held with him when he came to me in
London, that he was induced to this offer by the con-
scientious desire to discharge the trust consigned to
him by his old friend. Sir Philip was still of an age

A STEAXGE STOEY. 277

that could not permit him to take under his own roof
a female ward of eighteen, without injury to her good
name. He could only get over that difficulty by mak-
ing the ward his wife, ' She will be safer and happier
with the man she will love and honour for her father's
sake,' said the chivalrous gentleman, ' than she will be
under any other roof I could find for her.' "

And now there arrived another stranger to L ,

sent for by Mr Jeeves, the lawyer ; — a stranger to
L , but not to me ; my old Edinburgh acquaint-
ance, Eichard Strahan.

The will in Mr Jeeves's keeping, with its recent
codicil, was opened and read. The v/ill itself bore
date about six years anterior to the testator's tragic
death : it was very short, and, with the exception of
a few legacies, of which the most important was ten
thousand pounds to his ward, the whole of his property
was left to Eichard Strahan, on the condition that he
took the name and arms of Derval within a year from
the date of Sir Philip's decease. The codicil, added
to the will the night before his death, increased the
legacy to the young lady from ten to thirty thousand
pounds, and bequeathed an annuity of one hundred
pounds a-year to his Albanian servant. Accompanying
the will, and within the same envelope, was a sealed
letter addressed to Eichard Strahan, and dated at Paris
two weeks before Sir Philip's decease. Strahan brought
that letter to me. It ran thus : " Eichard Strahan, I
advise you to pull down the house called Derval Court,
and to build another on a better site, the plans of

278 A STEANGE STOEY.

which, to he modified according to your own taste and
requirements, will he found among my papers. This
is a recommendation, not a command. But I strictly
enjoin you entirely to demolish the more ancient part,
which was chiefly occupied by myself, and to destroy
by fire, without perusal, all the books and manuscripts
found in the safes in my study. I have appointed you
my sole executor, as well as my heir, because I have
no personal friends in whom I can confide as I trust I
may do in the man I have never seen, simply becaiise
he will bear my name and represent my lineage. There
will be found in my writing-desk, which always accom-
panies me in my travels, an autobiographical work, a
record of my own life, comprising discoveries, or hints
at discovery, in science, through means little cultivated
in our age. You will not be surprised that, before
selecting you as my heir and execiitor from a crowd
of relations not more distant, I should have made
inquiries in order to justify my selection. The result
of these inquiries informs me that you have not your-
self the peculiar knowledge nor the habits of mind
that could enable you to judge of matters Avhicli de-
mand the attainments and the practice of science ; but
that you are of an honest, aff"ectionate nature, and will
regard as sacred the last injunctions of a benefactor. I
enjoin you, then, to submit the aforesaid manuscript
memoir to some man on whose character for humanity
and honour you can place confidential reliance, and
who is accustomed to the study of the positive sciences,
more especially chemistry, in connection with electri-

A STRANGE STOEY. 279

city and magnetism. My desire is that he shall edit
and arrange this memoir for publication ; and that,
wherever he feels a conscientious doubt whether any
discovery, or hint of discovery, therein contained,
would not prove more dangerous than useful to man-
kind, he shall consult with any other three men of
science whose names are a guarantee for probity and
knowledge, and according to the best of his judgment,
after such consultation, suppress or publish the passage
of which he has so doubted. I o'wn the ambition
which first directed me towards studies of a very
unusual character, and which has encouraged me in
their pursuit through many years of voluntary exile,
in knds where they could be best facilitated or aided
— iae ambition of leaving behind me the renown of a
bold discoverer in those recesses of nature which phi-
losophy has hitherto abandoned to superstition. But
I feel, at the moment in which I trace these lines, a
feai lest, in the absorbing interest of researches which
tend to increase to a marvellous degree the power of
man over all matter, animate or inanimate, I may
have blunted my own moral perceptions ; and that
there may be much in the knowledge which I sought
and acquired from the pure desire of investigating
hidden truths, that could be more abused to purposes
of tremendous evil than be likely to conduce to benig-
nant good. And of this a mind disciplined to severe
reasoning, and uninfluenced by the enthusiasm which
has probably obscured my own judgment, should be
the unprejudiced arbiter. Much as I have coveted

280 A STEANGE STOEY.

and still do covet that fame wliicli makes the memory
of one man the common inheritance of all, I would
infinitely rather that my name should pass away with
my breath, than that I should transmit to my fellow-
men any portion of a knowledge which the good might
forbear to exercise and the bad might unscrupulously
pervert. I bear about with me, wherever I wander, a
certain steel casket. I received this casket, with its
contents, from a man Avhose memory I hold in pro-
found veneration. Should I live to find a peison
whom, after minute and intimate trial of his character,
I should deem worthy of such confidence, it is my
intention to communicate to him the secret how to
prepare and how to use such of the powders and
essences stored within that casket as I myself lave
ventured to employ. Others I have never tested, nor
do I know how they could be re-supplied if lost or
wasted. But as the contents of this casket, in the
hands of any one not duly instructed as to the mode
of applying them, would either be useless, or conduce,
through inadvertent and ignorant misapplication, to
the most dangerous consequences ; so, if I die without
having found, and in writing named, such a confidant
as I have described above, I command you immediately
to empty all the powders and essences found therein
into any running stream of water, which will at once
harmlessly dissolve them. On no account must they
be cast into fire.

" This letter, Eichard Strahan, will only come under
your eyes in case the plans and the hopes which I have

A STRANGE STORY. 281

formed for my earthly future should be frustrated hy
the death on which I do not calculate, but against the
chances of which this will and this letter provide. I
am about to revisit England, in defiance of a warning
that I shall be there subjected to some peril which I
refuse to have defined, because I am unwilling that
any mean apprehension of personal danger should
enfeeble my nerves in the discharge of a stern and
solemn duty. If I overcome that peril, you will not
be my heir ; my testament will be remodelled ; this
letter will be recalled and destroyed. I shall form ties
which promise me the happiness I have never hitherto
found, though it is common to all men — the affections
of home, the caresses of children, among whom I may
find one to whom hereafter I may bequeath, in my
knowledge, a far nobler heritage than my lands. In
that case, however, my first care would be to assure
your own fortunes. And the sum Avhich this codicil
assures to my betrothed, would be transferred to your-
self on my wedding-day. Do you know why, never
having seen you, I thus select you for preference to all
my other kindred? — why my heart, in writing thus,
warms to your image 1 Eichard Strahan, your only
sister, many years older than yourself — you were than
a child — was the object of my first love. "We were
to have been wedded, for her j)arents deceived me into
the belief that she returned my affection. With a rare
and noble candour she herself informed me that her
heart was given to another, who possessed not my
worldly gifts of wealth and station. In resigning my

282 A STRANGE STOEY.

claims to her hand, I succeeded in propitiating her
parents to her own choice. I obtained for her hus-
band the living which he held, and I settled on your
sister the doAver which, at her death, passed to you as
the brother to whom she had shown a mother's love,
and the interest of which has secured you a modest
independence.

" If these lines ever reach you, recognise my title to
reverential obedience to commands which may seem to
you wild, perhaps irrational ; and repay, as if a debt
due from your own lost sister, the affection I have
borne to you for her sake."

While I read this long and strange letter, Strahan
sat by my side, covering his face with his hands, and
weeping with honest tears for the man whose death
had made him powerful and rich.

" You will undertake the trust ordained to me in
this letter," said he, struggling to compose himself.
" You will read and edit this memoir; you are the very
man he himself would have selected. Of your honour
and humanity there can be no doubt, and you have
studied with success the sciences which he specifies as
requisite for the discharge of the task he commands."

At this request, though I could not be whoUy un-
prepared for it, my first impulse was that of a vague
terror. It seemed to me as if I were becoming more
and more entangled in a mysterious and fatal web.
But this impulse soon faded in the eager yearnings of
an ardent and irresistible curiosity.

A STRANGE STORY. 283

T promised to read the manuscript, and in order that
I might fully imbue my mind with the object and wish
of the deceased, I asked leave to make a copy of the
letter I had just read. To this Strahan readily as-
sented, and that copy I have transcribed in the preced-
ing pages.

I asked Strahan if he had yet found the manuscript;
he said, " 'No, he had not yet had the heart to inspect
the papers left by the deceased. He would now do
so. He should go in a day or two to Derval Court,
and reside there till the murderer was discovered, as
doubtless he soon must be through the vigilance of
the police. K"ot till that discovery was jnade should
Sir Philip's remains, though already placed in their
coffin, be consigned to the family vault."

Strahan seemed to have some superstitious notion
that the murderer might be more secure from justice
if his victim were thrust, unavenged, into the tomb.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The "belief prevalent in tlie town ascribed the murder
of Sir Philip to the violence of some vulgar robber,

probably not an inhabitant of L . Mr A^igors did

not favour that belief. He intimated an opinion,
which seemed extravagant and groundless, that Sir
Philip had been murdered, for the sake, not of the
missing purse, but of the missing casket. It was
currently believed that the solemn magistrate had
consulted one of his pretended clairvoyants, and that
this impostor had gulled him with assurances, to which
he attached a credit that perverted into egi-egiously
absurd directions his characteristic activity and zeal.

Be that as it may, the coroner's inquest closed with-
out casting any light on so mysterious a tragedy.

What were my own conjectures I scarcely dared to
admit — I certainly could not venture to utter them.
But my suspicions centred upon Margrave. That for
some reason or other he had cause to dread Sir Philip's

presence in L was clear, even to my reason. And

how could my reason reject all the influences which
had been brought to bear on my imagination, whether
by the scene in the museum or my conversations with

A STEANGE STOEY. 285

the deceased 1 But it was impossible to act on such,
suspicions — impossible even to confide them. Could
I have told to any man the effect produced on me in
the museum, he would have considered me a liar or
a madman. And in Sir Philip's accusations against
Margrave there was nothing tangible — nothing that
could bear repetition. Those accusations, if analysed,
vanished into air. What did they imply 1 — that Mar-
grave was a magician, a monstrous prodigy, a creature
exceptional to the ordinary conditions of humanity.
Would the most reckless of mortals have ventured to
bring against the worst of characters such a charge, on
the authority of a deceased witness, and to found on
evidence so fantastic the awful accusation of murder ?
But of all men, certainly I — a sober, practical physician
— was the last whom the public could excuse for such
incredible implications ; and certainly, of all men, the
last against whom any suspicion of heinous crime
would be readily entertained was that joyous youth
in whose sunny aspect life and conscience alike seemed
to keep careless holiday. But I could not overcome,
nor did I attempt to reason against, the horror akin
to detestation, that had succeeded to the fascinating
attraction by which Margrave had before conciliated a
liking founded rather on admiration than esteem.

In order to avoid his visits I kept away from the
study in which I had habitually spent my mornings,
and to which he had been accustomed to so ready an
access. And if he called at the front door, I directed
my servant to tell him that I was either from home or

286 A STRANGE STORY.

engaged. He did attempt for the first few days to
visit me as before, but when my intention to shun
him became thus manifest, desisted ; naturally enough,
as any other man so pointedly repelled would have
done,

I abstained from all those houses in which I was
likely to meet him ; and went my professional roimd
of visits in a close carriage, so that I might not be
accosted by him in his walks.

One morning, a very few days after Strahan had
shown me Sir Philip Derval's letter, I received a note
from my old college acquaintance, stating that he was
going to Derval Court that afternoon ; that he should
take with him the memoir which he had found, and
begging me to visit him at his new home the next day,
and commence my inspection of the manuscript. I
consented eagerly.

That morning, on going my round, my carriage
passed by another drawn up to the pavement, and I
recognised the figure of Margrave standing beside the
vehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. I
looked back, as my own carriage whirled rapidly by,
and saw with uneasiness and alarm that it was Eichard
Strahan to whom Margrave was thus familiarly ad-
dressing himself How had the two made acquaint-
ance ? "Was it not an outrage on Sir Philip Derval's
memory, that the heir he had selected should be thus
apparently intimate with the man whom he had so
sternly denounced ? I became still more impatient to
read the memoir — in all probability it would give such

A STKANGE STOKY. 287

explanations Avith. respect to Margrave's antecedents,
as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal offences,
■would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance
between Sir Philip's successor and himself.

All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels
of far deeper interest even than those in which my
mind had of late been so tumultuously whirled along,
when, on returning home, I found a note from Mrs
Ashleigh. She and Lilian had just come back to

L , sooner than she had led me to anticipate.

Lilian had not seemed quite well the last day or two,
and had been anxious to return.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Let me recall it — softly — softly ! Let me recall that
evening spent with her ! — that evening, the last before
darkness rose "between us like a solid wall.

It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun
had set, the twilight was lingering still. We were in
the old monastic garden — garden so quiet, so cool, so
fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one
great cedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the
grassy lawn with its little paradise of flowers. I had
thrown myself on the sward at her feet ; her hand so
confidingly lay in the clasp of mine. I see her still —
how young, how fair, how innocent !

Strange, strange ! So inexpressibly English ; so
thoroughly the creature of our sober, homely life !
The pretty dehcate white robe that I touched so
timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well
become the soft colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk
of the brown hair ! She is murmuring low her answer
to my trembling question.

"As well as when last we parted? Do you love
me as weU still 1 "

" There is no ' still ' written here," said she, softly

A STEAXGE STOEY. 289

pressing her hand to her heart. " Yesterday is as to-
morrow, in the For ever."

" Ah, Lilian ! if I could reply to you in words as
akin to poetry as your own."

" Fie ! you who affect not to care for poetry ! "

" That was before you went away — before I missed
you from my eyes, from my life — before I was quite
conscious how precious you were to me, more precious
than common words can tell ! Yes, there is one period
in love when all men are poets, however the penury
of their language may belie the luxuriance of their
fancies. What would become of me if you ceased to
love me ? "

" Or of me, if you could cease to love 1 "

" And somehow it seems to me this evening as if
my heart drew nearer to you — nearer as if for shelter."

"It is sympathy," said she, with tremulous eager-
ness ; " that sort of mysterious sympathy which I have
often heard you deny or deride ; for I, too, feel drawn,
nearer to you, as if there were a storm at hand. I
was oppressed by an indescribable terror in returning
home, and the moment I saw you there came a sense
of protection."

