CHAPTER XXXV. 

On reaching my own home, I found my servant sitting up for me with theinformation that my attendance was immediately required. The little boywhom Margrave's carelessness had so injured, and for whose injury he hadshown so little feeling, had been weakened by the confinement which thenature of the injury required, and for the last few days had beengenerally ailing. The father had come to my house a few minutes before Ireached it, in great distress of mind, saying that his child had beenseized with fever, and had become delirious. Hearing that I was at themayor's house, he had hurried thither in search of me. 

I felt as if it were almost a relief to the troubled and haunting thoughtswhich tormented me, to be summoned to the exercise of a familiarknowledge. I hastened to the bedside of the little sufferer, and soonforgot all else in the anxious struggle for a human life. The strugglepromised to be successful; the worst symptoms began to yield to remediesprompt and energetic, if simple. I remained at the house, rather tocomfort and support the parents, than because my continued attendance wasabsolutely needed, till the night was well-nigh gone; and all cause ofimmediate danger having subsided, I then found myself once more in thestreets. An atmosphere palely clear in the gray of dawn had succeeded tothe thunder-clouds of the stormy night; the streetlamps, here and there, burned wan and still. I was walking slowly and wearily, so tired out thatI was scarcely conscious of my own thoughts, when, in a narrow lane, myfeet stopped almost mechanically before a human form stretched at fulllength in the centre of the road right in my path. The form was dark inthe shadow thrown from the neighbouring houses. "Some poor drunkard, "thought I, and the humanity inseparable from my calling not allowing me toleave a fellow-creature thus exposed to the risk of being run over by thefirst drowsy wagoner who might pass along the thoroughfare, I stooped torouse and to lift the form. What was my horror when my eyes met the rigidstare of a dead man's. I started, looked again; it was the face of SirPhilip Derval! He was lying on his back, the countenance upturned, a darkstream oozing from the breast, --murdered by two ghastly wounds, murderednot long since, the blood was still warm. Stunned and terror-stricken, Istood bending over the body. Suddenly I was touched on the shoulder. 

"Hollo! what is this?" said a gruff voice. 

"Murder!" I answered in hollow accents, which sounded strangely to my ownear. 

"Murder! so it seems. " And the policeman who had thus accosted me liftedthe body. 

"A gentleman by his dress. How did this happen? How did you come here?"and the policeman glanced suspiciously at me. 

At this moment, however, there came up another policeman, in whom Irecognized the young man whose sister I had attended and cured. 

"Dr. Fenwick, " said the last, lifting his hat respectfully, and at thesound of my name his fellow-policeman changed his manner and muttered anapology. 

I now collected myself sufficiently to state the name and rank of themurdered man. The policemen bore the body to their station, to which Iaccompanied them. I then returned to my own house, and had scarcely sunkon my bed when sleep came over me. But what a sleep! Never till then hadI known how awfully distinct dreams can be. The phantasmagoria of thenaturalist's collection revived. Life again awoke in the serpent and thetiger, the scorpion moved, and the vulture flapped its wings. And therewas Margrave, and there Sir Philip; but their position of power wasreversed, and Margrave's foot was on the breast of the dead man. Still Islept on till I was roused by the summons to attend on Mr. Vigors, themagistrate to whom the police had reported the murder. 

I dressed hastily and went forth. As I passed through the street, I foundthat the dismal news had already spread. I was accosted on my way to themagistrate by a hundred eager, tremulous, inquiring tongues. 

The scanty evidence I could impart was soon given. 

My introduction to Sir Philip at the mayor's house, our accidental meetingunder the arch, my discovery of the corpse some hours afterwards on myreturn from my patient, my professional belief that the deed must havebeen done a very short time, perhaps but a few minutes, before I chancedupon its victim. But, in that case, how account for the long intervalthat had elapsed between the time in which I had left Sir Philip under thearch and the time in which the murder must have been committed? SirPhilip could not have been wandering through the streets all those hours. This doubt, how ever, was easily and speedily cleared up. A Mr. Jeeves, who was one of the principal solicitors in the town, stated that he hadacted as Sir Philip's legal agent and adviser ever since Sir Philip cameof age, and was charged with the exclusive management of some valuablehouse-property which the deceased had possessed in L----; that when SirPhilip had arrived in the town late in the afternoon of the previous day, he had sent for Mr. Jeeves; informed him that he, Sir Philip, was engagedto be married; that he wished to have full and minute information as tothe details of his house property (which had greatly increased in valuesince his absence from England), in connection with the settlements hismarriage would render necessary; and that this information was alsorequired by him in respect to a codicil he desired to add to his will. 

He had, accordingly, requested Mr. Jeeves to have all the books andstatements concerning the property ready for his inspection that night, when he would call, after leaving the ball which he had promised themayor, whom he had accidentally met on entering the town, to attend. SirPhilip had also asked Mr. Jeeves to detain one of his clerks in hisoffice, in order to serve, conjointly with Mr. Jeeves, as a witness to thecodicil he desired to add to his will. Sir Philip had accordingly come toMr. Jeeves's house a little before midnight; had gone carefully throughall the statements prepared for him, and had executed the fresh codicil tohis testament, which testament he had in their previous interview given toMr. Jeeves's care, sealed up. Mr. Jeeves stated that Sir Philip, thougha man of remarkable talents and great acquirements, was extremelyeccentric, and of a very peremptory temper, and that the importanceattached to a promptitude for which there seemed no pressing occasion didnot surprise him in Sir Philip as it might have done in an ordinaryclient. Sir Philip said, indeed, that he should devote the next morningto the draft for his wedding settlements, according to the information ofhis property which he had acquired; and after a visit of very briefduration to Derval Court, should quit the neighbourhood and return toParis, where his intended bride then was, and in which city it had beensettled that the marriage ceremony should take place. 

Mr. Jeeves had, however, observed to him, that if he were so soon to bemarried, it was better to postpone any revision of testamentary bequests, since after marriage he would have to make a new will altogether. 

And Sir Philip had simply answered, --

"Life is uncertain; who can be sure of the morrow?"

Sir Philip's visit to Mr. Jeeves's house had lasted some hours, for theconversation between them had branched off from actual business to varioustopics. Mr. Jeeves had not noticed the hour when Sir Philip went; hecould only say that as he attended him to the street-door, he observed, rather to his own surprise, that it was close upon daybreak. 

