Section 19

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the girl had taken off her hat, though the heat of the sun was already almost tropical. As it happened, a labourer, Joseph W. by name, was working in the forest near the Roman Road, and at twelve o’clock his little son, Trevor, brought the man his dinner of bread and cheese. After the meal, the boy, who was about seven years old at the time, left his father at work, and, as he said, went to look for flowers in the wood, and the man, who could hear him shouting with delight over his discoveries, felt no uneasiness. Sud- denly, however, he was horrified at hearing the most dreadful screams, evidently the result of great terror, proceeding from the direction in which his son had gone, and he hastily threw down his tools and ran to see what had happened. Tracing his path by the sound, he met the little boy, who was running head- long, and was evidently terribly frightened, and on questioning him the man at last elicited that after picking a posy of flowers he felt tired, and lay down on the grass and fell asleep. He was suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar noise, a sort of singing he called it, and on peeping through the bran- ches he saw Helen V. playing on the grass with a ‘strange naked man,’ whom he seemed unable to de- scribe more fully. He said he felt dreadfully fright- ened, and ran away crying for his father. Joseph W. proceeded in the direction indicated by his son, and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in the middle of a glade or open space left by charcoal burners. He angrily charged her with frightening his little boy, but she entirely denied the accusation and laughed at the child’s story of a ‘strange man,’ to which he himself
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did not attach much credence. Joseph W. came to the conclusion that the boy had woke up with a sud- den fright, as children sometimes do, but Trevor persisted in his story, and continued in such evident distress that at last his father took him home, hoping that his mother would be able to soothe him. For many weeks, however, the boy gave his parents much anxiety; he became nervous and strange in his manner, refusing to leave the cottage by himself, and constantly alarming the household by waking in the night with cries of ‘The man in the wood! father! father!’
In course of time, however, the impression seemed to have worn off, and about three months later he ac- companied his father to the house of a gentleman in the neighbourhood, for whom Joseph W. occasionally did work. ‘The man was shown into the study, and the little boy was left sitting in the hall, and a few minutes later, while the gentleman was giving W. his instructions, they were both horrified by a piercing shriek and the sound of a fall, and rushing out they found the child lying senseless on the floor, his face contorted with terror. The doctor was immediately summoned, and after some examination he pronounced the child to be suffering from a kind of fit, apparently produced by a sudden shock. ‘The boy was taken to one of the bedrooms, and after some time recovered consciousness, but only to pass into a condition de- scribed by the medical man as one of violent hysteria. The doctor exhibited a strong sedative, and in the course of two hours pronounced him fit to walk home, but in passing through the hall the paroxysms of fright returned and with additional violence. The father
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perceived that the child was pointing at some object, and heard the old cry, ‘The man in the wood,’ and looking in the direction indicated saw a stone head of grotesque appearance, which had been built into the wall above one of the doors. It seems that the owner of the house had recently made alterations in his prem- ises, and on digging the foundation for some offices, the men had found a curious head, evidently of the Roman period, which had been placed in the hall in the manner described. The head is pronounced by the most ex- perienced archeologists of the district to be that of a faun or satyr.’?
From whatever cause arising, this second shock seemed too severe for the boy Trevor, and at the present date he suffers from a weakness of intellect, which gives but little promise of amending. The mat- ter caused a good deal of sensation at the time, and the girl Helen was closely questioned by Mr. R., but to no purpose, she steadfastly denying that she had frightened or in any way molested Trevor.
The second event with which this girl’s name is con- nected took place about six years ago, and is of a still more extraordinary character.
At the beginning of the summer of 1882 Helen con- tracted a friendship of a peculiarly intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl, who was a year younger than Helen, was considered by most people to be the prettier of the two, though Helen’s features had to a great extent softened as she became older.
1Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question, and assures me that he has never received such a vivid presentment of
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The two girls, who were together on every available opportunity, presented a singular contrast, the one with her clear, olive skin and almost Italian appearance, and the other of the proverbial red and white of our rural districts. It must be-stated that the payments made to Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were known in the village for their excessive liberality, and the im- pression was general that she would one day inherit a large sum of money from her relative. The parents of Rachel were therefore not averse from their daugh- ter’s friendship with the girl, and even encouraged the intimacy, though they now bitterly regret having done so. ‘Helen still retained her extraordinary fond- ness for the forest, and on several occasions Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting out early in the morning, and remaining in the wood till dusk. Once or twice after these excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter’s manner rather peculiar; she seemed languid and dreamy, and as it has been expressed, ‘dif- ferent from herself,’ but these peculiarities seem to have been thought too trifling for remark. One even- ing, however, after Rachel had come home, her mother heard a noise which sounded like suppressed weeping in the girl’s room, and on going in found her lying, half undressed, upon the bed, evidently in the greatest distress. AAs soon as she saw her mother, she ex- claimed, ‘Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest with Helen?’ Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to make in- quiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said—
Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the fire. When his friend sat one eve-
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ning in that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of horror. ‘My God!’ he had exclaimed, ‘think, think what you are saying. It is too incredible, too monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where men and women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as this. There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror. Why, man, if such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.’