Her head sank on my shoulder ; we were silent
some moments ; then we both rose by the same in-
voluntary impulse, and round her slight form I twined
my strong arm of man. And now we are winding
slow under the lilacs and acacias that belt the lawn.
Lilian has not yet heard of the murder, which forms
the one topic of the town ; for all tales of violence and

VOL, I. T

290 A STRANGE STORY.

blood affected her as they affect a fearful child. Mrs
Ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from her
the letters and the journals by which the dismal news
had been carried to herself. I need scarcely say that
the grim subject was not broached by me. In fact,
my own mind escaped from the events which had of
late so perplexed and tormented it ; the tranquillity of
the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence, had begun to
chase away even that melancholy foreboding which
had overshadowed me in the first moments of our re-
union. So we came gradually to converse of the future
— of the day, not far distant, when we two should be
as one. We planned our bridal excursion. We would
visit the scenes endeared to her by song, to me by
childhood — the banks and waves of my native Winder-
mere— our one brief holiday before life returned to
labour, and hearts now so disquieted by hope and joy
settled down to the calm serenity of home.

As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her
full, rose amidst skies without a cloud. We paused to
gaze on her solemn haunting beauty, as where are the
lovers who have not paused to gaze 1 We were then
on the terrace walk, which commanded a view of the
town below. Before us was a parparet wall, low on
the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side,
forming part of a straggling irregular street that made
one of the boundaries dividing Abbey Hill from Low
Town. The lamps of the thoroughfares, in many a
line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured,
here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church

A STRANGE STORY. 291

towers. The hum of the city came to our ears, low
and mellowed into a lulling sound. It was not dis-
pleasing to be reminded that there was a world with-
out, as close and closer we drew each to each — worlds
to one another ! Suddenly, there carolled forth the
song of a human voice — a wild, irregular, half-savage
melody — foreign, uncomprehended words— air and
words not new to me. I recognised the voice and
chant of Margrave. I started, and uttered an angry
exclamation.

"Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame
shiver within my encircling arm. " Hush ! listen !
Yes ; I have heard that voice before — last night "

" Last night ! you were not here ; you were more
than a hundred miles away."

" I heard it in a dream ! Hush, hush ! "

The song rose louder; impossible to describe its
effect, in the midst of the tranquil night, chiming over
the serried roof-tops, and under the soKtary moon. It
was not like the artful song of man, for it was defec-
tive in the methodical harmony of tune ; it was not
like the song of the wild bird, for it had no monotony
in its sweetness : it was wandering and various as the
sounds from an ^olian harp. But it affected the
senses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in
vast solitudes I have since found the note of the mock-
ing-bird, suddenly heard, affect the listener half with
delight, half with awe, as if some demon creature of
the desert were mimicking man for its own merri-
ment. The chant had now changed into an air of defy-

292 A STRANGE STOEY.

ing glee, of menacing exultation ; it might have been
the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian
race. The note was sinister ; a shudder passed through
me, and Lilian had closed her eyes, and was sighing
heavily ; then with a rapid change, sweet as the coo
with which an Arab mother lulls her babe to sleep,
the melody died away. "There, there, look," mur-
mured Lilian, moving from me, "the same I saw last
night in sleep ; the same I saw in the space above, on
the evening I first knew you ! "

Her eyes were fixed — her hand raised ; my look
followed hers, and rested on the face and form of
Margrave. The moon shone full upon him, so full
as if concentrating all its light upon his image. The
place on which he stood (a balcony to the upper storey
of a house about fifty yards distant) was considerably
above the level of the terrace from which we gazed
on him. His arms were folded on his breast, and he
appeared to be looking straight towards us. Even at
that distance, the lustrous youth of his countenance
appeared to me terribly distinct, and the light of his
wondrous eye seemed to rest upon us in one length-
ened, steady ray through the limpid moonshine. In-
voluntarily I seized Lilian's hand, and drew her away
almost by force, for she was imwilling to move, and,
as I led her back, she turned her head to look round ;
I, too, turned in jealous rage ! I breathed more freely.
Margrave had disappeared !

" How came he there 1 It is not his hotel. "Whose
house is it ? " I said aloud, though speaking to myself

A STRANGE STORY. 293

Lilian remained silent ; lier eyes fixed upon the
ground as if in deep reverie. I took lier hand; it
did not return my pressure. I felt cut to the heart
when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so
frankly cordial. I stopped short : " Lilian, what is
this 1 you are chilled towards me. Can the mere sound
of that man's voice, the mere glimpse of that man's

face, have " I paused ; I did not dare to complete

my question.

LiHan lifted her eyes to mine, and I saw at once
in those eyes a change. Their look was cold ; not
haughty, but abstracted. " I do not understand you,"
she said, in a weary, listless accent. "It is growing
late ; I must go in."

So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm,
nor hand in hand. Then it occurred to me that, the
next day, Lilian would be in that narrow world of
society; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of
Margrave, to meet, to know him. Jealousy seized me
with all its imaginary terrors, and amidst that jealousy
a nobler, purer apprehension for herself. Had I been
Lilian's brother instead of her betrothed, I should not
have trembled less to foresee the shadow of Margrave's
mysterious influence passing over a mind so predis-
posed to the charm which Mystery itself has for those
whose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies ; — whose
world melts away into Dreamland. Therefore I spoke.

" Lilian, at the risk of offending you — alas ! I have
never done so before this night — I must address to
you a prayer which I implore you not to regard as the

294 A STRANGE STORY.

dictate of a suspicion unwortliy you and myself. Tlie
person whom you have just heard and seen is, at pre-
sent, much courted in the circles of this town. I
entreat you not to permit any one to introduce him
to you. I entreat you not to know him. I cannot
tell you all my reasons for this petition ; enough that
I pledge you my honour that those reasons are grave.
Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Be
assured that I stretch not the rights which your heart
has bestowed upon mine in the promise I ask, as I
shall be freed from all fear by a promise which I know
will be sacred when once it is given."

" What promise 1 " asked Lilian, absently, as if she
had not heard my words.

" What promise 1 Why, to refuse aU acquaintance
with that man ; his name is Margrave. Promise me,
dearest, promise me."

" Why is your voice so changed 1 " said Lilian.
" Its tone jars on my ear," she added, with a peevish-
ness so unlike her, that it startled me more than it
offended ; and, without a word further, she quickened
her pace, and entered the house.

For the rest of the evening we were both taciturn
and distant towards each other. In vain Mrs Ashleigh
kindly sought to break down our mutual reserve. I
felt that I had the right to be resentful, and I clung
to that right the more because Lilian made no attempt
at reconciliation. This, too, was wholly unlike herself,
for her temper was ordinarily sweet — sweet to the ex-
treme of meekness ; saddened if the slightest misun-

A STRANGE STORY. 295

derstanding between us had ever vexed me, and yearn-
ing to ask forgiveness if a look or a word had pained
me. I was in hopes that, before I went away, peace
between ns would be restored. But long ere her usual
hour for retiring to rest, 'she rose abruptly, and, com-
plaining of fatigue and headache, wished me good-
night, and avoided the hand I sorrowfully held out to
her as I opened the door.

" You must have been very unkind to poor Lilian,"
said Mrs Ashleigh, between jest and earnest, "for I
never saw her so cross to you before. And the first
day of her return, too ! "

"The fault is not mine," said I, somewhat sullenly;
"I did but ask Lilian, and that as a humble prayer,
not to make the acquaintance of a stranger in this
town against whom I have reasons for distrust and
aversion. I know not why that prayer should dis-
please her."

" Nor L Who is the stranger 1 "

" A person who calls himself Margrave. Let me at
least entreat you to avoid him ! "

" Oh, I have no desire to make acquaintance with
strangers. But, now Lilian is gone, do tell me all
about this dreadful murder. The servants are full of
it, and I cannot keep it long concealed from Lilian.
I was ia hopes that you would have broken it to her."

I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk thus of
an event the tragedy of which was associated in my
mind with circumstances so mysterious. I became
agitated and even angry when Mrs Ashleigh persisted

296 A STKANGE STORY.

in rambling woman-like inquiries — "Wlio was sus-
pected of the deed ? Who did I think had committed
it 1 What sort of a man was Sir Philip 1 What was
that strange story about a casket 1 " Breaking from
such interrogations, to which I could give but abrupt
and evasive answers, I seized my hat, and took my
departure.

CHAPTEE XXXVIII.

LETTER FROM ALLEN FENWICK TO LILIAN ASHLEIGH.

" I have promised to go to Derval Court to-day, and
shall not return till to-morrow. I cannot bear the
thought that so many hours should pass away with
one feehng less kind than usual resting like a cloud
upon you and me. Lilian, if I offended you, forgive
me ! Send me one line to say so ! — one line which I
can place next to my heart and cover with grateful
kisses tiU we meet again ! "

REPLY.

" I scarcely know what you mean, nor do I quite
understand my own state of mind at this moment.
It cannot be that I love you less — and yet — but I will
not write more now. I feel glad that we shall not
meet for the next day or so, and then I hope to be
quite recovered. I am not well at this moment. Do
not ask me to forgive you — but if it is I who am in.
feult — forgive me, oh, forgive me, Allen ! "

And with this unsatisfactory note — not worn next
to my heart, not covered with kisses, but thrust crum-

298 A STKAXGE STORY.

pled into my desk like a creditor's unwelcome Mil, I
flung myself on my horse and rode to Derval Court.
I am naturally proud ; my pride came now to my aid.
I felt bitterly indignant against Lilian, so indignant
that I resolved on my return to say to her, "If in
those words, ' And yet,' you implied a doubt whether
you loved me less, I cancel your vows, I give you
back your freedom." And I could have passed from
her threshold with a firm foot, though with the cer-
tainty that I should never smile again.

Does her note seem to you who may read these
pages to justify such resentment ? Perhaps not. But
there is an atmosphere in the letters of the one we
love which we alone — we who love — can feel, and in
the atmosphere of that letter I felt the chill of the
coming winter.

I reached the park lodge of Derval Court late in the
day. I had occasion to visit some patients whose
houses lay scattered many miles apart, and for that
reason, as well as from the desire for some quick bodily
exercise which is so natural an effect of irritable per-
turbation of mind, I had made the journey on horse-
back instead of using a carriage, that I could not have
got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone
the work set to myself could be accomplished in time.

Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought
seized hold of me with the strength which is ascribed
to presentiments. I had passed through my study
(which has been so elaborately described) to my stables,
as I generally did when I wanted my saddle-horse.

A STEAK CxE STORY. 299

and, in so doing, had, doubtless, left open the gate to
the iron palisade, and probably the window of the
study itself. I had been in this careless habit for
several years, without ever once having cause for seK-
reproach. As I before said, there was nothing in my
study to tempt a thief ; the study shut out from the
body of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall
both to close the window and lock the gate ; — yet now,
for the first time, I felt an impulse, urgent, keen, and
disquieting, to ride back to the town and see those
precautions taken. I could not guess why, but some-
thing whispered to me that my neglect had exposed
me to some great danger. I even checked my horse
and looked at my watch ; too late ! — already just on
the stroke of Strahan's dinner-hour as fixed in his
note ; my horse, too, was fatigued and spent : besides,
what folly ! what bearded man can believe in the
warnings of a " presentiment 1" I piished on, and
soon halted before the old-fashioned flight of stairs that
led up to the hall. Here I was accosted by the old
steward; he had just descended the stairs, and, as I
dismounted, he thrust his arm into mine unceremoni-
ously, and drew me a little aside.

" Doctor, I was right ; it ivas his ghost that I saw
by the iron door of the mausoleum. I saw it again
at the same place last night, but I had no fit then.
Justice on his murderer ! Blood for blood ! "

" Ay ! " said I, sternly ; for if I suspected Margrave
before, I felt convinced now that the inexpiable deed
was his. Wherefore convinced ? Simply because I

300 A STRANGE STOEY.

now hated him more, and hate is so easily convinced !
" Lilian ! Lilian ! " I murmured to myself that name ;
the flame of my hate was fed by my jealousy. " Ay ! "
said I, sternly, " murder will out."

"What are the police ahout?" said the old man,
querulously ; " days pass on days, and no nearer the
truth. But what does the new owner care ? He has
the rents and acres; what does he care for the dead?
I will never serve another master. I have just told
Mr Strahan so. How do I know whether he did not
do the deed ? "WHio else had an interest in it ? "

" Hush, hush ! " I cried ; " you do not know how
wildly you are talking."

The old man stared at me, shook his head, released
my arm, and strode away.

A labouring man came out of the garden, and hav-
ing unbuckled the saddle-bags, which contained the
few things required for so short a visit, I consigned
my horse to his care, and ascended the perron. The
old housekeeper met me in the hall, conducted me up
the great staircase, showed me into a bedroom prepared
for me, and told me that Mr Strahan was already
waiting dinner for me. I should find him in the study.
I hastened to join him. He began apologising, very
unnecessarily, for the state of his establishment. He
had, as yet, engaged no new servants. The house-
keeper, with the help of a housemaid, did all the work.

Eichard Strahan at college had been as little distin-
guishable from other young men as a youth neither
rich nor poor, neither clever nor stupid, neither hand-

A STEAXGE STOEY. 301

some nor ugly, neither audacious sinner nor formal
saint, possibly could be.

Yet, to those who understood him well, he was not
■without some of those moral qualities by which a
youth of mediocre intellect often matures into a supe-
rior man.

He was, as Sir Philip had been rightly informed,
thoroughly honest and upright. But with a strong
sense of duty, there was also a certain latent hardness.
He was not indulgent. He had outward frankness
with acquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion.
He had much of the thriftiness and seK-denial of the
North-countrjonan, and I have no doubt that he had
lived with calm content and systematic economy on an
income which made him, as a bachelor, independent of
his nominal profession, but would not have sufficed,
in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wife and
family. He was, therefore, stUl single.

It seemed to me, even during the few minutes in
which we conversed before dinner was announced, that
his character showed a new phase with his new fortunes.
He talked in a grandiose style of the duties of station
and the woes of wealth. He seemed to be very much
afraid of spending, and still more appalled at the idea of
being cheated. His temper, too, was ruffled ; the steward
had given him notice to quit. Mr Jeeves, who had
spent the morning with him, had said the steward
would be a great loss, and a steward, at once sharp
and honest, was not to be easily found.

What trifles can embitter the possession of great

302 A STRANGE STORY.

goods ! Strahan liad taken a fancy to the old house ;
it was conformable to his notions, both of comfort and
pomp, and Sir Philip had expressed a desire that the
old house should be pulled down. Strahan had in-
spected the plans for the new mansion to which Sir
Philip had referred, and the plans did not please him ;
on the contrary, they terrified.

" Jeeves says that I could not build such a house
under seventy or eighty thousand pounds, and then it
will require twice the establishment which will suffice
for this. I shall be ruined," cried the man who had
just come into possession of at least ten thousand
a-year.

" Sir Philip did not enjoin you to pull down the
old house ; he only advised you to do so. Perhaps
he thought the site less healthy than that which he
proposes for a new building, or was aware of some
other drawback to the house, which you may discover
later. Wait a little and see before deciding."