Sir Philip's body had been found not many yards distant from the hotel atwhich he had put up, and to which, therefore, he was evidently returningwhen he left Mr. Jeeves, --an old-fashioned hotel, which had been theprincipal one at L---- when Sir Philip left England, though nowoutrivalled by the new and more central establishment in which Margravewas domiciled. 

The primary and natural supposition was that Sir Philip had been murderedfor the sake of plunder; and this supposition was borne out by the fact towhich his valet deposed, namely, --

That Sir Philip had about his person, on going to the mayor's house, apurse containing notes and sovereigns; and this purse was now missing. 

The valet, who, though an Albanian, spoke English fluently, said that thepurse had a gold clasp, on which Sir Philip's crest and initials wereengraved. Sir Philip's watch was, however, not taken. 

And now, it was not without a quick beat of the heart that I heard thevalet declare that a steel casket, to which Sir Philip attachedextraordinary value, and always carried about with him, was also missing. 

The Albanian described this casket as of ancient Byzantine workmanship, opening with a peculiar spring, only known to Sir Philip, in whosepossession it had been, so far as the servant knew, about three years:when, after a visit to Aleppo, in which the servant had not accompaniedhim, he had first observed it in his master's hands. He was asked ifthis casket contained articles to account for the value Sir Philip set onit, --such as jewels, bank-notes, letters of credit, etc. The man repliedthat it might possibly do so; he had never been allowed the opportunityof examining its contents; but that he was certain the casket heldmedicines, for he had seen Sir Philip take from it some small phials, bywhich he had performed great cures in the East, and especially during apestilence which had visited Damascus, just after Sir Philip had arrivedat that city on quitting Aleppo. Almost every European traveller issupposed 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 thatSir Philip was an amateur disciple of homoeopathy, and that the casketcontained the phials or globules in use among homoeopathists. 

Whether or not Mr. Vigors enjoyed a vindictive triumph in making me feelthe weight of his authority, or whether his temper was ruffled in theexcitement of so grave a case, I cannot say, but his manner was stern andhis tone discourteous in the questions which he addressed to me. Nor didthe questions themselves seem very pertinent to the object ofinvestigation. 

"Pray, Dr. Fenwick, " said he, knitting his brows, and fixing his eyes onme rudely, "did Sir Philip Derval in his conversation with you mentionthe steel casket which it seems he carried about with him?"

I felt my countenance change slightly as I answered, "Yes. "

"Did he tell you what it contained?"

"He said it contained secrets. "

"Secrets of what nature, --medicinal or chemical? Secrets which aphysician might be curious to learn and covetous to possess?"

This question seemed to me so offensively significant that it roused myindignation, and I answered haughtily, that "a physician of any degree ofmerited reputation did not much believe in, and still less covet, thosesecrets 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 thata 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 believed. I have no more questions to put toyou at present, Dr. Fenwick. "

Little of any importance in connection with the deceased or his murdertranspired in the course of that day's examination and inquiries. 

The next day, a gentleman distantly related to the young lady to whom SirPhilip was engaged, and who had been for some time in correspondence withthe deceased, arrived at L----. He had been sent for at the suggestion ofthe Albanian servant, who said that Sir Philip had stayed a day at thisgentleman's house in London, on his way to L----, from Dover. 

The new comer, whose name was Danvers, gave a more touching pathos to thehorror which the murder had excited. It seemed that the motives which hadswayed Sir Philip in the choice of his betrothed were singularly pure andnoble. The young lady's father--an intimate college friend--had beenvisited by a sudden reverse of fortune, which had brought on a fever thatproved mortal. He had died some years ago, leaving his only childpenniless, and had bequeathed her to the care and guardianship of SirPhilip. 

The orphan received her education at a convent near Paris; and when SirPhilip, a few weeks since, arrived in that city from the East, he offeredher his hand and fortune. 

"I know, " said Mr. Danvers, "from the conversation I held with him when hecame to me in London, that he was induced to this offer by theconscientious desire to discharge the trust consigned to him by his oldfriend. Sir Philip was still of an age that could not permit him to takeunder his own roof a female ward of eighteen, without injury to her goodname. He could only get over that difficulty by making the ward his wife. 'She will be safer and happier with the man she will love and honour forher father's sake, ' said the chivalrous gentleman, 'than she will be underany 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 Edinburghacquaintance, Richard Strahan. 

The will in Mr. Jeeves's keeping, with its recent codicil, was opened andread. The will itself bore date about six years anterior to thetestator's tragic death: it was very short, and, with the exception of afew legacies, of which the most important was L10, 000 to his ward, thewhole of his property was left to Richard Strahan, on the condition thathe took the name and arms of Derval within a year from the date of SirPhilip's decease. The codicil, added to the will the night before hisdeath, increased the legacy to the young lady from L10, 000 to L30, 000, andbequeathed an annuity of L100 a year to his Albanian servant. Accompanying the will, and within the same envelope, was a sealed letter, addressed to Richard Strahan, and dated at Paris two weeks be fore SirPhilip's decease. Strahan brought that letter to me. It ran thus:--

 "Richard Strahan, I advise you to pull down the house called Derval Court, and to build another on a better site, the plans of which, to be modified according to your own taste and requirements, will be 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 because he will bear my name and represent my lineage. There will be found in my writing-desk, which always accompanies 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 executor, from a crowd of relations not more distant, I should have made inquiries in order to justify my selection. The result of those inquiries informs me that you have not yourself the peculiar knowledge nor the habits of mind that could enable you to judge of matters which demand the attainments and the practice of science; but that you are of an honest, affectionate 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 electricity 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 mankind, 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 own 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 lands where they could be best facilitated or aided, --the ambition of leaving behind me the renown of a bold discoverer in those recesses of nature which philosophy has hitherto abandoned to superstition. But I feel, at the moment in which I trace these lines, a fear 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 benignant 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 and still do covet that fame which 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 fellowmen 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 whose memory I hold in profound veneration. Should I live to find a person 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 have ventured to employ. Others I have never tested, nor do I know how they could be resupplied 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, Richard Strahan, will only come under your eyes in case the plans and the hopes which I have formed for my earthly future should be frustrated by 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 refused 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 which this codicil assures to my betrothed would be transferred to yourself 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? Richard Strahan, your only sister, many years older than yourself--you were then a child--was the object of my first love. We were to have been wedded, for her parents deceived me into the belief that she returned my affection. With a rare and nobler 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 claims to her hand, I succeeded in propitiating her parents to her own choice. I obtained for her husband the living which he held, and I settled on your sister the dower 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, recognize my title to reverential obedience to commands which may seem to you wild, perhaps irrational; and repay, as if a debt due froth 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 theman 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; youare the very man he himself would have selected. Of your honour andhumanity there can be no doubt, and you have studied with success thesciences which he specifies as requisite for the discharge of the task hecommands. "

At this request, though I could not be wholly unprepared for it, my firstimpulse was that of a vague terror. It seemed to me as if I were becomingmore and more entangled in a mysterious and fatal web. But this impulsesoon faded in the eager yearnings of an ardent and irresistible curiosity. 