But Phillips had told his story to the end, conclud- ing:
‘Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she van- ished in broad sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she was not there.’
Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and again his mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of such awful, unspeak- able elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh. Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it; he saw the swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the two figures moved toward him. One was Rachel, but the other?
Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at
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the end of the account, as he had written it in his book, he had placed the inscription:
ET DIABOLUS INCARNATUS EST. ET HOMO FACTUS, EST.
III THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
‘Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?’
‘Yes, my name’s Herbert. I think I know your face too, but I don’t remember your name. My mem- ory is very queer.’
‘Don’t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?’
‘So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn’t think I was begging of an old college friend. Good-night.’
‘My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but we won’t go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a little way? But how in heaven’s name have you come to this pass, Herbert?’
‘It’s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear it if you like.’
‘Come on, then. Take my arm, you don’t seem very strong.’
The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty, evil-looking rags, and the other at- tired in the regulation uniform of a man about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an ingratiating little flask
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of Chianti, and, in that frame of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem in every quarter and at every hour. Villiers prided himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an as- siduity which was worthy of more serious employment. Thus he stood beside the lamp-post surveying the pas- sers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gra- vity only known to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula: ‘London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than that, it is the city of Resurrections,’ when these reflections were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a deplorable appeal for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and with a sudden shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat stilted fancies. There, close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different oc- cupations and varying interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain inquisi- tiveness as to what dreary chain of circumstance had dragged him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of the ama-
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teur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations outside the restaurant.
They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by stared in astonishment at the un-. accustomed spectacle of a well-dressed man with an unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, ob- serving this, Villiers led the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question.
‘How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I al- ways understood you would succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit you? Surely not?’
‘No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s death; he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me, and I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men are; a few months later I came up to town and went a good deal into society. Of course I had ex- cellent introductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very much in a harmless sort of way. I played a little, certainly, but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races brought me in money—only a few pounds, you know, but enough to pay for cigars and such petty pleasures. It was in my second season that the tide turned. Of course you have heard of my marriage?’
‘No, I never heard anything about it.’
‘Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful and most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew. I cannot tell you her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I should think she must have been about nineteen when I made her acquaintance. My friends had come to
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know her at Florence; she told them she was an or- phan, the child of an English father and an Italian mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me. The first time I saw her was at an evening party. I was standing by the door talking to a friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard a voice which seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing an Italian song. I was introduced to her that evening, and in three months I married Helen. Villiers, that woman, if I can call her woman, corrupted my soul. The night of the wedding I found myself sitting in her bedroom in the hotel, listening to her talk. She was sitting up in bed, and I listened to her as she spoke in her beautiful voice, spoke of things which even now I would not dare whisper in blackest night, though I stood in the midst of a wilderness. You, Villiers, you may think you know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this dreadful city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but I tell you you can have no conception of what I know, not in your most fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow of what I have heard—and seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredi- ble, such horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the street, and ask whether it is possible for a man to behold such things and live. In a year, Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul—in body and soul.’
‘But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.’
‘I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old house—everything.’
‘And the money?”
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‘She took it all from me.’
‘And then left you?’
‘Yes; she disappeared one night. I don’t know where she went, but I am sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I have exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would never know a happy day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell.’
Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set before him. He sat moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved when Villiers sent him away with a small present of money.
‘By the way, Herbert,’ said Villiers, as they parted at the door, ‘what was your wife’s name? You said Helen, I think? Helen what?’
‘The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what her real name was I can’t say. I don’t think she had a name. No, no, not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can’t say any more. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in which you can help me. ’ Good-night.’
The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his fireside. “There was something about Herbert which shocked him inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set upon his face, but rather an indefinite terror which hung
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about him like a mist. He had acknowledged that he himself was not devoid of blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an actor in scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused curiously over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had heard both the first and the last of it. ‘No, he thought, ‘cer- tainly not the last, probably only the beginning. A case like this is like a nest of Chinese boxes; you open one after another and find a quainter workmanship in every box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the outside boxes; there are stranger ones to fol- low.’