" But at all events, I suppose I must p\ill do"\vn
this curious old room — the nicest part of the whole
house ! "

Strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the
quaint oak chimney-piece ; the carved ceiling ; the
well-built solid walls, with the large mullion casement,
opening so pleasantly on the sequestered gardens.
He had ensconced himself in Sir Philip's study, the
chamber in which the once famous mystic, Forman,
had found a refuge.

" So cozy a room for a single man !" sighed Strahan.

A STRANGE STORY. 303

" !N'ear the stables and dog-kennels, too ! But I sup-
pose I must pull it down. I am not bound to do so
legally; it is no condition of the will. But in honour
and gratitude I ought not to disobey poor Sir Phihp's
positive injunction."

*' Of that," said I, gravely, " there cannot be a doubt."

Here our conversation was interrupted by Mrs Gates,
who informed us that dinner was served in the library.
Wine of great age was brought from the long-neglected
cellars ; Strahan filled and refilled his glass, and, warmed
into hilarity, began to talk of bringing old college
friends around him in the winter season, and making
the roof-tree ring with laughter and song once more.

Time wore away, and night had long set in, when
Strahan at last rose from the table, his speech thick
and his tongue unsteady. We returned to the study,
and I reminded my host of the special object of my
visit to him — viz., the inspection of Sir Philip's manur.
script.

" It is tough reading," said Strahan ; " better put
it off till to-morrow. You will stay here two or three
days."

" jS'o ; I must return to L to-morrow. I can-
not absent myself from my patients. And it is the
more desirable that no time should be lost before ex-
amining the contents of the manuscript, because pro-
bably they may give some clue to the detection of the
murderer."

" Why do you think that?" cried Strahan, startled
from the drowsiness that was creeping over him.

304 A STEANGE STOEY.

" Because the manuscript may show that Sir Philip
had some enemy — and who but an enemy could have
had a motive for such a crime 1 Come, bring forth the
book. You of all men are bound to be alert in every
research that may guide the retribution of justice to
the assassin of your benefactor."

" Yes, yes. I will offer a reward of five thousand
pounds for the discovery. Allen, that wretched old
steward had the insolence to tell me that I was the
only man in the world who could have an interest in
the death of his master ; and he looked at me as if he
thought that I had committed the crime. You are
right ; it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. The
assassin must be found. He must hang."

While thus speaking, Strahan had risen, unlocked
a desk which stood on one of the safes, and drawn
forth a thick volume, the contents of which were pro-
tected by a clasp and lock. Strahan proceeded to
open this lock by one of a bunch of keys, which he
said had been found on Sir Philip's person.

" There, Allen, this is the memoir. I need not tell
you what store I place on it ; not, between you and
me, that I expect it will warrant poor Sir Philip's high
opinion of his own scientific discoveries. That part of
his letter seems to me very queer, and very flighty.
But he e\adently set his heart on the publication of
his work, in part if not in whole. And, naturally, I
must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly inti-
mated by one to whom I owe so much. I beg you,
therefore, not to be too fastidious. Some valuable

A STRANGE STORY. 305

hints in medicine, I have reason to believe, the manu-
script Avill contain, and those may help you in your
profession, Allen."

" You have reason to helieve ! Why ? "

" Oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of

the other gentry resident at L , called on me at

my hotel, told me that he had travelled in the East,
and had there heard much of Sir Philip's knowledge
of chemistry, and the cures it had enabled him to per-
form."

" You speak of INIr Margrave. He called on you 1 "

" Yes."

" You did not, I trust, mention to him the existence
of Sir Philip's manuscript? "

" Indeed I did; and I said you had promised to ex-
amine it. He seemed delighted at that, and spoke
most highly of your peculiar fitness for the task."

" Give me the manuscript," said I, abruptly, " and,
after I have looked at it to-night, I may have some-
thing to say to you to-morrow in reference to Mr
Margrave."

" There is the book," said Strahan ; " I have just
glanced at it, and find much of it written in Latin ;
and I am ashamed to say that I have so neglected the
little Latin I learned in our college days, that I could
not construe what I looked at."

I sat doAvn and placed the book before me ; Strahan
fell into a doze, from which he was Avakened by the
housekeeper, who brought in the tea-things.

""Well," said Strahan, languidly, " do you find much
VOL. I. u

306 A STRANGE STORY.

in the book that explains the many puzzling riddles in
poor Sir Philip's eccentric life and pursuits 1 "

" Yes/' said I. " Do not interrupt me."

Strahan again began to doze, and the housekeeper
asked if we should want anything more that night, and
if I thought I could find my way to my bedroom.

I dismissed her impatiently, and continued to read.

Strahan woke up again as the clock struck eleven,
and fijiding me still absorbed in the manuscript, and
disinclined to converse, lighted his candle, and telling
me to replace the manuscript in the desk when I had
done with it, and be sure to lock the desk and take
charge of the key, which he took off the bunch and
gave me, went up-stairs, yawning.

I was alone in the wizard Forman's chamber, and
bending over a stranger record than had ever excited
my infant wonder, or, in later years, provoked my
sceptic smile.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The Manuscript was written in a small and peculiar
handwriting, which, though evidently by the same
person whose letter to Strahan I had read, was,
whether from haste or some imperfection in the ink,
much more hard to decipher. Those parts of the Me-
moir which related to experiments, or alleged secrets
in jSTature, that the writer intimated a desire to submit
exclusively to scholars or men of science, were in Latin
— and Latin which, though grammatically correct, was
frequently obscure. But all that detained the eye and
attention on the page, necessarily served to impress the
contents more deeply on remembrance.

The narrative commenced with the writer's sketch
of his childhood. Both his parents had died before he
attained his seventh year. The orphan had been sent
by his guardians to a private school, and his holidays
had been passed at Derval Court. Here, his earliest
reminiscences were those of the quaint old room, in
which I now sat, and of his childish wonder at the
inscription on the chimney-piece — who and what was
the Simon Forman who had there found a refuge from
persecution 1 Of what nature were the studies he had

308 A STRANGE STORY.

cultivated, and the discoveries he boasted to have
made 1

"When he was ahout sixteen, Phihp Derval had
begun to read the many mystic books which the library
contained ; but without other result on his mind than
the sentiment of disappointment and disgust. The
impressions produced on the credulous imagination of
childhood vanished. He went to the university ; was
sent abroad to travel : and on his return took that
place in the circles of London which is so readily con-
ceded to a young idler of birth and fortune. He
passed quickly over that period . of his life, as one of
extravagance and dissipation, from which he was first
drawn by the attachment for his cousin to which his
letter to Strahan referred. Disappointed in the hopes
which that affection had conceived, and his fortune
impaired, partly by some years of reckless profusion,
and partly by the pecuniary sacrifices at which he had
effected his cousin's marriage with another, he retired
to Derval Court, to live there in solitude and seclusion.
On searching for some old title-deeds required for a
mortgage, he chanced upon a collection of manuscripts
much discoloured, and, in part, eaten away by moth
or damp. These, on examination, proved to be the
writings of Forman. Some of them were astrological
observations and predictions ; some were upon the
nature of the Cabbala ; some upon the invocation of
spirits and the magic of the dark ages. All had a cer-
tain interest, for they were interspersed with personal
remarks, anecdotes of eminent actors in a very stirring

A STKANGE STORY. 309

time, and were composed as Colloquies, in imitation of
Erasmus ; the second person in the dialogue heing Sir
Miles Derval, the patron and pupil ; the first person
being Forman, the philosopher and expounder.

But along with these shadowy lucubrations were
treatises of a more uncommon and a more startling
character ; discussions on various occult laws of na-
ture, and detailed accounts of analytical experiments.
These opened a new, and what seemed to Sir Philip a
practical field of inquiry — a true border-land between
natural science and imaginative speculation. Sir
Philip had cultivated philosophical science at the uni-
versity ; he resumed the study, and tested himself the
truth of various experiments suggested by Forman.
Some, to his surprise, proved successful — some wholly
failed. These lucubrations first tempted the writer of
the memoir towards the studies in which the remain-
der of his life had been consumed. But he spoke of
the lucubrations themselves as valuable only where sug-
gestive of some truths which Forman had accidentally
approached, without being aware of their true nature
and importance. They were debased by absurd puer-
ilities, and vitiated by the vain and presumptuous
ignorance which characterised the astrology of the
middle ages. For these reasons the writer intimated
his intention (if he lived to return to England) to
destroy Forman's manuscripts, together with sundry
other books, and a few commentaries of his own upon
studies which had for a while misled him — all now
deposited in the safes of the room in which I sat.

310 A STRANGE STORY.

After some years passed in the retirement of Derval
Court, Sir Philip was seized with the desire to travel,
and the taste he had imbibed for occult studies led
him towards those Eastern lands in which they took
their origin, and still retain their professors.

Several pages of the manuscript were now occupied
with minute statements of the writer's earlier disap-
pointment in the objects of his singular research. The
so-called magicians, accessible to the curiosity of Euro-
pean travellers, were either but ingenious jugglers, or
produced effects that perplexed him by practices they
had mechanically learned, but of the rationale of which
they were as ignorant as himself. It was not till he
had resided some considerable time in the East, and
acquired a familiar knowledge of its current languages
and the social habits of its various populations, that
he became acquainted with men in whom he recognised
earnest cultivators of the lore which tradition ascribes
to the colleges and priesthoods of the ancient world ;
men generally living remote from others, and seldom
to be bribed by money to exhibit their marvels or
divulge their secrets. In his intercourse with these
sages. Sir Philip arrived at the conviction that there
does exist an art of magic, distinct from the guile of
the conjuror, and applying to certain latent powers
and affinities in nature a philosophy akin to that which
"we receive in our acknowledged schools, inasmuch as
it is equally based upon experiment, and produces
from definite causes definite results. In support of
this startling proposition, Sir Philip now devoted

A STEANGE STORY. 311

more than half his volume to the detail of various
experiments, to the process and result of which he
pledged his guarantee as the actual operator. As
most of these alleged experiments appeared to me
wholly incredible, and as all of them were unfamiliar
to my practical experience, and could only be verified
or falsified by tests that would require no inconsider-
able amount of time and care, I passed, with little heed,
over the pages in which they were set forth. I was
impatient to arrive at that part of the manuscript
which might throw light on the mystery in which my
interest was the keenest. "What were the links which
connected the existence of Margrave with the history
of Sir Philip Derval 1 Thus hurrying on, page after
page, I suddenly, towards the end of the volume, came
upon a name that arrested all my attention — Haroun
of Aleppo. He who has read the words addressed to
me in my trance may well conceive the thrill that shot
through my heart when I came upon that name, and
will readily understand how much more vividly my
memory retains that part of the manuscript to which
I now proceed, than all which had gone before.

"It was," wrote Sir Philip, "in an obscure suburb
of Aleppo that I at length met with the wonderful
man from whom I have acquired a knowledge immea-
surably more profound and occult than that which may
be tested in the experiments to which I have devoted
so large a share of this memoir. Haroun of Aleppo
had, indeed, mastered every secret in nature which the
nobler, or theurgic, magic seeks to fathom.

312 A STRANGE STOKY.

" He had discovered the great Principle of Animal
Life, which had hitherto baffled the subtlest anatom-
ist : — provided only that the great organs were not
irrej)arably destroyed, there was no disease that he
could not cure ; no decrepitude to which he could not
restore vigour ; yet his science was based on the same
theory as that espousedby the best professional prac-
titioners of medicine-^viz., that the true art of healing
is to assist nature to throw off the disease — to summon,
as it were, the whole system to eject the enemy that
has fastened on a part. And thus his processes,
though occasionally varying in the means employed,
all combined in this — viz., the reinvigorating and
recruiting of the principle of life."

No one knew the birth or origin of Haroun ; no one
knew his age. In outward appearance he was in the
strength and prime of mature manhood. But, accord-
ing to testimonies in which the writer of the memoir
expressed a belief that, I need scarcely saj^, appeared
to me egregiously credulous, Haroun's existence under
the same name, and known by the same repute, could
be traced back to more than a hundred years. He
told Sir Philip that he had thrice renewed his own
life, and had resolved to do so no more — he had grown
weary of living on. "With all his gifts, Haroun owned
himself to be consumed by a profound melancholy.
He complained that there was nothing new to him
under the sun ; he said that, while he had at his com-
mand unlimited wealth, wealth had ceased to bestow
enjoyment ; and he preferred Hving as simply as a

A STEANGE STORY. 313

peasant : he had tired out all the affections and all the
passions of the human heart ; he was in the universe
as in a solitude. In a word, Haroun would often
repeat, with mournful solemnity, " The soul is not
meant to inhabit this earth, and in fleshy tabernacle,
for more than the period usually assigned to mor-
tals ; and when, by art in repairing the walls of the
body, we so retain it, the soul repines, becomes inert or
dejected." "He only," said Haroun, "would feel con-
tinued joy in continued existence who could preserve in
perfection the sensual part of man, with such mind or
reason as may be independent of the spiritual essence ;
but whom soul itself has quitted ! Man, in short, as the
grandest of the animals, but without the sublime discon-
tent of earth, wluch is the peculiar attribute of soul."

One evening Sir Philip was surprised to find at
Haroun's house another European. He paused in his
narrative to describe this man. He said that for three
or four years previously he had heard frequent men-
tion amongst the cultivators of magic of an orientalised
EngHshman engaged in researches similar to his own,
and to whom was ascribed a terrible knowledge in
those branches of the art which, even in the East, are
condemned as instrumental to evil. Sir Philip here
distinguished at length, as he had so briefly distin-
guished in his conversation with me, between the two
kinds of magic — that which he alleged to be as pure
from sin as any other species of experimental know-
ledge, and that by which the agencies of witchcraft are
invoked for the purposes of guilt.