I promised to read the manuscript, and in order that I might fully imbuemy mind with the object and wish of the deceased, I asked leave to make acopy of the letter I had just read. To this Strahan readily assented, andthat copy I have transcribed in the preceding pages. 

I asked Strahan if he had yet found the manuscript. He said, "No, he hadnot yet had the heart to inspect the papers left by the deceased. Hewould now do so. He should go in a day or two to Derval Court, and residethere till the murderer was discovered, as doubtless he soon must bethrough the vigilance of the police. Not till that discovery was madeshould Sir Philip's remains, though already placed in their coffin, beconsigned to the family vault. "

Strahan seemed to have some superstitious notion that the murderer mightbe more secure from justice if his victim were thrust unavenged into thetomb. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

The belief prevalent in the town ascribed the murder of Sir Philip to theviolence of some vulgar robber, probably not an inhabitant of L----. Mr. Vigors did not favour that belief. He intimated an opinion, which seemedextravagant and groundless, that Sir Philip had been murdered, for thesake not of the missing purse, but of the missing casket. It wascurrently believed that the solemn magistrate had consulted one of hispretended clairvoyants, and that this impostor had gulled him withassurances, to which he attached a credit that perverted into egregiouslyabsurd directions his characteristic activity and zeal. 

Be that as it may, the coroner's inquest closed without casting any lighton so mysterious a tragedy. 

What were my own conjectures I scarcely dared to admit, --I certainly couldnot venture to utter them; but my suspicions centred upon Margrave. Thatfor some reason or other he had cause to dread Sir Philip's presence inL---- was clear, even to my reason. And how could my reason reject allthe influences which had been brought to bear on my imagination, whetherby the scene in the museum or my conversation with the deceased? But itwas impossible to act on such suspicions, --impossible even to confidethem. Could I have told to any man the effect produced on me in themuseum, he would have considered me a liar or a madman. And in SirPhilip's accusations against Margrave, there was nothingtangible, --nothing that could bear repetition. Those accusations, ifanalyzed, vanished into air. What did they imply?--that Margrave was amagician, a monstrous prodigy, a creature exceptional to the ordinaryconditions of humanity. Would the most reckless of mortals have venturedto bring against the worst of characters such a charge, on the authorityof a deceased witness, and to found on evidence so fantastic the awfulaccusation of murder? But of all men, certainly I--a sober, practicalphysician--was the last whom the public could excuse for such incredibleimplications; and certainly, of all men, the last against whom anysuspicion of heinous crime would be readily entertained was that joyousyouth in whose sunny aspect life and conscience alike seemed to keepcareless holiday. But I could not overcome, nor did I attempt to reasonagainst, the horror akin to detestation, that had succeeded to thefascinating attraction by which Margrave had before conciliated a likingfounded rather on admiration than esteem. 

In order to avoid his visits I kept away from the study in which I hadhabitually spent my mornings, and to which he had been accustomed to soready an access; and if he called at the front door, I directed my servantto tell him that I was either from home or engaged. He did attempt forthe first few days to visit me as before, but when my intention to shunhim became thus manifest, desisted naturally enough, as any other man sopointedly repelled would have done. 

I abstained from all those houses in which I was likely to meet him, andwent my professional round of visits in a close carriage, so that I mightnot be accosted by him in his walks. 

One morning, a very few days after Strahan had shown me Sir PhilipDerval's letter, I received a note from my old college acquaintance, stating that he was going to Derval Court that afternoon; that he shouldtake with him the memoir which he had found, and begging me to visit himat his new home the next day, and commence my inspection of themanuscript. I consented eagerly. 

That morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by another drawn up tothe pavement, and I recognized the figure of Margrave standing beside thevehicle, and talking to some one seated within it. I looked back, as myown carriage whirled rapidly by, and saw with uneasiness and alarm that itwas Richard Strahan to whom Margrave was thus familiarly addressinghimself. How had the two made acquaintance?

Was it not an outrage on Sir Philip Derval's memory, that the heir he hadselected should be thus apparently intimate with the man whom he had sosternly denounced? I became still more impatient to read the memoir: inall probability it would give such explanations with respect to Margrave'santecedents, as, if not sufficing to criminate him of legal offences, would at least effectually terminate any acquaintance between Sir Philip'ssuccessor and himself. 

All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of far deeper interesteven than those in which my mind had of late been so tumultuously whirledalong, when, on returning home, I found a note from Mrs. Ashleigh. Sheand Lilian had just come back to L----, sooner than she had led me toanticipate. Lilian had not seemed quite well the last day or two, and hadbeen anxious to return. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Let me recall it--softly, --softly! Let me recall that evening spent withher!--that evening, the last before darkness rose between us like a solidwall. 

It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, the twilight waslingering still. We were in the old monastic garden, --garden so quiet, so cool, so fragrant. She was seated on a bench under the one greatcedar-tree that rose sombre in the midst of the grassy lawn with itslittle 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, --howyoung, how fair, how innocent!

Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly the creature ofour sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robe that I touch sotimorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that so well become the softcolour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of the brown hair! She ismurmuring low her answer to my trembling question. 

"As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as well still?"

"There is no 'still' written here, " said she, softly pressing herhand to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in the Forever. "

"Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetry as yourown!"

"Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!"

"That was before you went away; before I missed you from my eyes, from mylife; before I was quite conscious how precious you were to me, moreprecious than common words can tell! Yes, there is one period in lovewhen all men are poets, however the penury of their language may belie theluxuriance of their fancies. What would become of me if you ceased tolove me?"

