Section 24

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‘I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this. Good-night.’
‘Good-night, Austin.’
The door shut, but in a moment it was opened again, and Austin stood, white and ghastly, in the entrance.
‘I was forgetting,’ he said, ‘that I too have some- thing to tell. I have received a letter from Dr. Hard- ing of Buenos Ayres. He says that he attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.’
‘And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not fever?’
‘No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter collapse of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But he states that the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was conse- quently at some disadvantage in treating the case.’
‘Is there anything more ?”
‘Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: “I think this is all the information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a person who did not bear the best of characters, and has since left—a Mrs. Vaughan.” ’
Vill THE FRAGMENTS
[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr. Robert Matheson, of Ashley Street, Piccadilly, who died suddenly, of apoplectic seizure, at the beginning of 1892, a leaf of manu- script paper was found, covered with pencil jottings. ‘These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated, and had evidently been made in great haste. “The MS. was only deciphered with great
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difficulty, and some words have up to the present time evaded all the efforts of the expert employed. The date, ‘XXV Jul. 1888,’ is written on the right-hand corner of the MS. The following is a translation of Dr. Matheson’s manuscript. ]
‘Whether science would benefit by these brief notes if they could be published, I do not know, but rather doubt. But certainly I shall never take the responsi- bility of publishing or divulging one word of what is here written, not only on account of my oath freely given to those two persons who were present, but also because the details are too abominable. It is probably that, upon mature consideration, and after weighing the good and evil, I shall one day destroy this paper, or at least leave it under seal to my friend D., trusting in his discretion, to use it or to burn it, as he may think fit.
‘As was befitting, I did all that my knowledge sug- gested to make sure that I was suffering under no de- lusion. At first astounded, I could hardly think, but in a minute’s time I was sure that my pulse was steady and regular, and that I was in my real and true senses. I then fixed my eyes quietly on what was be- fore me.
‘Though horror and revolting nausea rose up within me, and an odour of corruption choked my breath, I remained firm. I was then privileged or accursed, I dare not say which, to see that which was on the bed, lying there black like ink, transformed before my eyes. The skin, and the flesh, and the muscles, and the bones, and the firm structure of the human body that I had thought to be unchangeable, and permanent as adam- ant, began to melt and dissolve.
‘I knew that the body may be separated into its
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elements by external agencies, but I should have refused to believe what I saw. For here there was some in- ternal force, of which I knew nothing, that caused dis- solution and change.
‘Here too was all the work by Which manihad been made repeated before my eyes. I saw the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself from itself, and then again reunited. Then I saw the body descend to the beasts whence it ascended, and that which was on the heights go down to the depths, even to the abyss of all being. The principle of life, which makes organism, always remained, while the outward form changed.
‘The light within the room had turned to blackness, not the darkness of night, in which objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly and without difficulty. But it was the negation of light; objects were presented to my eyes, if I may say so, without any medium, in such a manner that if there had been a prism in the room I should have seen no colours represented in it. _ ‘I watched, and at last I saw nothing but a substance as jelly. Then the ladder was ascended again... [here the MS. is illegible] . . . for one instant I saw a Form, shaped in dimness before me, which I will not farther describe. But the symbol of this form may be seen in ancient sculptures, and in paintings which survived beneath the lava, too foul to be spoken of
. as a horrible and unspeakable shape, neither man nor beast, was changed into human form, there came finally death.
‘I who saw all this, not without great horror and loathing of soul, here write my name, declaring all that I have set on this paper to be true.
: ‘ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr.’
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* ok k ** 2 K
. . . Such, Raymond, is the story of what I know and what I have seen. ‘The burden of it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet I could tell it to none but you. Villiers, who was with me at the last, knows nothing of that awful secret of the wood, of how what we both saw die, lay upon the smooth, sweet turf amidst the summer flowers, half in sun and half in shadow, and holding the girl Rachel’s hand, called and summoned those companions, and shaped in solid form, upon the earth we tread on, the horror which we can but hint at, which we can only name under a figure. I would not tell Villiers of this, nor of that resem- blance, which struck me as with a blow upon my heart, when I saw the portrait, which filled the cup of terror at the end. What this can mean I dare not guess. I know that what I saw perish was not Mary, and yet in the last agony Mary’s eyes looked into mine. Whether there be any one who can show the last link in this chain of awful mystery, I do not know, but if there be any one who can do this, you, Raymond, are the man. And if you know the secret, it rests with you to tell it or not, as you please.