314 A STRANGE STOEY.

The Englishman, to whom the culture of this latter
and darker kind of magic was ascribed, Sir Philip
Derval had never hitherto come across. He now met
him at the house of Haroun ; decrepit, emaciated,
bowed down with infirmities, and racked with pain.
Though little more than sixty, his aspect Avas that of
extreme old age, but still on his face there were seen
the ruins of a once singular beauty ; and still in his
mind there was a force that contrasted the decay of
the body. Sir Philip had never met with an intellect
more powerful and more corrupt. The son of a notori-
ous usurer, heir to immense wealth, and endowed with
the talents which justify ambition, he had entered
upon life burdened with the odium of his father's
name. A duel, to which he had been provoked by an
ungenerous taunt on his origin, but in which a tem-
perament fiercely vindictive had led him to violate the
usages prescribed by the social laws that regulate such
encounters, had subjected him to a trial in which he
escaped conviction, either by a flaw in the technicali-
ties of legal procedure, or by the compassion of the
jury ; * but the moral presumptions against him were

* The reader will here observe a discrepancy between Mrs Poyntz's
account and Sir Philip Derval's narrative. According to the former,
Louis Grayle was tried in his absence from England, and sentenced
to three years' imprisonment, which his flight enabled him to evade.
According to the latter, Louis Grayle stood his trial, and obtained
an acquittal. Sir Philip's accoimt must, at least, be nearer the
truth than the lady's, because Louis Grayle could not, accorrling to
English law, have been tried on a capital charge without being pre-
sent in court. Mrs Poyntz tells her story as a woman generally
does tell a story — sure to make a mistake where she touches on a

A STKANGE STORY. 315

sufficiently strong to set an indelible brand on his hon-
our, and an insurmountable barrier to the hopes which
his early ambition had conceived. After this trial he
had quitted his country to return to it no more.
Thenceforth, mu chof his life had been passed out of
sight or conjecture of civilised men in remote regions

question of law ; and — unconsciously, perhaps, to herself — the
Woman of the World warps the facts in her narrative so as to save
the personal dignity of the hero, who has captivated her interest,
not from the moral odium of a great crime, but the debasing posi-
tion of a 23risoner at the bar. Allen Fenwick, no doubt, purposely
omits to notice the discrepancy between these two statements, or to
animadvert on the mistake which, in the eyes of a lawyer, would
discredit Mrs Poyntz's. It is consistent with some of the objects
for which Allen Fenwick makes public his Strange Story, to invite
the reader to draw his ovni inferences from the contradictions by
which, even in the most commonplace matters (and how much more
in any tale of wonder !), a fact stated by one person is made to dif-
fer from the same fact stated by another. The rapidity with which
a truth becomes transformed into fable, when it is once sent on its
travels from lip to lip, is illustrated by an amusement at this
moment in fashion. The amusement is this : In a party of eight or
ten persons, let one whisf)er to another an account of some supposed
transaction, or a piece of invented gossip relating to absent persons,
dead or alive ; let the person who thus first hears the story proceed
to whisper it, as exactly as he can remember what he has just heard,
to the next ; the next does the same to his neighbour, and so on,
till the tale has run the round of the party. Each narrator, as soon
as he has whispered his version of the tale, writes down what he
has whispered. And though, in this game, no one has had any in-
terest to misrepresent, but, on the contrary, each, for his own
credit's sake, strives to repeat what he has heard as faitlifully as he
can, it will be almost invariably found that the story told by the
first person has received the most material alterations before it has
reached the eighth or the tenth. Sometimes the most important
feature of the whole narrative is altogether omitted ; sometimes a
feature altogether new and preposterously absurd has been added.
At the close of the experiment one is tempted to exclaim, "How,
after this, can any of those portions of history which the chronicler

316 A STKANGE STOKY,

and amongst barbarous tribes. At intervals, however,
lie bad reappeared in European capitals ; shunned
by and shunning his equals, surrounded by parasites,
amongst whom were always to be found men of con-
siderable learning, whom avarice or poverty subjected
to the influences of his wealth. For the last nine or
ten years he had settled in Persia, purchased extensive
lands, maintained the retinue, and exercised more than
the power, of an Oriental prince. Such Avas the man
who, prematurely worn out, and assured by physicians
that he had not six weeks of life, had come to Aleppo
with the gaudy escort of an Eastern satrap — had
caused himself to be borne in his litter to the mud-hut
of Haroun the Sage, and now called on the magician,
in whose art was his last hope, to reprieve him from
the — grave.

He turned round to Sir Philip when the latter en-
tered the room, and exclaimed in English, " I am here
because you are. Yoiu' intimacy with this man was
known to me. I took your character as the guarantee
of his own. Tell me that I am no credulous dupe.
Tell him that I, Louis Grayle, am no needy petitioner.
Tell me of his wisdom ; assure him of my wealth."

Sir PhiHp looked inquiringly at Haroun, who re-
mained seated on his carpet hi profound silence.

took from hearsay be believed ? " But, above all, does not every
anecdote of scandal wliicli has passed, not through ten lips, but
perhaps through ten thousand, before it has reached us, become
quite as perplexing to him who would get at the truth, as the mar-
vels he recounts are to the bewildered reason of Fenwick the
Sceptic ?

A STEAXGE STOEY. 317

" What is it you ask of Haroun ? "

"To live on — to live on. For every year of life he
can give me, I -will load these floors with gold."

" Gold wUl not tempt Haroun."

"What Willi"

"Ask him yourself; you speak his language."

" I have asked him ; he vouchsafes me no answer."'

Haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a
reverie. He drew from under his robe a small phial,
from which he let fall a single drop into a cup of
water, and said, "Drink this. Send to me to-morrow
for such medicaments as I may prescribe. Eeturn
hither yourself in three days — not before !"

When Grayle was gone. Sir Philip, moved to pity,
asked Haroun if, indeed, it were within the compass of
his art to preserve life in a frame that appeared so
thoroughly exhausted. Haroun answered, "A fever
may so waste the lamp of life that one ruder gust of
air could extinguish the flame, yet the sick man re-
covers. This sick man's existence has been one long
fever ; this sick man can recover."

" You ^nll aid him to do so ? "

" Three days hence I will tell you."

On the third day Grayle revisited Haroun, and, at
Haroun's request. Sir Philip came also. Grayle de-
clared that he had already derived unspeakable relief
from the remedies administered; he Avas lavish in ex-
pressions of gratitude ; pressed large gifts on Haroun,
and seemed pained when they were refused. This
time Haroun conversed freely, drawing forth Grayle's

318 A STEANGE STORY.

own irregular, perverted, stormy, but powerful in-
tellect.

I can Lest convey the general nature of Grayle's share
in the dialogue between himself, Haroun, and Derval
— recorded in the narrative in words which I cannot
trust my memory to repeat in detail — by stating the
effect it produced on my own mind. It seemed, while
I read, as if there passed before me some convulsion of
Nature — a storm, an earthquake. Outcries of rage, of
scorn, of despair ; a despot's vehemence of will ; a
rebel's scoff at authority. Yet, ever and anon, some
swell of lofty thoiight, some burst of passionate genius
— abrupt variations from the vaunt of superb defiance
to the wail of intense remorse.

The whole had in it, I know not what, of un-
couth but colossal — like the chant, in the old lyrical
tragedy, of one of those mythical giants, who, proud of
descent from Night and Chaos, had held sway over the
elements, while still crude and conflicting, to be crushed
under the rocks, upheaved in their struggle, as Order
and Harmony subjected a brightening Creation to the
milder influences throned in Olympus. But it was
not till the later passages of the dialogue in which
my interest was now absorbed, that the language as-
cribed to this sinister personage lost a gloomy pathos
not the less impressive for the awe with which it was
mingled. For, till then, it seemed to me as if in that
tempestuous nature there Avere still broken glimpses of
starry light ; that a character originally lofty, if irre-
gular and fierce, had been embittered by early and

A STRAKGE STORY. 319

continuous war with the social world, and had, in that
war, become maimed and distorted ; that, under happier
circumstances, its fiery strength might have been dis-
ciplined to good ; that, even now, where remorse was
so evidently poignant, evil could not be irredeemably
confirmed.

At length all the dreary compassion previously in-
spired vanished in one unqualified abhorrence.

The subjects discussed changed from those which,
relating to the common world of men, were within the
scope of my reason. Haroun led his wild guest to
boast of his own proficiency in magic, and, despite my
incredulity, I could not overcome the shudder with
which fictions, however extravagant, that deal with
that dark Unknown abandoned to the chimeras of
poets, will, at night and in solitude, send through
the veins of men the least accessible to imaginary
terrors.

Grayle spoke of the power he had exercised through
the agency of evil spirits — a power to fascinate and to
destroy. He spoke of the aid revealed to him, now
too late, which such direful aUies could afford, not only
to a private revenge, but to a kingly ambition. Had
he acquired the knowledge he declared himself to
possess, before the feebleness of the decaying body
made it valueless, how he could have triumphed over
that world, which had expelled his youth from its
pale ! He spoke of means by which his influence
could work undetected on the minds of others, control
agencies that could never betray, and baffle the justice

320 A STKANGE STORY.

that could never discover. He spoke vaguely of a
power by which a spectral reflection of the material
body could be cast like a shadow, to a distance ; glide
through the walls of a prison, elude the sentinels of a
camp, — a power that he asserted to be — when enforced
by concentrated will, and acting on the mind, where,
in each individual, temptation found mind the weakest
— almost infallible in its effect to seduce or to appal.
And he closed these and similar boasts of demoniacal
arts, which I remember too obscurely to repeat, with a
tumultuous imprecation on their nothingness to avail
against the gripe of death. All this lore he would
communicate to Haroun, in return for what ? A boon
shared by the meanest peasant — life, common life ; to
breathe yet a while the air, feel yet a while the sun.

Then Haroun rej)lied. He said, with a quiet dis-
dain, that the dark art to which Grayle made such
boastful pretence, was the meanest of all abuses of
knowledge, rightly abandoned, in all ages, to the vilest
natures. And then, suddenly changing his tone, he
spoke, so far as I can remember the words assigned to
him in the manuscript, to this effect : —

" Fallen and unhappy wretch, and you ask me for
prolonged life ! — a prolonged curse to the world and
to yourself. Shall I employ spells to lengthen the
term of the Pestilence, or profane the secrets of Nature
to restore vigour and youth to the failing energies of
Crime 1 "

Grayle, as if stunned by the rebuke, fell on his
knees with despairing entreaties that strangely con-

A STRANGE STORY. 321

trasted his previous arrogance. "And it was," he
said, "because his life had been evil that he dreaded
death. If life could be renewed he would repent, he
would change ; he retracted his vaunts, he would for-
sake the arts he had boasted, he would re-enter the
world as its benefactor."

" So ever the wicked man lies to himself when
appalled by the shadow of death," answered Haroun.
" But laiow, by the remorse which preys on thy soul,
that it is not thy soid that addresses this prayer to me.
Couldst thou hear, through the storms of the Mind,
the Soul's melancholy whisper, it would dissuade thee
from a wish to live on. While I speak, I behold it,
that SOUL ! Sad for the stains on its essence, awed by
the account it must render, but dreading, as the direst
calamity, a renewal of years below, — darker stains and
yet heavier accounts ! Whatever the sentence it may
now undergo, it has a hope for mercy in the remorse
which the mind vainly struggles to quell. But darker
its doom if longer retained to earth, yoked to the
mind that corrupts it, and enslaved to the senses
which thou bidst me restore to their tyrannous
forces."

And Grayle bowed his head and covered his face
with his hands in silence and in trembling.

Then Sir Philip, seized with compassion, pleaded
for him. "At least, could not the soul have longer
time on earth for repentance 1 " And while Sir Philip
was so pleading, Grayle fell prostrate in a swoon like
that of death. When he recovered, his head was

VOL. L X

322 A STRANGE STORY,

leaning on Haroun's knee, and his opening eyes fixed
on the ghttering phial which Haroun held, and from
•which his lips had heen moistened.

" Wondrous !" he murmured ; " how I feel life flow-
ing back to me. And that, then, is the elixir ! it is no
fahle ! "

His hands stretched greedily as to seize the phial,
and he cried imploringly, " More, more ! " Haroun
replaced the vessel in the folds of his rohe, and an-
swered—

" I will not renew thy youth, but I will release thee
from bodily suffering : I will leave the mind and the
soul free from the pangs of the flesh, to reconcile, if
yet possible, their long war. My skill may afford
thee months yet for repentance ; seek, in that interval,
to atone for the evil of sixty years ; apply thy wealth
where it may most compensate for injury done, most
relieve the indigent, and most aid the virtuous. Lis-
ten to thy remorse. Humble thyself in prayer."

Grayle departed, sighing heavily, and muttering to
himself.

The next day Haroun summoned Sir Philip Derval
and said to him —

" Depart to Damascus. In that city the Pestilence
has appeared. Go thither thou, to heal and to save.
In this casket are stored the surest antidotes to the
poison of the plague. Of that essence, undiluted and
pure, which tempts to the undue prolongation of soul
in the prison of flesh, this casket contains not a drop.
I curse not my friend with so mournful a boon. Thou

A STEANGE STORY. 323-

hast learned enough of my art to know by what simples
the health of the temperate is easily restored to its
balance, and their path to the grave smoothed from
pain. JSTot more should Man covet from ISTature for
the solace and weal of the body. Nobler gifts far than
aught for the body this casket contains. Herein are
the essences which quicken the life of those duphcate
senses that lie dormant and coiled in their chrysalis
web, awaiting the wings of a future development — the
senses by wliich we can see, though not with the eye,
and hear, but not by the ear. Herein are the'hnks
between Man's mind and I'Tature's ; herein are secrets
more precious even than these — those extracts of Hght
which enable the Soul to distinguish itself from the
Mind, and discriminate the spiritual life, not more
from life carnal than life intellectual. Where thou seest
some noble intellect, studious of Nature, intent upon
Truth, yet ignoring the fact that all animal life has a
mind, and Man alone on the earth ever asked, and has
asked, from the hour his step trod the Earth and his
eye sought the Heaven, 'Have I not a soul — can it
perish 1 ' — there, such aids to the soul, in the inner-
most vision vouchsafed to the mind, thou mayst law-
fully use. But the treasures contained in this casket
are like all which a mortal can win from the mines he
explores — good or ill in their uses as they pass to the
hands of the good or the evil. Thou wilt never con-
fide them but to those who will not abuse ; and even
then, thou art an adej^t too versed in the mysteries of
Nature not to discriminate between the powers that

324 A STRANGE STOKY.

may serve the good to good ends, and the powers that
may tempt the good — where less wise than experience
has made thee and me — to the ends that are evil ; and
not even to thy friend, the most virtiious — if less proof
against passion than thou and I have become — vtdlt
thou confide such contents of the casket as may work
on the fancy, to deafen the conscience, and imperil
the soul."