"Or of me, if you could cease to love?"

"And somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drew nearer toyou, --nearer as if for shelter. "

"It is sympathy, " said she, with tremulous eagerness, --"that sort ofmysterious 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 wasoppressed by an indescribable terror in returning home, and the moment Isaw you there came a sense of protection. "

Her head sank on my shoulder: we were silent some moments; then we bothrose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slight form I twinedmy strong arm of man. And now we are winding slow under the lilacs andacacias that belt the lawn. Lilian has not yet heard of the murder, whichforms the one topic of the town, for all tales of violence and bloodaffected her as they affect a fearful child. Mrs. Ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from her the letters and the journals by whichthe dismal news had been carried to herself. I need scarcely say that thegrim subject was not broached by me. In fact, my own mind escaped fromthe events which had of late so perplexed and tormented it; thetranquillity of the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence, had begun tochase away even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me inthe first moments of our reunion. So we came gradually to converse of thefuture, --of the day, not far distant, when we two should be as one. Weplanned our bridal excursion. We would visit the scenes endeared to herby song, to me by childhood, --the banks and waves of my nativeWindermere, --our one brief holiday before life returned to labour, andhearts now so disquieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenityof home. 

As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, rose amidst skieswithout a cloud. We paused to gaze on her solemn haunting beauty, aswhere are the lovers who have not paused to gaze? We were then on theterrace walk, which commanded a view of the town below. Before us was aparapet wall, low on the garden side, but inaccessible on the outer side, forming part of a straggling irregular street that made one of theboundaries dividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The lamps of thethoroughfares, in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured, here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers. The hum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lullingsound. It was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a worldwithout, 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 andwords not new to me. I recognized the voice and chant of Margrave. Istarted, and uttered an angry exclamation. 

"Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame shiver within my encirclingarm. "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 ofthe tranquil night, chiming over the serried rooftops, and under thesolitary moon. It was not like the artful song of man, for it wasdefective in the methodical harmony of tune; it was not like the song ofthe wild-bird, for it had no monotony in its sweetness: it was wanderingand various as the sounds from an AEolian harp. But it affected thesenses to a powerful degree, as in remote lands and in vast solitudes Ihave since found the note of the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affects thelistener half with delight, half with awe, as if some demon creature ofthe desert were mimicking man for its own merriment. The chant now hadchanged into an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation; it might havebeen the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian race. The note wassinister; a shadow passed through me, and Lilian had closed her eyes, andwas sighing heavily; then with a rapid change, sweet as the coo with whichan Arab mother lulls her babe to sleep, the melody died away. "There, there, look, " murmured Lilian, moving from me, "the same I saw last nightin sleep; the same I saw in the space above, on the evening I first knewyou!"

Her eyes were fixed, her hand raised; my look followed hers, and rested onthe face and form of Margrave. The moon shone full upon him, so full asif concentrating all its light upon his image. The place on which hestood (a balcony to the upper story of a house about fifty yards distant)was considerably above the level of the terrace from which we gazed onhim. His arms were folded on his breast, and he appeared to be lookingstraight towards us. Even at that distance, the lustrous youth of hiscountenance appeared to me terribly distinct, and the light of hiswondrous eye seemed to rest upon us in one lengthened, steady ray throughthe limpid moonshine. Involuntarily I seized Lilian's hand, and drew heraway almost by force, for she was unwilling to move, and as I led herback, she turned her head to look round; I, too, turned in jealous rage!I breathed more freely. Margrave had disappeared!

"How came he there? It is not his hotel. Whose house is it?" I saidaloud, though speaking to myself. 

Lilian remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if in deeprevery. I took her band; it did not return my pressure. I felt cut tothe heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till then so franklycordial. I stopped short: "Lilian, what is this? you are chilled towardsme. Can the mere sound of that man's voice, the mere glimpse of thatman's face, have--" I paused; I did not dare to complete my question. 

Lilian 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 understandyou, " she said, in a weary, listless accent. "It is growing late; I mustgo in. "

So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand. Then itoccurred to me that, the next day, Lilian would be in that narrow world ofsociety; that there she could scarcely fail to hear of Margrave, to meet, to know him. Jealousy seized me with all its imaginary terrors, andamidst that jealousy, a nobler, purer apprehension for herself. Had Ibeen Lilian's brother instead of her betrothed, I should not have trembledless to foresee the shadow of Margrave's mysterious influence passing overa mind so predisposed to the charm which Mystery itself has for thosewhose thoughts fuse their outlines in fancies, whose world melts away intoDreamland. Therefore I spoke. 

"Lilian, at the risk of offending you-alas! I have never done so beforethis night--I must address to you a prayer which I implore you not toregard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthy you and myself. The personwhom you have just heard and seen is, at present, much courted in thecircles of this town. I entreat you not to permit any one to introducehim to you. I entreat you not to know him. I cannot tell you all myreasons for this petition; enough that I pledge you my honour that thosereasons are grave. Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Beassured that I stretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed uponmine in the promise I ask, as I shall be freed from all fear by a promisewhich I know will be sacred when once it is given. "

"What promise?" asked Lilian, absently, as if she had not heard my words. 

"What promise? Why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man; his name isMargrave. Promise me, dearest, promise me. "

"Why is your voice so changed?" said Lilian. "Its tone jars on my ear, "she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that it startled me more thanit offended; and without a word further, she quickened her pace, andentered the house. 

For the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distant towards eachother. In vain Mrs. Ashleigh kindly sought to break down our mutualreserve. I felt that I had the right to be resentful, and I clung to thatright the more because Lilian made no attempt at reconciliation. This, too, was wholly unlike herself, for her temper was ordinarilysweet, --sweet to the extreme of meekness; saddened if the slightestmisunderstanding between us had ever vexed me, and yearning to askforgiveness if a look or a word had pained me. I was in hopes that, before I went away, peace between us would be restored. But long ere herusual hour for retiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and, complaining offatigue and headache, wished me "good-night, " and avoided the hand Isorrowfully 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 inthis town against whom I have reasons for distrust and aversion. I knownot why that prayer should displease her. "

"Nor I. Who is the stranger?"

"A person who calls himself Margrave. Let me at least entreat you toavoid him!"