I am writing this letter to you immediately on my getting back to town. I have been in the country for the last few days; perhaps you may be able to guess in what part. While the horror and wonder of London was at its height—for ‘Mrs. Beaumont,’ as I have told you, was well known in society—I wrote to my friend Dr. Phillips, giving some brief outline, or rather hint, of what had happened, and asking him to tell me the name of, the village where the events he had related to me occurred. He gave me the name, as he said with
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the less hesitation, because Rachel’s father and mother were dead, and the rest of the family had gone to a relative in the State of Washington six months before. The parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of grief and horror caused by. the terrible death of their daughter, and by what had gone before that death. On the evening of the day on which I received Phillips’s letter I was at Caermaen, and standing beneath the mouldering Roman walls, white with the winters of seventeen hundred years, I looked over the meadow where once had stood the older temple of the ‘God of the Deeps,’ and saw a house gleaming in the sun- light. It was the house where Helen had lived. I stayed at Caermaen for several days. ‘The people of the place, I found, knew little and had guessed less. Those whom I spoke to on the matter seemed surprised that an antiquarian (as I professed myself to be) should trouble about a village tragedy, of which they gave a very commonplace version, and, as you may imagine, I told nothing of what I knew. Most of my time was spent in the great wood that rises just above the village and climbs the hillside, and goes down to the river in the valley; such another long lovely valley, Raymond, as that on which we looked one summer night, walking to and fro before your house. For many an hour | strayed through the maze of the forest, turning now to right and now to left, pacing slowly down long alleys of undergrowth, shadowy and chill, even under the midday sun, and halting beneath great oaks; lying on the short turf of a clearing where the faint sweet scent of wild roses came to me on the wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of the elder, whose mingled odour is like the odour of the room of the
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dead, a vapour of incense and corruption. I stood at the edges of the wood, gazing at all the pomp and procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the bracken and shining red in the broad sunshine, and be- yond them into deep thickets of close undergrowth where springs boil up from the rock and nourish the water-weeds, dank and evil. But in all my wanderings I avoided one part of the wood; it was not till yester- day that I climbed to the summit of the hill, and stood upon the ancient Roman road that threads the highest ridge of the wood. Here they had walked, Helen and Rachel, along this quiet causeway, upon the pavement of green turf, shut in on either side by high banks of red earth, and tall hedges of shining beech, and here I followed in their steps, looking out, now and again, through partings in the boughs, and seeing on one side the sweep of the wood stretching far to right and left, and sinking into the broad level, and beyond, the yellow sea, and the land over the sea. On the other side was the valley and the river and hill following hill as wave on wave, and wood and meadow, and cornfield, and white houses gleaming, and a great wall of moun- tain, and far blue peaks in the north. And so at last I came to the place. The track went up a gentle slope, and widened out into an open space with a wall of thick undergrowth around it, and then, narrowing again, passed on into the distance and the faint blue mist of -summer heat. And into this pleasant summer glade Rachel passed a girl, and left it, who shall say what? I did not stay long there.
In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the most part Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at various times.
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On the day after my arrival at Caermaen I walked over to the town in question, and took the opportunity of in- specting this museum. After I had seen most of the sculptured stones, the coffins, rings, coins, and frag- ments of tessellated pavement which the place contains, I was shown a small square pillar of white stone, which had been recently discovered in the wood of which I have been speaking, and, as I found on inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road broadens out. On one side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I took a note. Some of the letters have been defaced, but I do not think there can be any doubt as to those which I supply. The inscription is as follows:
DEVOMNODENT2 FLAVIVSSENILISPOSSVit PROPTERNVPi?ias quaSVIDITSVBVMBra
‘To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw beneath the
shade.’
The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were much puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in translating it, but as to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is made.
* * * * * *
. . . And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan, whom you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost incredi- ble horror. I was interested in your account, but a good deal, nay all, of what you told me I knew already.
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I can understand the strange likeness you remarked both in the portrait and in the actual face; you have seen Helen’s mother. You remember that still sum- mer night so many years ago, when I talked to you of the world beyond the shadows, and of the god Pan. You remember Mary. She was the mother of Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night.
Mary never recovered her reason. She lay, as you saw her, all the while upon her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died. I fancy that just at the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed, and the old look came into her eyes for a second, and then she shuddered and groaned and died. It was an ill work I did that night when you were present; I broke open the door of the house of life, without knowing or caring what might pass forth or enter in. I recollect your telling me at the time, sharply enough, and rightly enough too, in one sense, that I had ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment, based on an absurd theory. You did well to blame me, but my theory was not all absurdity. What I said Mary would see, she saw, but I forgot that no human eyes could look on such a vision with impunity. And I for- got, as I have just said, that when the house of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in that for which we have no name, and human flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare not express. I played with energies which I did not understand, and you have seen the ending of it. Helen Vaughan did well to bind the cord about her neck and die, though the death was hor- rible. ‘The blackened face, the hideous form upon the bed, changing and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to beast, and from beast to
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worse than beast, all the strange horror that you wit- nessed, surprises me but little. What you say the doctor whom you sent for saw and shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done the moment the child was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I surprised it, not once or twice but several times with a playmate, you may guess of what kind. It was for me a constant, an incarnate horror, and after a few years I felt I could bear it no longer, and I sent Helen Vaughan away. You know now what frightened the boy in the wood. The rest of the strange story, and all else that you tell me, as dis- covered by your friend, I have contrived to learn from time to time, almost to the last chapter. And now Helen is with her companions. . . .
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I
NE evening in autumn, when the deformities () of London were veiled in faint blue mist, and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street, drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he passed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end of the street jostled against him. ‘I beg your pardon—wasn’t looking where I was going. Why, it’s Dyson!’
‘Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?’
‘Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don’t think I can have seen you for the last five years?’
‘No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you came to my place at Charlotte Street?”
‘Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five weeks’ rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a comparatively small sum.’
‘My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, | washard up. But the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My financial state was described by a friend as “‘stone broke.” I don’t approve of slang, mind you, but such was my con- dition. But suppose we go in; there might be other
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people who would like to dine—it’s a human weakness, Salisbury.’
‘Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the corner table were taken. It has a velvet back, you know.’
‘I know the spot; it’s vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even harder up.’
‘What did you do then?’ asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond anticipation at the menu.
‘What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind: that was the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable Philistinism! I have often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be very good, but the flasks are simply charming.’