Sir Philip took the casket, and with it directions for
use, which he did not detail. He then spoke to Har-
oun about Louis Grayle, who had insf)ired him with a
mingled sentiment of admiration and abhorrence, of
pity and terror. And Haroun answered thus ; repeat-
ing the words ascribed to him, so' far as I can trust, in.
regard to them — as to all else in this marvellous narra-
tive— to a memory habitually tenacious even in ordin-
ary matters, and strained to the utmost extent of its
power by the strangeness of the ideas presented to it,
and the intensity of my personal interest in whatever ad-
mitted a ray into that cloud which, gathering fast over
my reason, now threatened storm to my affections —

" When the mortal deliberately allies himself to the
spirits of evil, he surrenders the citadel of his being to
the guard of its enemies ; and those who look from
without can only dimly guess what passes within the
precincts abandoned to Powers whose very nature we
shrink to contemplate, lest our mere gaze should invite
them. This man, whom thou pitiest, is not yet ever-
lastingly consigned to the fiends ; because his soul still
struggles against them. His Hfe has been one long

A STKANGE STOKY. 325

war between Hs intellect which is mighty, and his spirit
which is feehle. The intellect, armed and winged by
the passions, has besieged and oppressed the soul ;
but the soul has never ceased to repine and to repent.
And at moments it has gained its inherent ascendancy,
persuaded revenge to drop the prey it had seized, turn-
ed the mind astray from hatred and wrath into un-
wonted paths of charity and love. In the long desert
of guilt, there have been green spots and fountains of
good. The fiends have occupied the intellect Avhich
invoked them, but they have never yet thoroughly
mastered the soul which their presence appals. In the
struggle that noAV passes within that breast, amidst the
flickers of waning mortality, only Allah, whose eye
never slumbers, can aid."

Haroun then continued, in words yet more strange
and yet more deeply graved in my memory —

"There have been men (thou mayst have kno^vn
such) who, after an iUness in which life itself seemed
suspended, have arisen, as out of a sleep, with charac-
ters wholly changed. Before, perhaps gentle and good
and truthful, they now become bitter, malignant, and
false. To the persons and the things they had before
loved, they evince repugnance and loathing. Some-
times this change is so marked and irrational, that
their kindred ascribe it to madness. Not the madness
which affects them in the ordinary business of life,
but that which turns into harshness and discord the
moral harmony that results from natures whole and
complete. But there are dervishes who hold that in

326 A STRAXGE STORY.

that illness, whicli had for its time the likeness of
death, the soul itself has passed away, and an evil
genius has fixed itself into the body and the brain,
thus left void of their former tenant, and animates
them in the unaccountable change from the past to
the present existence. Such mysteries have formed
no part of my study, and I tell you the conjecture
received in the East without hazarding a comment
whether of incredulity or belief. But if, in this war
between the mind which the fiends have seized, and
the soul which implores refuge of Allah ; if — while the
mind of yon traveller now covets life lengthened on
earth for the enjoyments it had perverted its faculties
to seek and to find in sin, and covets so eagerly that
it would shrink from no crime, and revolt from no
fiend, that could promise the gift — the soul shudder-
ingly implores to be saved from new guilt, and would
rather abide by the judgment of Allah on the sins
that have darkened it, than pass for ever irredeemably
away to the demons : if this be so, what if the soul's
petition be heard — what if it rise from the ruins
around it — what if *the ruins be left to the witchcraft
that seeks to rebuild them ? There, if demons might
enter, that which they sought as their prize has escaped
them ; that which they find would mock them by its
own incompleteness even in evil. In vain might
animal life the most perfect be given to the machine
of the flesh ; in vain might the mind, freed from the
check of the soul, be left to roam at will through a
brain stored with memories of knowledge and skdled

A STRANGE STORY. 327

in the command of its faculties ; in vain, in addition
to all that body and brain bestow on the normal con-
dition of man, might unhallowed reminiscences gather
all the arts and the charms of the sorcery by which
the fiends tempted the soul, before it fled, through the
passions of flesh and the cravings of mind : the Thing,
thus devoid of a soul, would be an instrument of evil,
doubtless ; but an instrument that of itself could not
design, invent, and complete. The demons themselves
could have no permanent hold on the perishable ma-
terials. They might enter it for some gloomy end
which AUah permits in his inscrutable wisdom; but
they could leave it no trace when they pass from it,
because there is no conscience where soul is wanting.
The human animal without soul, but otherwise made
felicitously perfect in its mere vital organisation, might
ravage and destroy, as the tiger and the serpent may
destroy and ravage, and, the moment after, would
sport in the sunlight harmless and rejoicing, because,
like the serpent and the tiger, it is incapable of re-
morse."

" Why startle my wonder," said Derval, " with so
fantastic an image 1 "

"Because, possibl}', the image may come into pal-
pable form ! I know, while I speak to thee, that this
miserable man is calling to his aid the evil sorcery
over which he boasts his control. To gain the end
he desires, he must pass through a crime. Sorcery
whispers to him how to pass through it, secure from
the detection of man. The soul resists, but, in resist-

328 A STEAilGE STOEY.

ing, is weak against the tyranny of the mind, to which
it has submitted so long. Question me no more. But
if I vanish from thine eyes — if thou hear that the death
which, to my sorrow and in my foolishness, I have
failed to recognise as the merciful minister of Heaven,
has removed me at last from the earth — believe that
the Pale Visitant. was welcome, and that I humbly
accept as a blessed release the lot of our common
humanity."

Sir Philip went to Damascus. There, he found the
pestilence raging — there, he devoted himself to the
cure of the afflicted ; in no single instance, so at least
he declared, did the antidotes stored in the casket
fail in their effect. The pestilence had passed ; his
medicaments were exhausted ; when the news reached
him that Haroun was no more. The Sage had been
found, one morning, lifeless in his solitary home, and,
according to popular rumour, marks on his throat
betrayed the murderous hand of the strangler. Sim-
ultaneously, Louis Grayle had disappeared from the
city, and was supposed to have shared the fate of
Haroun, and been secretly buried by the assassins
who had deprived him of life. Sir Philip hastened to
Aleppo. There, he ascertained that on the night in
which Haroun died, Grayle did not disappear alone ;
with him were also missing two of his numerous suite
■ — the one an Arab woman, named Ayesha, who had for
some years been his constant companion, his pupil and
associate in the mystic practices to which his intellect
had been debased, and who was said to have acquired

A STEAIs^GE STORY. 329

a singular influence over him, partly by her beauty,
and partly by the tenderness with which she had
nursed him through his long decline ; the other, an
Indian, specially assigned to her service, of whom all
the wild retainers of Grayle spoke with detestation
and terror. He was believed by them to belong to
that murderous sect of fanatics whose existence as a
community has only recently been made known to
Europe, and who strangle their unsuspecting victim
in the firm belief that they thereby propitiate the
favour of the goddess they serve. The current opinion
at Aleppo was, that if those two persons had conspired
to murder Haroun, perhaps for the sake of the treasures
he was said to possess, it was still more certain that
they had made away with their own English lord,
whether for the sake of the jewels he wore about him,
or for the sake of treasures less doubtful than those
imputed to Haroun — and of wliich the hiding-place
would to them be much better known. "I did not
share that opinion," wrote the narrator ; " for I assured
myself that Ayesha sincerely loved her awful master ;
and that love need excite no wonder, for Louis Grayle
was one whom, if a woman, and especially a woman of
the East, had once loved, before old age and infirmity
fell on him, she would love and cherish still more
devotedly when it became her task to protect the
being who, in his day of power and command, had
exalted his slave into the rank of his pupil and com-
panion. And the Indian whom Grayle had assigned
to her service, was allowed to have that brute kind of

330 A STRANGE STORY.

fidelity which, though it recoils from no crime for a
master, refuses all crime against him.

"I came to the conclusion that Haroun had been
murdered by order of Louis Grayle, for the sake of
the elixir of life — murdered by Juma the Strangler ;
and that Grayle himself had been aided in his flight
from Aleppo, and tended, through the effects of the
life-giving drug thus murderously obtained, by the
womanly love of the Arab woman, Ayesha. These
convictions (since I could not — without being ridiculed
as the wildest of dupes — even hint at the vital ehxir)
I failed to impress on the Eastern officials, or even on
a countryman of my own whom I chanced to find at
Aleppo. They only arrived at what seemed the com-
mon-sense verdict — viz., that Haroun might have been
strangled, or might have died in a fit (the body, little
examined, was buried long before I came to Aleppo) ;
and that Louis Grayle was murdered by his own
treacherous dependents. But all trace of the fugitives
was lost.

"And now," wrote Sir Philip, "I will state by
what means I discovered that Louis Grayle still lived
— changed from age into youth ; a new form, a new
being; realising, I verily believe, the image which
Haroun's words had raised up, in what then seemed to
me the metaphysics of phantasy ; criminal, without
consciousness of crime ; the dreadest of the mere animal
race ; an incarnation of the blind powers of IS'ature —
beautiful and joyous, t anton, and terrible, and destroy-
ing ! Such as ancient myths have personified in the

A STKANGE STORY, 331

idols of Oriental creeds; such as Mature, of herseK,
might form man in her moments of favour, if man were
wholly the animal, and spirit were no longer the essen-
tial distinction between himself and the races to which,
by superior formation and subtler perceptions, he would
still be the king.

" But this being is yet more dire and portentous than
the mere animal man, for in him are not only the frag-
mentary memories of a pristine intelligence which no
mind, imaided by the presence of soul, could have
originally compassed, but amidst that intelligence are
the secrets of the magic which is learned through the
agencies of spirits the most hostile to our race. And
who shall say whether the fiends do not enter at their
will this void and deserted temple whence the soul has
departed, and use as their tools, passive and uncon-
scious, all the faculties which, skilful in sorcery, still
place a mind at the control of their malice 1

" It was in the interest excited in me by the strange
and terrible fate that befell an Armenian family with
which I was slightly acquainted, that I first traced, in
the creature I am now about to describe, and whose
course I devote myself to watch, and trust to bring to
a close — the murderer of Haroun for the sake of the
elixir of youth.

" In this Armenian family there were three daugh-
ters ; one of them "

I had just read thus far when a dim shadow fell
over the page, and a cold air se med to breathe on me.
Cold — so cold, that my blood halted in my veins as if

332 A STKANGE STOKV.

suddenly frozen ! Involuntarily I started, and looked
up, sure that some ghastly presence was in tlie room.
And then, on the opposite side of the wall, I heheld an
unsubstantial likeness of a human form. Shadow I
call it, but the word is not strictly correct, for it was
luminous, though with a pale shine. In some exhibi-
tion in London there is shown a curious instance of
optical illusion : at the end of a corridor you see, appa-
rently in strong light, a human skull. You are con-
vinced it is there as you approach ; it is, however, only
a reflection from a skull at a distance. The image
before me was less vivid, less seemingly prominent, than
is the illusion I speak of. I was not deceived. I felt
it was a spectrum, a phantasm, but I felt no less surely
that it was a reflection from an animate form — the
form and the face of Margrave : it was there, distinct,
unmistakable. Conceiving that he himself must be
behind me, I sought to rise, to turn round, to examine.
I could not move : limb and muscle were overmastered
by some incomprehensible spell. Gradually my senses
forsook me — I became unconscious as well as motionless.
When I recovered I heard the clock strike three. I
must have been nearly two hours insensible ; the
candles before me were burning low : my eyes rested on
the table ; the dead man's manuscript was gone !

CHAPTEE XL.

The dead man's manuscript was gone. But how ? A
phantom might delude my eye, a human will, though
exerted at a distance, might, if the tales of mesmerism
be true, deprive me of movement and of consciousness ;
but neither phantom nor mesmeric will could surely
remove from the table before me the material substance
of the book that had vanished ! Was I to seek ex-
planation in the arts of sorcery ascribed to Louis Grayle
in the narrative ? — I would not pursue that conjecture.
Against it my reason rose up half alarmed, half dis-
dainful. Some one must have entered the room — some
one have removed the manuscript. I looked round.
The windows were closed, the curtains partly drawn
over the shutters, as they were before my consciousness
had left me ; all seemed undisturbed. Snatching up
one of the candles, fast dying out, I went into the
adjoining library, the desolate state-rooms, into the
entrance-hall and examined the outer door. Barred
and locked ! The robber had left no vestige of his
stealthy presence.

I resolved to go at once to Strahan's room and tell
him of the loss sustained. A deposit had been con-

334 A STEANGE STOKY.

fided to me, and I felt as if there were a slur on my
honour every moment in which I kept its abstraction
concealed from him to whom I was responsible for the
trust. I hastily ascended the great staircase, grim
with faded portraits, and found myself in a long
corridor opening on my own bedroom ; no doubt also
on Strahan's. Which was his 1 I knew not. I
opened rapidly door after door, peered into empty
chambers, went blundering on, when, to the right,
down a narrow passage, I recognised the signs of my
host's whereabouts — signs familiarly commonplace and
vulgar, signs by which the inmate of any chamber
in lodging-house or inn makes himself known — a chair
before a doorway, clothes negligently thrown on it,
beside it a pair of shoes. And so ludicrous did such
testimony of common everyday life, of the habits
which Strahan would necessarily . have contracted in
his desultory unluxurious bachelor's existence — so
ludicrous, I say, did these homely details seem to
me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of
which I had been reading, with the wonders yet more
incredible of which I myself had been witness and
victim, that as I turned down the passage, I heard my
own unconscious half-hysterical laugh; and, startled
by the sound of that laugh as if it came from some
one else, I paused, my hand on the door, and asked
myself : " Do I dream 1 Am I awake 1 And if
awake, what am I to say to the commonplace mortal
I am about to rouse ? Speak to him of a phantom !
Speak to him of some weird spell over this strong

A STRANGE STORY. 335

frame ! Speak to him of a mystic trance in whicli
has been stolen what he confided to me, without my
knowledge? What will he sayl What should I
have said a few days ago to any man who told such
a tale to me 1 " I did not wait to resolve these ques-
tions. I entered the room. There was Strahan sound
asleep on his bed. I shook him roughly. He started
up, rubbed his eyes — " You, Allen — you ! What the
deuce 1 — what's the matter 1 "

" Strahan, I have been robbed ! — robbed of the
manuscript you lent me. I could not rest till I had
told you."

" Eobbed ! robbed ! Are you serious 1 "

By this time Strahan had thro^vn off the bed-clothes,
and sat upright, staring at me.

And then those questions which my mind had sug-
gested while I was standing at his door repeated
themselves with double force. Tell this man, this
unimaginative, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-haired
North-countryman — tell this man a story which the
most credulous school-girl would have rejected as a
fable ! Impossible.

"I fell asleep," said I, colouring and stammering,
for the slightest deviation from truth was painful to
me ; " and — and — when I woke — the manuscript was
gone. Some one must have entered and committed
the theft "

" Some one entered the house at this hour of the
night, and then only stolen a manuscript which could
be of no value to him ! Absurd ! If thieves have come

336 A STRANGE STORY.

in, it must be for otlier objects — for plate, for money.
I will dress ; we will see ! "

Straban burried on bis clotbes, muttering to bim-
self, and avoiding my eye. He was embarrassed.
He did not like to say to an old friend wbat was on
bis mind, but I saw at once tbat be suspected I bad
resolved to deprive bim of tbe manuscript, and bad
invented a wild tale in order to conceal my own
disbonesty.