"Oh, I have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. But, nowLilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder. The servantsare full of it, and I cannot keep it long concealed from Lilian. I was inhopes that you would have broken it to her. "

I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk thus of an event the tragedyof which was associated in my mind with circumstances so mysterious. Ibecame agitated and even angry when Mrs. Ashleigh persisted in ramblingwoman-like inquiries, --"Who was suspected of the deed? Who did I thinkhad committed it? What sort of a man was Sir Philip? What was thatstrange story about a casket?" Breaking from such interrogations, towhich I could give but abrupt and evasive answers, I seized my hat andtook my departure. 

CHAPTER 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 feeling 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 till 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 fault, forgive me, oh, forgive me, Allen!"

And with this unsatisfactory note, not worn next to my heart, not coveredwith kisses, but thrust crumpled into my desk like a creditor's unwelcomebill, I flung myself on my horse and rode to Derval Court. I am naturallyproud; my pride came now to my aid. I felt bitterly indignant againstLilian, so indignant that I resolved on my return to say to her, "If inthose words, 'And yet, ' you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, Icancel your vows, I give you back your freedom. " And I could have passedfrom her threshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that Ishould never smile again. 

Does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justify suchresentment? Perhaps not. But there is an atmosphere in the letters ofthe one we love which we alone--we who love--can feel, and in theatmosphere 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 occasionto visit some patients whose houses lay scattered many miles apart, andfor that reason, as well as from the desire for some quick bodily exercisewhich is so natural an effect of irritable perturbation of mind, I hadmade the journey on horseback instead of using a carriage that I could nothave got through the lanes and field-paths by which alone the work set tomyself could be accomplished in time. 

Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of me with thestrength which is ascribed to presentiments. I had passed through mystudy (which has been so elaborately described) to my stables, as Igenerally did when I wanted my saddle-horse, and, in so doing, haddoubtless left open the gate to the iron palisade, and probably the windowof the study itself. I had been in this careless habit for several years, without ever once having cause for self-reproach. As I before said, therewas nothing in my study to tempt a thief; the study was shut out from thebody of the house, and the servant sure at nightfall both to close thewindow 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 thoseprecautions taken. I could not guess why, but something whispered to methat my neglect had exposed me to some great danger. I even checked myhorse and looked at my watch; too late!--already just on the stroke ofStrahan's dinner-hour as fixed in his note; my horse, too, was fatiguedand spent: besides, what folly! what bearded man can believe in thewarnings of a "presentiment"? I pushed on, and soon halted before theold-fashioned flight of stairs that led up to the Hall. Here I wasaccosted by the old steward; he had just descended the stairs, and as Idismounted he thrust his arm into mine unceremoniously, and drew me alittle aside. 

"Doctor, I was right; it was his ghost that I saw by the iron door of themausoleum. I saw it again at the same place last night, but I had no fitthen. Justice on his murderer! Blood for blood!"

"Ay!" said I, sternly; for if I suspected Margrave before, I feltconvinced now that the inexpiable deed was his. Wherefore convinced?Simply because I now hated him more, and hate is so easily convinced!"Lilian! Lilian!" I murmured to myself that name; the flame of my hatewas fed by my jealousy. "Ay!" said I, sternly, "murder will out. "

"What are the police about?" said the old man, querulously; "days pass ondays, and no nearer the truth. But what does the new owner care? He hasthe rents and acres; what does he care for the dead? I will never serveanother master. I have just told Mr. Strahan so. How do I know whetherhe did not do the deed? Who 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 strodeaway. 

A labouring man came out of the garden, and having unbuckled thesaddle-bags, which contained the few things required for so short a visit, I consigned my horse to his care, and ascended the perron. The oldhousekeeper met me in the hall, and conducted me up the great staircase, showed me into a bedroom prepared for me, and told me that Mr. Strahan wasalready waiting dinner for me. I should find him in the study. Ihastened to join him. He began apologizing, very unnecessarily, for thestate of his establishment. He had as yet engaged no new servants. Thehousekeeper with the help of a housemaid did all the work. 

Richard Strahan at college had been as little distinguishable from otheryoung men as a youth neither rich nor poor, neither clever nor stupid, neither handsome nor ugly, neither audacious sinner nor formal saint, possibly could be. 

Yet, to those who understood him well, he was not without some of thosemoral qualities by which a youth of mediocre intellect often matures intoa superior man. 

He was, as Sir Philip had been rightly informed, thoroughly honest andupright. But with a strong sense of duty, there was also a certain latenthardness. He was not indulgent. He had outward frankness withacquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion. He had much of thethriftiness and self-denial of the North countryman, and I have no doubtthat he had lived with calm content and systematic economy on an incomewhich made him, as a bachelor, independent of his nominal profession, butwould not have sufficed, in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wifeand family. He was, therefore, still single. 

It seems to me even during the few minutes in which we conversed beforedinner was announced, that his character showed a new phase with his newfortunes. He talked in a grandiose style of the duties of station and thewoes of wealth. He seemed to be very much afraid of spending, and stillmore 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 themorning with him, had said the steward would be a great loss, and asteward at once sharp and honest was not to be easily found. 

What trifles can embitter the possession of great goods! Strahan hadtaken a fancy to the old house; it was conformable to his notions, bothof comfort and pomp, and Sir Philip had expressed a desire that the oldhouse should be pulled down. Strahan had inspected the plans for the newmansion to which Sir Philip had referred, and the plans did not pleasehim; on the contrary, they terrified. 

"Jeeves says that I could not build such a house under L70, 000 or L80, 000, and then it will require twice the establishment which will suffice forthis. I shall be ruined, " cried the man who had just come into possessionof at least ten thousand a year. 

"Sir Philip did not enjoin you to pull down the old house; he only advisedyou to do so. Perhaps he thought the site less healthy than that which heproposes for a new building, or was aware of some other drawback to thehouse, which you may discover later. Wait a little and see beforedeciding. "

"But, at all events, I suppose I must pull down this curious oldroom, --the nicest part of the old house!"

Strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the quaint oakchimneypiece; the carved ceiling; the well-built solid walls, with thelarge mullion casement, opening so pleasantly on the sequestered gardens. He had ensconced himself in Sir Philip's study, the chamber in which theonce famous mystic, Forman, had found a refuge. 

"So cozey a room for a single man!" sighed Strahan. "Near the stables anddog-kennels, too! But I suppose I must pull it down. I am not bound todo so legally; it is no condition of the will. But in honour andgratitude I ought not to disobey poor Sir Philip's positive injunction. "

"Of that, " said I, gravely, "there cannot be a doubt. " Here ourconversation was interrupted by Mrs. Gates, who informed us that dinnerwas served in the library. Wine of great age was brought from the longneglected cellars; Strahan filled and re-filled his glass, and, warmedinto hilarity, began to talk of bringing old college friends around him inthe winter season, and making the roof-tree ring with laughter and songonce more. 

Time wore away, and night had long set in, when Strahan at last rose fromthe table, his speech thick and his tongue unsteady. We returned to thestudy, and I reminded my host of the special object of my visit tohim, --namely, the inspection of Sir Philip's manuscript. 

"It is tough reading, " said Strahan; "better put it off till tomorrow. You will stay here two or three days. "

"No; I must return to L---- to-morrow. I cannot absent myself frommy patients. And it is the more desirable that no time should be lostbefore examining the contents of the manuscript, because probably theymay give some clew to the detection of the murderer. "

"Why do you think that?" cried Strahan, startled from the drowsiness thatwas creeping over him. 

"Because the manuscript may show that Sir Philip had some enemy, and whobut an enemy could have had a motive for such a crime? Come, bring forththe book. You of all men are bound to be alert in every research that mayguide the retribution of justice to the assassin of your benefactor. "

"Yes, yes. I will offer a reward of L5, 000 for the discovery. Allen, that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me that I was the onlyman 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. Youare right; it becomes me, of all men, to be alert. The assassin must befound. He must hang. "

While thus speaking, Strahan had risen, unlocked a desk, which stood onone of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, the contents of whichwere protected by a clasp and lock. Strahan proceeded to open this lockby one of a bunch of keys, which he said had been found on Sir Philip'sperson. 

"There, Allen, this is the memoir. I need not tell you what store I placeon it, --not, between you and me, that I expect it will warrant poor SirPhilip's high opinion of his own scientific discoveries; that part of hisletter seems to me very queer, and very flighty. But he evidently set hisheart on the publication of his work, in part if not in whole; and, naturally, I must desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intimated byone to whom I owe so much. I be, you, therefore, not to be toofastidious. Some valuable hints in medicine, I have reason to believe, the manuscript will contain, and those may help you in your profession, Allen. "

"You have reason to believe! Why?"

"Oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of the other gentry residentat L----, called on me at my hotel, told me that he. Had travelled in theEast, and had there heard much of Sir Philip's knowledge of chemistry, andthe cures it had enabled him to perform. "

"You speak of Mr. Margrave. He called on you?"

"Yes. "

"You did not, I trust, mention to him the existence of Sir Philip'smanuscript. "

"Indeed I did; and I said you had promised to examine it. He seemeddelighted at that, and spoke most highly of your peculiar fitness for thetask. "

"Give me the manuscript, " said I, abruptly, "and after I have looked at itto-night, I may have something to say to you tomorrow in reference to Mr. Margrave. "

"There is the book, " said Strahan; "I have just glanced at it, and findmuch of it written in Latin; and I am ashamed to say that I have soneglected the little Latin I learned in our college days that I could notconstrue what I looked at. "

I sat down and placed the book before me; Strahan fell into a doze, fromwhich he was wakened by the housekeeper, who brought in the tea-things. 

"Well, " said Strahan, languidly, "do you find much in the book thatexplains the many puzzling riddles in poor Sir Philip's eccentric life andpursuits?"

"Yes, " said I. "Do not interrupt me. "

Strahan again began to doze, and the housekeeper asked if we should wantanything more that night, and if I thought I could find my way to mybedroom. 

I dismissed her impatiently, and continued to read. Strahan woke up againas the clock struck eleven, and finding me still absorbed in themanuscript, and disinclined to converse, lighted his candle, and tellingme to replace the manuscript in the desk when I had done with it, and besure to lock the desk and take charge of the key, which he took off thebunch and gave me, went upstairs, yawning. 

I was alone in the wizard Forman's chamber, and bending over a strangerrecord 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 todecipher. Those parts of the Memoir which related to experiments, oralleged secrets in Nature, that the writer intimated a desire to submitexclusively to scholars or men of science, were in Latin, --and Latinwhich, though grammatically correct, was frequently obscure. But allthat detained the eye and attention on the page necessarily served toimpress the contents more deeply on remembrance. 

The narrative commenced with the writer's sketch of his childhood. Bothhis parents had died before he attained his seventh year. The orphan badbeen sent by his guardians to a private school, and his holidays had beenpassed at Derval Court. Here his earliest reminiscences were those of thequaint old room, in which I now sat, and of his childish wonder at theinscription on the chimneypiece--who and what was the Simon Forman who hadthere found a refuge from persecution? Of what nature were the studies hehad cultivated, and the discoveries he boasted to have made?

When he was about sixteen, Philip Derval had begun to read the many mysticbooks which the library contained; but without other result on his mindthan the sentiment of disappointment and disgust. The impressionsproduced on the credulous imagination of childhood vanished. He went tothe University; was sent abroad to travel: and on his return took thatplace in the circles of London which is so readily conceded to a youngidler of birth and fortune. He passed quickly over that period of hislife, as one of extravagance and dissipation, from which he was firstdrawn by the attachment for his cousin to which his letter to Strahanreferred. Disappointed in the hopes which that affection had conceived, and his fortune impaired, partly by some years of reckless profusion, andpartly by the pecuniary sacrifices at which he had effected his cousin'smarriage with another, he retired to Derval Court, to live there insolitude and seclusion. On searching for some old title-deeds requiredfor a mortgage, he chanced upon a collection of manuscripts muchdiscoloured, and, in part, eaten away by moth or damp. These, onexamination, proved to be the writings of Forman. Some of them wereastrological observations and predictions; some were upon the nature ofthe Cabbala; some upon the invocation of spirits and the magic of the darkages. All had a certain interest, for they were interspersed withpersonal remarks, anecdotes of eminent actors in a very stirring time, andwere composed as Colloquies, in imitation of Erasmus, --the second personin the dialogue being Sir Miles Derval, the patron and pupil; the firstperson being Forman, the philosopher and expounder. 