^STevertbeless, be proceeded to searcb tbe bouse.
I followed bim in silence, oppressed witb my own
tbougbts, and longing for solitude in my own cbam-
ber. We found no one, no trace of any one, notbing
to excite suspicion. Tbere were but two female
servants sleeping in tbe house — the old housekeeper,
and a country girl who assisted her. It was not
possible to suspect either of these persons, but in the
course of our searcb we opened tbe doors of their
rooms. We saw tbat they were both in bed, both
seemingly asleep : it seemed idle to wake and ques-
tion them. When tbe formality of our futile investi-
gation was concluded, Straban stopped at tbe door of
my bedroom, and for tbe first time fixing bis eyes on
me steadUy, said —

" Allen Fenwick, I would have given half the for-
tune I have come into rather than this had happened.
The manuscript, as you know, was bequeathed to me
as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish
it is my duty to observe religiously. If it contained
aught valuable to a man of your knowledge and pro-

A STRANGE STOKY, 337

fession, — why, you were free to use its contents. Let
me hope, Allen, that the hook -svill reappear to-mor-
row."

He said no more, drew himself away from the hand
I involuntarily extended, and walked quickly hack to-
wards his own room.

Alone once more, I sank on a seat, huried my face
in my hands, and strove in vain to collect into some
definite shape my own tumultuous and disordered
thoughts. Could I attach serious credit to the mar-
vellous narrative I had read] "Were there, indeed,
such powers given to man 1 such influences latent in
the calm routine of Xature 1 I could not believe it ;
I must have some morbid affection of the brain; I
must be under an hallucination. Hallucination 1 The
phantom, yes — the trance, yes. But still, how came
the book gone 1 That, at least, was not hallucination.

I left my room the next morning with the vague
hope that I should find the manuscript somewhere in
the study ; that, in my own trance, I might have
secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things,
without remembrance of their acts in their waking
state.

I searched minutely ia every conceivable place.
Strahan found me still employed in that hopeless
task. He had breakfasted in his own room, and it
was past eleven o'clock when he joiued me. His
manner was now hard, cold, and distant, and his sus-
picion so bluntly shown, that my distress gave way to
resentment.

VOL. I. ' Y

338 A STRANGE STOEY.

" Is it possible," I cried indignantly, " that you
who have known me so well can suspect me of an act
so base, and so gratuitously base 1 Purloin, conceal
a book confided to me, with full power to copy from
it Avhatever I might desire, use its contents in any
way that might seem to me serviceable to science, or
useful to me in my own calling ! "

" I have not accused you," answered Strahan, sul-
lenly. " But what are we to say to Mr Jeeves — to all
others who know that this manuscript existed ? "Will
they believe what you tell me 1 "

""^"Mv Jeeves," I said, "cannot suspect a fellow-towns-
man, whose character is as high as mine, of untruth
and theft. And to whom else have you communicated
the facts connected with a memoir and a request of so
extraordinary a nature ? "

" To young Margrave ; I told you so ! "

"True, true. We need not go further to find the
thief. Margrave has been in this house more than
once. He knows the position of the rooms. You
have named the robber ! "

" Tut ! what on earth could a gay young fellow like
Margrave want with a work of such dry and recondite
nature as I presume my poor kinsman's memoir must
ber'

I was about to answer, when the door was abruptly
opened, and the servant girl entered, followed by two
men, in whom I recognised the superintendent of the

L police and the same subordinate who had found

me by Sir Philip's corpse.

A STEANGE STOKY. 339

The superintendent came up to nie with a grave face,
and whispered in my ear. I did not at first compre-
hend hiuL " Come with you," I said, "and to Mr Vigors,
the magistrate? I thought my deposition Avas closed."

The suiierintendent shook his head. " I have the
authority here, Dr Fenwick."

" Well, I will come, of course. Has anything new
transpired 1 "

The superintendent turned to the servant girl, who
was standing with gaping mouth and staring eyes.
" Show us Dr Fenwick's room. You had better put
up, sir, whatever things you have brought here. I wiU
go up-stairs with you," he whispered again. " Come,
Dr Fenwick, I am in the discharge of my duty."

Something in the man's manner was so sinister and
menacing that I felt at once that some new and strange
calamity had befallen me. I turned towards Strahan.
He was at the threshold, speaking in a low voice to
the subordinate policeman, and there was an expression
of amazement and horror in his countenance. As I
came towards him he darted away without a word.

I went up the stairs, entered my bedroom, the super-
intendent close behind me. As I took up mechanically
the few things I had brought with me, the police-
officer drew them from me with an abruptness that ap-
peared insolent, and deliberately searched the pockets
of the coat which I had worn the evening before, then
opened the drawers in the room, and even pried into
the bed.

" What do you mean ] " I asked, haughtily.

340 A STRANGE STORY.

" Excuse me, sir. Duty. You are "

"Well, lam what?"

"My prisoner ; here is the warrant."

" Warrant ! on what charge 1 "

" The murder of Sir Philip Derval."

" I — I ! Murder ! " I could say no more.

I must hurry over this awful passage in my marvel-
lous record. It is torture to dwell on the details, and
indeed I have so sought to chase them from my recollec-
tion, that they only come back to me in hideous frag-
ments, like the incoherent remains of a horrible dream.

All that I need state is as follows : Early on the very
morning on which I had been arrested, a man, a stran-
ger in the town, had privately sought Mr Vigors, and
deposed that on the night of the murder he had taken
refuge from a sudden storm under shelter of the eaves
and buttresses of a wall adjoining an old archway ; that
he had heard men talking within the archway ; had
heard one say to the other, " You still bear me a
grudge." The other had repKed, "I can forgive you
on one condition." That he then lost much of the
conversation that ensued, which was in a lower voice ;
but he gathered enough to know that the condition
demanded by the one was the possession of a casket
which the other carried about with him. That there
seemed an altercation on this matter between the two
men, which, to judge by the tones of voice, was angry
on the part of the man demanding the casket ; that,
finally, this man said in a loud key, " Do you still re-
fuse 1 " and on receiving the answer, which the witness

A STKANGE STOEY, 341

did not overhear, exclaimed fhreateningly, " It is you
who will repent ; " and then stepped forth from the
arch into the street. The rain had then ceased, but,
by a broad flash of Hghtning, the witness saw distinctly
the figure of the person thus quitting the shelter of the
arch — a man of tall stature, powerful frame, erect car-
riage. A little time afterwards, witness saw a slighter
and older man come forth from the arch, whom he could
only examine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near
the wall, the lightning having ceased, but whom he
fully believed to be the person he afterwards discover-
ed to be Sir Philij) Derval.

He said that he himself had only arrived at the

town a few hours before ; a stranger to L , and

indeed to England ; having come from the United
States of America, where he had passed his life from

childhood. He had journeyed on foot to L , in the

hope of finding there some distant relatives. He had
put up at a small inn, after which he had strolled
through the town, when the storm had driven him to
seek shelter. He had then failed to find his way back
to the inn, and after wandering about in vain, and see-
ing no one at that late hour of night of whom he could
ask the way, he had crept under a portico and slept for
two or three hours. Waking towards the dawn, he
had then got up, and again sought to find his way to
the inn, when he saw, in a narrow street before him,
two men, one of whom he recognised as the taller of
the two, to whose conversation he had listened under
the arch : the other he did not recognise at the moment.

342 A STRANGE STORY.

The taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he
heard him say, " The casket ; I will have it." There
then seemed to be a struggle between these two persons,
when the taller one struck down the shorter, knelt on
his breast, and he caught distinctly the gleam of some
steel instrument. That he was so frightened that he
could not stir from the place, and that though he cried
out, he believed his voice was not heard. He then saw
the taller man rise, the other resting on the pavement
motionless; and a minute or so afterwards beheld police-
men coming to the place, on which he, the witness,
walked away. He did not know that a murder had
been committed ; it might be only an assault ; it Avas no
business of his, he was a stranger. He thought it best
not to interfere, the police having cognisance of the
affair. He found out his inn ; for the next few days

he was absent from L in search of his relations,

who had left the town many years ago, to fix their re-
sidence in one of the neighbouring villages.

He was, however, disappointed ; none of these rela-
tions now survived. He had now returned to L ,

heard of the murder, was in doubt what to do, might
get himself into trouble if, a mere stranger, he gave an
unsupported testimony. But, on the day before the
evidence was volunteered, as he was lounging in the
streets, he had seen a gentleman pass by on horseback,
in whom he immediately recognised the man who,
in his belief, was the murderer of Sir Philip Derval.
He inquired of a bystander the name of the gentleman ;
the answer was, "Dr Fenwick." That, the rest of the

A STRANGE STORY. 343

day, he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking to
volunteer such a charge against a man of apparent
respectability and station. But that his conscience
would not let him sleep that night, and he had re-
solved at morning to go to the magistrate and make
a clean breast of it.

The story was in itself so improbable that any other
magistrate but Mr Vigors would perhaps have dis
missed it in contempt. But Mr Vigors, already so
bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry, perhaps,
to subject me to the humiliation of so horrible a charge,
immediately issued his warrant to search my house. I
was absent at Derval Court ; the house was searched.
In the bureau in my favourite study, which was left
unlocked, the steel casket was discovered, and a large
case-knife, on the blade of which the stains of blood
were still perceptible. On this discovery I was appre-
hended; and on these evidences, and on the deposition
of this vagrant stranger, I was not, indeed, committed
to take my trial for murder, but placed in confinement ;
all bail for my appearance refused, and the examina-
tion adjourned to give time for further evidence and
inquiries. I had requested the professional aid of Mr
Jeeves. To my surprise and dismay Mr Jeeves begged
me to excuse him. He said he was pre-engaged by
Mr Strahan to detect and prosecute the murderer of
Sir P. Derval, and could not assist one accused of the
murder. I gathered from the little he said that Strahan
had already been to him that morning, and told him
of the missing manuscript — that Strahan had ceased

344 A STEANGE STORY.

to be my friend. I engaged another solicitor, a young
man of ability, and who professed personal esteem for
me. Mr Stanton (such was the lawyer's name) be-
lieved in my innocence ; but he warned me that ap-
pearances were grave, he implored me to be perfectly
frank Avith him. Had I held conversation with Sir
Philip under the archway, as reported by the witness?
Had I used such or similar words 1 Had the deceased
said, " I had a grudge against him 1 " Had I demanded
the casket 1 Had I threatened Sir Philip that he
would repent 1 And of what ? His refusal 1

I felt myself grow pale as I answered, " Yes, I
thought such or similar expressions had occurred in
my conversation with the deceased."

" What was the reason of the grudge 1 "What was
the nature of this casket, that I should so desire its
possession 1 "

There, I became terribly embarrassed. What could
I say to a keen, sensible, worldly man of law 1 Tell
him of the powder and the fumes, of the scene in the
museum, of Sir Philip's tale, of the implied identity of
the youthful JNIargrave with the aged Grayle, of the
elixir of Hfe, and of magic arts 1 I — I teU such a ro-
mance ! I, the noted adversary of all pretended mys-
ticism. I — I — a sceptical practitioner of medicine !
Had that manuscript of Sir Philip's been available — a
substantial record of marvellous events by a man of
repute for intellect and learning — I might, perhaps,

have ventured to startle the soHcitor of L with

my revelations. But the sole proof that aU which the

A STRANGE STORY. 345

solicitor urged me to confide was not a monstrous fic-
tion or an insane delusion had disappeared; and its
disappearance was a part of the terrible mystery that
enveloped the whole. I answered, therefore, as com-
posedly as I could, that " I could have no serious
grudge against Sir Philp, whom I had never seen be-
fore that evening ; that the words, which applied to
my supposed grudge, were lightly said by Sir Philip,
in reference to a physiological dispute on matters con-
nected with mesmerical phenomena ; that the deceased
had declared his casket, which he had shown me at
the mayor's house, contained drugs of great potency in
medicine ; that I had asked permission to test those
drugs myself ; and that, when I said he would repent
of his refusal, I merely meant that he would repent of
his reliance on drugs not warranted by the experiments
of professional science.

My replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but
" how could I account for the casket and the knife
being found in my room 1 "

" In no way but this : the window of my study is a
door-window opening on the lane, from which any one
might enter the room, I was in the habit, not only
of going out myself that way, but of admitting through
that door any more familiar private acquaintance."

" Whom, for instance 1 "

I hesitated a moment, and then said, with a signifi-
cance I could not forbear, " Mr Margrave ! He would
know the locale perfectly ; he would know that the
door was rarely bolted from Avithin during the day-

346' A STKANGE STOEY.

time ; he could enter at all hours ; he could place, or ; ist
instruct any one to deposit, the knife and casket in my [oii
bureau, which he knew I never kept locked ; it con-
tained no secrets, no private correspondence — chiefly
surgical implements, or such things as I might want
for professional experiments."

" Mr ]\Iargrave ! But you cannot suspect him — a
lively, charming young man, against whose character
not a whisper was ever heard — of connivance with
such a charge against you ; a connivance that would
implicate him in the murder itself, for if you are ac-
cused wrongfully, he who accuses you is either the
criminal or the criminal's accomplice — his instigator or
his tool."

" Mr Stanton," I said, firmly, after a moment's pause,
" I do suspect Mr Margrave of a hand in this crime.
Sir Philip, on seeing him at the mayor's house, ex-
pressed a strong abhorrence of him, more than hinted
at crimes he had committed ; appointed me to come to
Derval Court the day after that on which the murder
was committed. Sir Philip had known something of
this Margrave in the East — Margrave might dread
exposure, revelations — of what I know not ; but,
strange as it may seem to you, it is my conviction that
this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless,
is the real criminal, and in some way, which I cannot
conjecture, has employed this lying vagabond in the
fabrication of a charge against myself. Eeflect : of
Mr Margrave's antecedents we know nothing ; of them
nothing was known even by the young gentleman who

A STRANGE STOEY. 347

irst introduced him to tlie society of this town. If
/ou would serve and save me, it is to that c[uarter that
you will direct your vigilant and nnrelaxing researches."

I had scarcely so said when I repented my candour,
for I observed in the face of Mr Stanton a sadden re-
vulsion of feeling, an utter increduhty of the accusa-
tion I had thus hazarded, and for the first time a doubt
of my own innocence. The fascination exercised by
3Iargrave was universal ; nor was it to be wondered
at : for, besides the charm of his joyous presence, he
seemed so singularly free from even the errors common
enough Avith the young. So gay and boon a compan-
ion, yet a shunner of wine ; so dazzling in aspect, so
more than beautiful, so courted, so idolised by women,
yet no tale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to his
name ! As to his antecedents, he had so frankly
owned himself a natural son, a nobody, a traveller, an
idler ; his expenses, though lavish, were so unostenta-
tious, so regularly defrayed. He was so wholly the
reverse of the character assigned to criminals, that it
seemed as absurd to bring a charge of homicide against
a butterfly or a goldfinch as against the seemingly in-
nocent and delightful favourite of humanity and nature.