But along with these shadowy lucubrations were treatises of a moreuncommon and a more startling character, --discussions on various occultlaws of nature, and detailed accounts of analytical experiments. Theseopened a new, and what seemed to Sir Philip a practical, field ofinquiry, --a true border-land between natural science and imaginativespeculation. Sir Philip had cultivated philosophical science at theUniversity; he resumed the study, and tested himself the truth of variousexperiments suggested by Forman. Some, to his surprise, provedsuccessful, some wholly failed. These lucubrations first tempted thewriter of the memoir towards the studies in which the remainder of hislife had been consumed. But he spoke of the lucubrations themselves asvaluable only where suggestive of some truths which Forman hadaccidentally approached, without being aware of their true nature andimportance. They were debased by absurd puerilities, and vitiated by thevain and presumptuous ignorance which characterized the astrology of themiddle ages. For these reasons the writer intimated his intention (if helived to return to England) to destroy Forman's manuscripts, together withsundry other books, and a few commentaries of his own upon studies whichhad for a while misled him, --all now deposited in the safes of the room inwhich I sat. 

After some years passed in the retirement of Derval Court, Sir Philip wasseized with the desire to travel, and the taste he had imbibed for occultstudies led him towards those Eastern lands in which they took theirorigin, and still retain their professors. 

Several pages of the manuscript were now occupied with minute statementsof the writer's earlier disappointment in the objects of his singularresearch. The so-called magicians, accessible to the curiosity ofEuropean travellers, were either but ingenious jugglers, or producedeffects that perplexed him by practices they had mechanically learned, butof the rationale of which they were as ignorant as himself. It was nottill he had resided some considerable time in the East, and acquired afamiliar knowledge of its current languages and the social habits of itsvarious populations, that he became acquainted with men in whom herecognized earnest cultivators of the lore which tradition ascribes to thecolleges and priesthoods of the ancient world, --men generally livingremote from others, and seldom to be bribed by money to exhibit theirmarvels or divulge their secrets. In his intercourse with these sages, Sir Philip arrived at the conviction that there does exist an art ofmagic, distinct from the guile of the conjuror, and applying to certainlatent powers and affinities in nature, --a philosophy akin to that whichwe receive in our acknowledged schools, inasmuch as it is equally based onexperiment, and produces from definite causes definite results. Insupport of this startling proposition, Sir Philip now devoted more thanhalf his volume to the details of various experiments, to the process andresult of which he pledged his guarantee as the actual operator. As mostof these alleged experiments appeared to me wholly incredible, and as allof them were unfamiliar to my practical experience, and could only beverified or falsified by tests that would require no inconsiderable amountof time and care, I passed with little heed over the pages in which theywere set forth. I was impatient to arrive at that part of the manuscriptwhich might throw light on the mystery in which my interest was thekeenest. What were the links which connected the existence of Margravewith the history of Sir Philip Derval? Thus hurrying on, page after page, I suddenly, towards the end of the volume, came upon a name that arrestedall my attention, --Haroun of Aleppo. He who has read the words addressedto mee in my trance may well conceive the thrill that shot through myheart when I came upon that name, and will readily understand how muchmore vividly my memory retains that part of the manuscript to which I nowproceed, 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 immeasurably 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. 

 "He had discovered the great Principle of Animal Life, which had hitherto baffled the subtlest anatomist. Provided only that the great organs were not irreparably destroyed, there was no disease that he could not cure; no decrepitude to which be could not restore vigour: yet his science was based on the same theory as that espoused by the best professional practitioner of medicine, namely, 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, --namely, the re-invigourating and recruiting of the principle of life. "

No one knew the birth or origin of Haroun; no one knew his age. Inoutward appearance he was in the strength and prime of mature manhood;but, according to testimonies in which the writer of the memoir expresseda belief that, I need scarcely say, 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 Philipthat he had thrice renewed his own life, and had resolved to do so nomore; he had grown weary of living on. With all his gifts, Haroun ownedhimself to be consumed by a profound melancholy. He complained that therewas nothing new to him under the sun; he said that, while he had at hiscommand unlimited wealth, wealth had ceased to bestow enjoyment, and hepreferred living as simply as a peasant; he had tired out all theaffections and all the passions of the human heart; he was in the universeas in a solitude. In a word, Haroun would often repeat, with mournfulsolemnity: "'The soul is not meant to inhabit this earth and in fleshytabernacle for more than the period usually assigned to mortals; and whenby art in repairing the walls of the body we so retain it, the soulrepines, becomes inert or dejected. He only, " said Haroun, "would feelcontinued joy in continued existence who could preserve in perfection thesensual part of man, with such mind or reason as may be independent of thespiritual essence, but whom soul itself has quitted!--man, in short, asthe grandest of the animals, but without the sublime discontent of earth, which is the peculiar attribute of soul. "

One evening Sir Philip was surprised to find at Haroun's house anotherEuropean. He paused in his narrative to describe this man. He said thatfor three or four years previously he had heard frequent mention, amongstthe cultivators of magic, of an orientalized Englishman engaged inresearches similar to his own, and to whom was ascribed a terribleknowledge in those branches of the art which, even in the East, arecondemned as instrumental to evil. Sir Philip here distinguished atlength, as he had so briefly distinguished in his conversation with me, between the two kinds of magic, --that which he alleged to be as pure fromsin as any other species of experimental knowledge, and that by which theagencies of witchcraft are invoked for the purposes of guilt. 

The Englishman, to whom the culture of this latter and darker kind ofmagic was ascribed, Sir Philip Derval had never hitherto come across. Henow met him at the house of Haroun; decrepit, emaciated, bowed down withinfirmities, and racked with pain. Though little more than sixty, hisaspect was that of extreme old age; but still on his face there were seenthe ruins of a once singular beauty, and still, in his mind, there was aforce that contrasted the decay of the body. Sir Philip had never metwith an intellect more powerful and more corrupt. The son of a notorioususurer, heir to immense wealth, and endowed with the talents which justifyambition, he had entered upon life burdened with the odium of his father'sname. A duel, to which he had been provoked by an ungenerous taunt on hisorigin, but in which a temperament fiercely vindictive had led him toviolate the usages prescribed by the social laws that regulate suchencounters, had subjected him to a trial in which he escaped convictioneither by a flaw in the technicalities of legal procedure, or by thecompassion of the jury;[1] but the moral presumptions against him weresufficiently strong to set an indelible brand on his honour, and aninsurmountable barrier to the hopes which his early ambition hadconceived. After this trial he had quitted his country, to return to itno more. Thenceforth, much of his life had been passed out of sight orconjecture of civilized men in remote regions and amongst barbaroustribes. At intervals, however, he had reappeared in European capitals;shunned by and shunning his equals, surrounded by parasites, amongst whomwere always to be found men of considerable learning, whom avarice orpoverty subjected to the influences of his wealth. For the last nine orten years he had settled in Persia, purchased extensive lands, maintainedthe retinue, and exercised more than the power of an Oriental prince. Such was the man who, prematurely worn out, and assured by physicians thathe had not six weeks of life, had come to Aleppo with the gaudy escort ofan Eastern satrap, had caused himself to be borne in his litter to themud-hut of Haroun the Sage, and now called on the magician, in whose artwas his last hope, to reprieve him from the--grave. 