However, Mr Stanton said little or nothing, and
shortly afterwards left me, with a dry expression of
hope that my innocence would be cleared in spite of
evidence that, he was bound to sa}', was of the most
serious character.

I was exhausted. I fell into a profound sleep early
that night ; it might be a little after twelve when I

348 A STEANGE STOEY.

woke, and woke as fully, as completely, as mucli re-|
stored to life and consciousness, as it was then my; b?
hatit to be at the break of day. And, so waking, 1 in
saw, on the wall opposite my bed, the same luminous
phantom I had seen in the wizard's study at Derval
Court. I have read in Scandinavian legends of an
apparition called the Scin-Lasca, or shining corpse. Iti
is supposed, in the northern superstition, sometimes to'
haunt sepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. It is the
spectre of a human body seen in a phosphoric light,
and so exactly did this phantom correspond to the de-
scription of such an apparition in Scandinavian fable,
that I know not how to give it a better name than
that of Scin-Lieca — the shining corpse.

There it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead
there, as in the haunted study of the wizard Forman
— the form and the face of Margrave, Constitutionally
my nerves are strong, and my temper hardy, and now
I was resolved to battle against any impression which
my senses might receive from my own deluding fancies
Things that witnessed for the first time daunt us, wit-
nessed for the second time lose their terror, I rose
from my bed with a bold aspect, I approached the
phantom with a fixm step ; but when within two paces
of it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my arm !
became fixed in air, my feet locked to the ground. I
did not experience fear; I felt that my heart beat
regularly, but an invincible something opposed itself
to me. I stood as if turned to stone, and then from
the lips of this phantom there came a voice, but a

A STRANGE STOKY. 349

VL)ice whicli seemed borne from a great distance — very
L i\v, muffled, and yet distinct : I could not even be
sure that my ear heard it, or "whether the sound was
not conveyed to me by an inner sense.

"I and I alone can save and deliver you," said the
voice. " I will do so ; and the conditions I ask in re-
turn are simple and easy."

" Fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own
brain," cried I, " there can be no compact between
thee and me. I despise thy malice, I reject thy ser-
vices ; I accept no conditions to escape from the one or
to obtain the other."

" You may give a different answer when I ask again."

The Scin-Lceca slowly waned, and, fading first in-
to a paler shadow, then vanished. I rejoiced at the
reply I had given. Two days elapsed before Mr Stan-
ton again came to me ; in the interval the Sciu-Lseca
r did not reappear. I had mustered all my courage, all
my common sense, noted down all the weak points of
the false evidence against me, and felt calm and sup-
ported by the strength of my innocence.

The first few words of the soHcitor dashed all my
courage to the ground. For I was anxious to hear
news of Lilian, anxious to have some message from
her that might cheer and strengthen me, and my first
question was this —

" j\Ir Stanton, you are aware that I am engaged in
marriage to Miss Ashleigh. Your family are not un-
acquainted with her. What says, what thinks she of
this monstrous charge against her betrothed 1 "

350 A STRANGE STOEY.

"I was for two liours at Mrs Aslileigh's house '.
evening," replied the lawyer ; " she was naturallj
anxious to see me as employed in your defence. Whc
do you think was there 1 Who, eager to defend you
to express his persuasion of your innocence, to declare
his conviction that the real criminal would he soon
discovered — who hut that same Mr IMargrave, whom,
pardon me my frankness, you so rashly and groundlessly
suspected."

" Heavens ! Do you say that he is received in that!
house 1 that he — he is familiarly admitted to her pre-
sence 1 "

*' My good sir, why these unjust prepossessions
against a true friend 1 It was as your friend that, as
soon as the charge against you amazed and shocked

the town of L , Mr Margrave called on Mrs Ash-

leigh — presented to her by Miss Brahazon — and was
so cheering and hopeful that "

" Enough ! " I exclaimed — " enough ! "

I paced the room in a state of excitement and rage,
which the lawyer in vain endeavoured to calm, until
at length I halted abruptly : " Well, — and you saw
Miss Ashleigh ? What message does she send to me
— her betrothed 1 "

Mr Stanton looked confused. "Message? Con-
sider, sir — Miss Ashleigh's situation — the delicacy —
and — and "

" I understand ! no message, no word, from a young
lady so respectable to a man accused of murder,"

]\tr Stanton was silent for some moments ; and then

A STRANGE STORY. 351

Js said qiiietly, " Let us change tliis subject ; let us think
of what more immediately presses. I see you have
been making some notes ; may I look at theniT'

D I composed myself and sat down. " This accuser !

.rs Have inquiries really been made as to himself, and his
statement of his own proceedings 1 He comes, he says,
from America — in what ship 1 At what port did he
land 1 Is there any evidence to corroborate his story
of the relations he tried to discover — of the inn at
which he first put up, and to which he could not find
his way 1 "

"Your suggestions are sensible, Dr Fenwick. I
have forestalled them. It is true that the man lodged
at a small inn — the Eising Sun ; true that he made
inquiries about some relations of the name of Walls,
who formerly resided at L , and afterwards re-
moved to a village ten miles distant — two brothers —
tradesmen of small means but respectable character.
He at first refused to say at what seaport he landed,
in what ship he sailed. I suspect that he has now
told a falsehood as to these matters. I have sent my
clerk to Southampton — for it is there he said that he
was put on shore ; we shall see — the man himself is
detained in close custody. I hear that his manner is
strange and excitable ; but that he preserves silence as
much as possible. It is generally believed that he is
a bad character, perhaps a returned convict, and that
this is the true reason why he so long delayed giving
evidence, and has been since so reluctant to account
for himself. But even if his testimony should be im-

352 A STKANGE STORY.

pugned, should break down, still we should have to
account for the fact that the casket and the case-knife
were found in your bureau. For, granting that a
person could, in your absence, have entered your
study and placed the articles in your bureau, it is
clear that such a, person must have been well ac-
quainted with your house, and this stranger to L

could not have possessed that knowledge."

" Of course not — Mr j\[argrave did possess it ! " ^

" Mr Margrave again ! — oh, sir." I ^

I arose and moved away, with an impatient gesture.
I could not trust myself to speak. That night I did
not sleep; I watched impatiently, gazing on the
opposite wall, for the gleam of the Scin-Laeca. But
the night passed away, and the spectre did not appear.

CHAPTER XLI.

The lawyer came the next day, and with something like
a smile on his lips. He brought me a few lines in
pencil from Mrs Ashleigh ; they were kindly expressed,
bade me be of good cheer ; " she never for a moment
believed in my guilt ; Lilian bore up wonderfully un-
der so terrible a trial ; it was an unspeakable comfort
to both to receive the visits of a friend so attached to
me, and so confident of a triumphant refutation of the
hideous calumny — under which I now suffered — as ]\Ir
Margrave ! "

The lawj-er had seen Margrave again — seen him
in that house. Margrave seemed almost domiciled
there !

I remained sullen and taciturn during this visit. I
longed again for the night. Xight came. I heard the
distant clock strike twelve, when again the icy wind
passed through my hair, and against the wall stood the
Luminous Shadow.

"Have you considered?" whispered the voice, still
as from afar. " I repeat it — I alone can save you,"

"Is it among the conditions which you ask, in re-
turn, that I shall resign to you the woman I love 1 "

VOL. I. z

354 A STEANGE STOEY.

" Is it one of the conditions that I should commit
some crime — a crime perhaps heinous as that of which
I am accused ? "

"No."

"With such reservations, I accept the conditions
you may name, provided I, in my torn, may demand
one condition from yourself."

"Name it."

"I ask you to quit this town. I ask you, mean-
while, to cease your visits to the house that holds the
woman betrothed to me."

" I will cease those visits. And before many days
are over, I will quit this town."

"Now, then, say what you ask from me. I am
prepared to concede it. And not from fear for myself,
but because I fear for the pure and innocent being
who is under the spell of your deadly fascination.
This is your power over me. You command me
through my love for another. Speak."

" My conditions are simple. You will pledge your-
self to desist from all charges of insinuation against
myself, of what nature soever. You will not, when
you meet me in the flesh, refer to what you have
known of my likeness in the Shadow. You will be
invited to the house at which I may be also a guest ;
you will come ; you will meet and converse with me
as guest speaks with guest in the house of a host."

"IsthataU?"

"ItisaU."

A STRANGE STOEY. 355

"Then I pledge you my faith. ; keep your owti,"

" Fear not ; sleep secure in the certainty that you
will soon be released from these walls."

The Shadow waned and faded. Darkness settled
back, and a sleep, profound and calm, fell over me.

The next day Mr Stanton again visited me. He
had received that morning a note from Mr Margrave,

stating that he had left L to pursue, in person,

an investigation which he had already commenced
through another, affecting the man who had given evi-
dence against me, and that, if his hope should prove
weU-foundcd, he trusted to establish my innocence,
and convict the real murderer of Sir Philip Derval.
In the research he thus volunteered, he had asked for,
and obtained, the assistance of the policeman Waby,
who, grateful to me for saving the life of his sister,
had expressed a strong desire to be employed in my
service.

Meanwhile, my most cruel assailant was my old
college friend, Eichard Strahan. For Jeeves had
spread abroad Strahan's charge of purloining the
memoir which had been intrusted to me ; and that
accusation had done me great injury in public opinion,
because it seemed to give probability to the only mo-
tive which ingenuity could ascribe to the foul deed
imputed to me. That motive had been first suggested
by Mr Vigors. Cases are on record of men whose life
had been previously blameless, who have committed a
crime, which seemed to belie their nature, in the mono-
mania of some intense desire. In Spain, a scholar re-

356 A STRAXGE STORY.

puted of austere morals, murdered and robbed a tra-
veller for money in order to purchase books; books
written, too, by Fathers of his Church ! He was in-
tent on solving some problem of theological casuistry.
In France, an antiquary esteemed not more for his
learning than for amiable and gentle qualities, mur-
dered his most intimate friend for the possession of a
medal, without which his own collection was incom-
plete. These and similar anecdotes, tending to prove
how fatally any vehement desire, morbidly cherished,
may suspend the normal operations of reason and con-
science, were whispered about by Dr Lloyd's vindic-
tive partisan ; and the inference drawn from them and
applied to the assumptions against myself was the more
credulously received, because of that over-refining
speculation on motive and act which the shallow
accept, in their eagerness to show how readily they
understand the profound.

I was known to be fond of scientific, especially of
chemical experiments ; to be eager in testing the
truth of any novel invention. Strahan, catching hold
of the magistrate's fantastic hypothesis, went about
repeating anecdotes of the absorbing passion for ana-
lysis and discovery which had characterised me in
youth as a medical student, and to which, indeed, I
owed the precocious reputation I had obtained.

Sir Pliilip Derval, according not only to report, but
to the direct testimony of his servant, had acquired
in the course of his travels many secrets in natural
science, especially as connected with the healing art —

A STRANGE STORY. 357

his servant had deposed to the remarkable cures he
had effected "by the ruedicinals stored in the stolen
casket — doubtless Sir Philip, in boasting of these me-
dicinals in the course of our conversation, had excited
my curiosity, inflamed my imagination, and thus, when
I afterwards suddenly met him in a lone spot, a pas-
sionate impulse had acted on a brain heated into mad-
ness by curiosity and covetous desu-e.

All these suppositions, reduced into system, were
corroborated by Strahan's charge that I had made
away with the manuscript supposed to contain the ex-
planations of the medical agencies employed by Sir
Philip, and had sought to shelter my theft by a tale
so improbable, that a man of my reputed talent could
not have hazarded it if in his sound senses. I saw
the web that had thus been spread around me by
hostile prepossessions and ignorant gossip : how could
the arts of Margrave scatter that web to the winds 1
I knew not, but I felt confidence in his promise and
his power. Still, so great had been my alarm for
Lilian, that the hope of clearing my own innocence
was almost lost in my joy that Margrave, at least, was
no longer in her presence, and that I had received his
pledge to quit the town in which she lived.

Thus, hours rolled on hours, till, I think, on the
third day from that night in which I had last beheld
the mysterious Shadow, my door was hastily thrown
open, a confused crowd presented itself at the thresh-
old— the governor of the prison, the police superin-
tendent, Mr Stanton, and other familiar faces shut out

358 A STRANGE STORY.

from me since my imprisonment. I knew at the first
glance that I was no longer an outlaw beyond the pale of
human friendship. And proudly, sternly, as I had sup-
])orted myself hitherto in solitude and suspense, when.
I felt warm hands clasping mine, heard joyous voices
proffering congratulations, saw in the eyes of all that
my innocence had been cleared, the revulsion of emo-
tion was too strong for me — the room reeled on my
sight — I fainted, I pass, as quickly as I can, over
the explanations that crowded on me when I recover-
ed, and that were publicly given in evidence in court
next morning. I had owed all to Margrave. It seems
that he had construed to my favour the very supposi-
tion which had been bruited abroad to my prejudice.
"For," said he, "it is conjectured that Fenwick com-
mited the crime of which he is accused in the impulse
of a disordered reason. That conjecture is based upon
the probability that a madman alone could have com-
mitted a crime without adequate motive. But it seems
quite clear that the accused is not mad; and I see
cause to suspect that the accuser is." Grounding this
assumption on the current reports of the witness's
manner and bearing since he had been placed under
official surveillance, Margrave had commissioned the
pohceman, "Waby, to make inquiries in the village to
which the accuser asserted he had gone in quest of his
relations, and Waby had there found persons who
remembered to have heard that the two brothers
named Walls lived less by the gains of the petty shop
which they kept than by the proceeds of some proj^erty

A STKAXGE STORY. 359

consigned to them as the nearest of kin to a lunatic
who had once been tried for his life. Margrave had
then examined the advertisements in the daily news-
papers. One of them, warning the public against a
dangerous maniac, who had effected his escape from an
asylum in the west of England, caught his attention.
To that asylum he had repaired.

There he learned that the patient advertised was
one whose propensity was homicide, consigned for
life to the asylum on account of a murder, for which
he had been tried. The description of this person
exactly tallied with that of the pretended American.
The medical superintendent of the asylum, heariag all
particulars from Margrave, expressed a strong persua-
sion that the witness was his missing patient, and had
himself committed the crime of which he had accused
another. If so, the superintendent undertook to coax
from him the full confession of all the circumstances.
Like many other madmen, and not least those whose
propensity is to crime, the fugitive maniac was exceed-
ingly cunning, treacherous, secret, and habituated to
trick and stratagem ; more subtle than even the astute
in possession of all their faculties, whether to achieve
his purpose or to conceal it, and fabricate appearances
against another. But while, in ordinary conversation,
he seemed rational enough to those who were not
accustomed to study him, he had one hallucination
which, when humoured, led him always, not only to
betray himself, but to glory in any crime proposed or
committed. He was under the belief that he had

360 A STEANGE STOEY.

made a l^argain -with Satan, who, in return for implicit
obedience, would bear him harmless through all the
consequences of such submission, and finally raise him
to great power and authority. It is no unfrequent illu-
sion of homicidal maniacs to suppose they are under
the influence of the Evil One, or possessed by a Demon.
Murderers have assigned, as the only reason they them-
selves could give for their crime, that " the Devil got
into them," and urged the deed. But the insane have,
perhaps, no attribute more in common than that of
superweening self-esteem. The maniac who has been
removed from a garret sticks straws in his hair, and
calls them a crown. So much does inordinate arro-
gance characterise mental aberration, that, in the course
of my own practice, I have detected, in that infirmity,
the certain symptom of insanity, long before the brain
had made its disease manifest even to the most famil-
iar kincbed.

Morbid self-esteem accordingly pervaded the dread-
ful illusion by which the man I now speak of was j)os-
sessed. He was proud to be the protected agent of
the Fallen Angel. And if that self-esteem were art-
fully appealed to, he would exult superbly in the evil
he held himself ordered to perform, as if a special pre-
rogative, an offtcial rank and privilege ; then he would
be led on to boast gleefully of thoughts which the
most cynical of criminals, in whom intelligence was
not ruined, would shrink from owning. Then he
would reveal himself in all his deformity Avith as com-
placent and frank a self -glorying as some vain good

A STRANGE STORY. 361

man displays in parading his amiable sentiments and
his beneficent deeds.

"If," said the superintendent, "this be the patient
■who has escaped from me, and if his propensity to
homicide has been, in some way, directed towards the
person who has been murdered, I shall not be with
him a quarter of an hour before he will inform me how
it happened, and detail the arts he employed in shift-
ing his crime upon another — all will be told as minutely
as a child tells a tale of some schoolboy exploit, in
which he counts on your sympathy, and feels sure of
your applause."

jNIargi-ave brought this gentleman back to L ,

took him to the mayor, who was one of my warmest
supporters : the mayor had sufficient influence to dic-
tate and arrange the rest. The superintendent was in-
troduced to the room in which the pretended American
was lodged. At his own desire a select number of
witnesses were admitted with him — Margrave excused
himself ; he said candidly that he was too intimate a
friend of mine to be an impartial listener to aught that
concerned me so nearly.

The superintendent proved right in his suspicions,
and verified his promises. My false accuser was his

missing patient ; the man recognised Dr with

no apparent terror, rather with an air of condescen-
sion, and in a very few minutes was led to tell his
own tale, with a gloating complacency both at the
agency by which he deemed himself exalted, and at
the dexterous cunning with which he had acquitted

362 A STRANGE STORY.

himself of the task, that increased the horror of his
narrative.

He spoke of the mode of his escape, which was ex-
tremely ingenious, but of which the details, long in
themselves, did not interest me, and I understood them
too imperfectly to repeat. He had encomitered a sea-
faring traveller on the road, Avhom he had knocked
dovm with a stone, and robbed of his glazed hat and
pea-jacket, as well as of a small sum in coin, which
last enabled him to pay his fare in a railway that con-
vej^ed him eighty miles away from the asylum. Some
trifling remnant of this money still in his pocket, he
then travelled on foot along the highroad till he came

to a town about twenty miles distant from L ;

there he had stayed a day or two, and there he said
"that the Devil had told him to buy a case-knife,"
which he did. "He knew by that order that the
Devil meant him to do something great." "His Mas-
ter," as he called the fiend, then directed him the road

he should take. He came to L , put up, as he had

correctly stated before, at a small inn, wandered at
night about the town, was sui'prised by the sudden
storm, took shelter under the convent arch, overheard
somewhat more of my conversation with Sir Philip
than he had previously deposed — heard enough to ex-
cite his curiosity as to the casket : " While he listened,
his Master told him that he must get possession of
that casket." Sir Philip had quitted the archway
almost immediately after I had done so, and he would
then have attacked him if he had not caught sight of

A STRANGE STORY, 363

a policeman going his rounds. He had followed Sir
Philip to a house (Mr Jeeves's). " His Master told
him to wait and watch." He did so. When Sir
Philip came forth, toAvards the dawn, he followed
him, saw him enter a narrow street, came up to him,
seized him by the arm, demanded all he had about
him. Sir Philip tried to shake him off — struck at
him. What follows, I spare the reader. The deed
was done. He robbed the dead man, both of the cas-
ket and of the purse that he found in the pockets ; had
scarcely done so when he heard footsteps. He had
just time to get behind the portico of a detached house
at angles "with the street when I came up. He wit-
nessed from his hiding-place the brief conference be-
tween myself and the poKcemen, and when they moved
on, bearing the body, stole unobserved away. He
was going back towards the inn, when it occurred to
him that it would be safer if the casket and purse
were not about his person ; that he asked his Master
to direct him how to dispose of them ; that his Master
guided him to an open yard (a stone-mason's) at a very
little distance from the inn ; that in this yard there
stood an old wych-elm tree, from the gnarled roots of
wliich the earth was worn away, leaving chinks and
hollows, in one of which he placed the casket and
purse, taking from the latter only two sovereigns and
some silver, and then heaping loose mould over the
hiding-place. That he then repaired to his inn, and
left it late in the morning, on the pretence of seeking
for his relatives — persons, indeed, who really had been

364 A STRANGE STORY.

related to him, but of wliose death years ago he was

aware. He returned to L a few days afterwards,

and, in the dead of the night, went to take up the cas-
ket and the money. He found the purse with its con-
tents undisturbed ; but the lid of the casket was un-
closed. From the hasty glance he had taken of it
before burying it, it had seemed to him firmly locked
— he was alarmed lest some one had been to the spot.
But his Master whispered to him not to mind, told
him that he might now take the casket, and would be
guided what to do with it ; that he did so, and, open-
ing the lid, found the casket empty ; that he took the
rest of the money out of the purse, but that he did not
take the purse itself, for it had a crest and initials on
it, which might lead to discovery of what had been
done ; that he therefore left it in the hollow amongst
the roots, heaping the mould over it as before ; that,
in the course of the day, he heard the people at the inn
talk of the murder, and that his own first impulse was
to get out of the town immediately, but that his Mas-
ter "made him too wise for that," and bade him stay;
that, passing through the streets, he saw me come out
of the sash-window door, go to a stable-yard on the
other side of the house, mount on horseback, and ride
away; that he observed the sash-door was left partially
open ; that he walked by it, and saw the room empty;
there was only a dead wall opposite ; the place was
solitary, unobserved ; that his Master directed him to
lift up the sash gently, enter the room, and deposit
the knife and the casket in a large walnut-tree bureau

J

A STRANGE STORY. 365

-wliich stood unlocked near the window. All that fol-
lowed— his visit to Mr Vigors, his accusation against
myself, his whole tale — was, he said, dictated by his
]\Iaster, who was highly pleased with him, and promised
to bring him safely through. And here he turned
round with a hideous smile, as if for approbation of
liis notable cleverness and respect for his high employ.

]Mr Jeeves had the curiosity to request the keeper to
inquire how, in what form, or in what manner, the
Fiend appeared to the narrator, or conveyed his infernal
dictates. The man at first refused to say; but it was
gradually drawn from him that the Demon had no cer-
tain and invariable form ; sometimes it appeared to him
in the form of a rat ; sometimes even of a leaf, or a
fragment of wood, or a rusty nail ; but that his Mas-
tor's voice always came to him distinctly, whatever
shape he appeared in ; only, he said, with an air of
great importance, his Master, this time, had graciously
condescended, ever since he left the asylum, to com-
miuiicate with him in a much more pleasing and im-
posing aspect than he had ever done before — in the
form of a beautiful youth, or rather Mke a bright rose-
coloured shadow, in which the features of a young man
Avere visible, and that he had heard the voice more
distinctly than usual, though in a milder tone, and
seemmg to come to him from a great distance.

After these revelations the man became suddenly
disturbed. He shook from limb to limb, he seemed
convulsed with terror ; he cried out that he had be-
trayed the secret of his Master, who had warned liim

366 A STRANGE STORY.

not to descrilje liis appearance and mode of communi-
cation, or he would surrender his servant to the tor-
mentors. Then the maniac's terror gave way to fury;
his more direful propensity made itself declared ; he
sprang into the midst of his frightened listeners, seized
Mr Vigors by the throat, and would have strangled him
hut for the prompt rush of the superintendent and his
satellites. Foaming at the mouth, and horribly raving,
he was then manacled, a strait-waistcoat thrust upon
. him, and the group so left him in charge of his captors.
Inquiries were immediately directed towards such cir-
cumstantial evidence as might corroborate the details
he had so minutely set forth. The purse, recognised as
Sir Philip's by the valet of the deceased, was found
buried under the wych-elm. A policeman despatched,
express, to the town in which the maniac declared the
knife to have been purchased, brought back word that
a cutler in the place remembered perfectly to have sold
such a knife to a seafaring man, and identified the instru-
ment Avlien it was shown to him. From the chink of a
door ajar, in the wall opposite my sash-window, a maid-
servant, watching for her sweetheart (a journeyman
carpenter, who habitually passed that way on going
home to dine), had, though unobserved by the mur-
derer, seen him come out of my window at a time that
corresponded with the dates of his own story, though
she had thought nothing of it at the moment. He
might be a patient, or have called on business ; she did
not know that I Avas from home. The only point of
importance not cleared up was that which related to

A STRANGE STORY. 367

the opening of the casket — the disappearance of the
contents; the lock had been unquestionahly forced.
K'o one, however, could suppose that some third person
had discovered the hiding-place and forced open the
casket to abstract its contents, and then rebury it.
The only probable supposition was, that the man him-
self had forced it open, and, deeming the contents of
no value, had thrown them away before he had hidden
the casket and purse, and, in the chaos of his reason,
had forgotten that he had so done. Who could expect
that every link in a madman's tale would be found in-
tegral and perfect? In short, little importance was
attached to this solitary doubt. Crowds accompanied
me to my door, when I was set free, in open court,
stainless ; it was a triumphal procession. The popu-
larity I had previously enjoyed, superseded for a moment
by so horrible a charge, came back to nie tenfold, as
with the reaction of generous repentance for a moment-
ary doubt. One man shared the pubHc favour — the
young man whose acuteness had delivered me from the
peril, and cleared the truth from so awful a mystery;
but Margrave had escaped from congratulation and
compliment ; he had gone on a visit to Strahan, at
Derval Court.

Alone, at last, in the welcome sanctuary of my own
home, what were my thoughts 1 Prominent amongst
them all was that assertion of the madman, which had
made me shudder when repeated to me : he had been
guided to the murder and to all the subsequent pro-
ceedings by the luminous shadow of the beautiful

368 A STEANGE STORY,

youth — the Scin-LtBca to which I had pledged myself.
If Sir Philip Derval could he believed, Margrave was]
possessed of powers derived frora fragmentary recol-
lections of a knowledge acquired in a former state of
being, which would render his remorseless intelligence]
infinitely dire, and frustrate the endeavours of a reason,
unassisted by similar powers, to thwart his designs or
bring the law against his crimes. Had he then thej
arts that could thus influence the minds of others to
serve his fell purposes, and achieve securely his own
evil ends through agencies that could not be traced
home to himself 1

But for what conceivable purpose had I been sub-
jected as a victim to influences as much beyond my
control as the Fate or Demoniac ISTecessity of a Greek
Myth? In the legends of the classic world some august
sufferer is oppressed by powers more than mortal, but
with an ethical if gloomy vindication of liis chastise-
ment— he pays the penalty of crime committed by his
ancestors or himself, or he has braved, by arrogating
equahty with the gods, the mysterious calamity which
the gods alone can inflict. But I, no descendant of
Pelops, no Q^ldipus boastful of a wisdom which could
interpret the enigmas of the Sphinx, while ignorant
even of his own birth — what had I done to be singled
out from the herd of men for trials and visitations from
the Shadowland of ghosts and sorcerers 1 It would be
ludicrously absurd to suppose that Dr Lloyd's dying
imprecation could have had a prophetic effect upon my
destiny; to believe that the pretences of mesmerisers

A STRANGE STORY. 369

ivere specially favoured by Providence, and that to
, question their assumptions was an offence of profanation
I to be punished by exposure to preternatural agencies.
There was not even that congruity between cause and
effect which fable seeks in excuse for its inventions.
Of all men living, I, unimaginative disciple of austere
science, should be the last to become the sport of that
witchcraft which even imagination reluctantly allows
to the machinery of poets, and science casts aside into
the mouldy lumber-room of obsolete superstition.

Eousing my mind from enigmas impossible to solve,
it was with intense and yet most melancholy satis-
faction that I turned to the image of Lihan, rejoicing,
though with a thrill of awe, that the promise so
mysteriously conveyed to my senses had, here too, been
already fulfilled — Margrave had left the town ; Lilian
was no longer subjected to his evil fascination. But an
instinct told me that that fascination had already pro-
duced an effect adverse to all hope of happiness for me.
Lilian's love for myself was gone. Impossible otherwise
that she — in whose nature I had always admired that
generous devotion which is more or less inseparable
from the romance of youth — should have never con-
veyed to me one word of consolation in the hour of
my agony and trial : that she who, till the last evening
we had met, had ever been so docile, in the sweetness of
a nature femininely submissive to my slightest wish,
should have disregarded my solemn injunction, and ad-
mitted Margrave to acquaintance, nay, to familiar in-
timacy; at the very time, too, when to disobey my
VOL. I. 2 a

370 A STRANGE STORY.

injunctions was to embitter my ordeal, and add hei
own contempt to the degradation imposed upon my
honour ! N"o, her heart must be wholly gone from me ;
her very nature wholly warped. A union between us
had become impossible. My love for her remained
unshattered ; the more tender, perhaps, for a sentiment
of compassion. But my pride was shocked, my heart
was wounded. My love was not mean and servile.
Enough for me to think that she would be at least
saved from Margrave. Her life associated with his ! —
contemplation, horrible and ghastly ! — from that fate
she was saved. Later, she would recover the effect of
an influence happily so brief. She might form some
new attachment — some new tie. But love once with-
drawn is never to be restored — and her love was with-
drawn from me. I had but to release her, with my
own lips, from our engagement — she would welcome
that release. Mournful but firm in these thoughts and
these resolutions, I sought Mrs Ashleigh's house.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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1866
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