He turned round to Sir Philip, when the latter entered the room, andexclaimed in English, "I am here because you are. Your intimacy with thisman 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 noneedy petitioner. Tell me of his wisdom; assure him of my wealth. "

Sir Philip looked inquiringly at Haroun, who remained seated on his carpetin profound silence. 

"What is it you ask of Haroun?"

"To live on--to live on! For every year of life he can give me, I willload these floors with gold. "

"Gold will not tempt Haroun. "

"What will?"

"Ask him yourself; you speak his language. "

"I have asked him; he vouchsafes me no answer. "

Haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a revery. He drew from underhis robe a small phial, from which he let fall a single drop into a cup ofwater, and said, "Drink this; send to me tomorrow for such medicaments asI may prescribe. Return 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 thatappeared so thoroughly exhausted. Haroun answered, "A fever may so wastethe lamp of life that one ruder gust of air could extinguish the flame, yet the sick man recovers. This sick man's existence has been one longfever; this sick man can recover. "

"You will aid him to do so?"

"Three days hence I will tell you. "

On the third day Grayle revisited Haroun, and, at Haroun's request, SirPhilip came also. Grayle declared that he had already derived unspeakablerelief from the remedies administered; he was lavish in expressions ofgratitude; pressed large gifts on Haroun, and seemed pained when they wererefused. This time Haroun conversed freely, drawing forth Grayle's ownirregular, perverted, stormy, but powerful intellect. 

I can best convey the general nature of Grayle's share in the dialoguebetween himself, Haroun, and Derval--recorded in the narrative in wordswhich I cannot trust my memory to repeat in detail--by stating the effectit produced on my own mind. It seemed, while I read, as if there passedbefore me some convulsion of Nature, --a storm, an earthquake, --outcriesof rage, of scorn, of despair, a despot's vehemence of will, a rebel'sscoff at authority; yet, ever and anon, some swell of lofty thought, someburst of passionate genius, --abrupt variations from the vaunt of superbdefiance to the wail of intense remorse. 

The whole had in it, I know not what of uncouth but colossal, --like thechant, 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, upheavedin their struggle, as Order and Harmony subjected a brightening Creationto the milder influences throned in Olympus. But it was not till thelater passages of the dialogue in which my interest was now absorbed, thatthe language ascribed to this sinister personage lost a gloomy pathos notthe less impressive for the awe with which it was mingled. For, tillthen, it seemed to me as if in that tempestuous nature there were stillbroken glimpses of starry light; that a character originally lofty, ifirregular and fierce, had been embittered by early and continuous war withthe social world, and had, in that war, become maimed and distorted; that, under happier circumstances, its fiery strength might have beendisciplined to good; that even now, where remorse was so evidentlypoignant, evil could not be irredeemably confirmed. 

At length all the dreary compassion previously inspired vanished in oneunqualified abhorrence. 

The subjects discussed changed from those which, relating to the commonworld of men, were within the scope of my reason. Haroun led his wildguest to boast of his own proficiency in magic, and, despite myincredulity, I could not overcome the shudder with which fictions, howeverextravagant, that deal with that dark Unknown abandoned to the chimeras ofpoets, will, at night and in solitude, send through the veins of men theleast accessible to imaginary terrors. 

Grayle spoke of the power he had exercised through the agency of evilspirits, --a power to fascinate and to destroy. He spoke of the aidrevealed to him, now too late, which such direful allies could afford, notonly to a private revenge, but to a kingly ambition. Had he acquired theknowledge he declared himself to possess before the feebleness of thedecaying body made it valueless, how he could have triumphed over thatworld which had expelled his youth from its pale! He spoke of means bywhich his influence could work undetected on the minds of others, controlagencies that could never betray, and baffle the justice that could neverdiscover. He spoke vaguely of a power by which a spectral reflection ofthe material body could be cast, like a shadow, to a distance; glidethrough the walls of a prison, elude the sentinels of a camp, --a powerthat he asserted to be when enforced by concentrated will, and acting onthe mind, where in each individual temptation found mind theweakest--almost infallible in its effect to seduce or to appall. And heclosed these and similar boasts of demoniacal arts, which I remember tooobscurely to repeat, with a tumultuous imprecation on their nothingness toavail against the gripe of death. All this lore he would communicate toHaroun, 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 replied. He said, with a quiet disdain, that the dark art towhich Grayle made such boastful pretence was the meanest of all abuses ofknowledge, rightly abandoned, in all ages, to the vilest natures. Andthen, suddenly changing his tone, he spoke, so far as I can remember thewords assigned to him in the manuscript, to this effect, --

"Fallen and unhappy wretch, and you ask me for prolonged life!--aprolonged curse to the world and to yourself. Shall I employ spells tolengthen the term of the Pestilence, or profane the secrets of Nature torestore vigour and youth to the failing energies of Crime?"

Grayle, as if stunned by the rebuke, fell on his knees with despairingentreaties that strangely contrasted his previous arrogance. "And itwas, " he said, "because his life had been evil that he dreaded death. Iflife could be renewed he would repent, he would change; he retracted hisvaunts, he would forsake the arts he had boasted, he would re-enter theworld as its benefactor. "

"So ever the wicked man lies to himself when appalled by the shadow ofdeath, " answered Haroun. "But know, by the remorse which preys on thysoul, that it is not thy soul that addresses this prayer to me. Couldstthou 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 beholdit, that Soul, --sad for the stains on its essence, awed by the account itmust render, but dreading, as the direst calamity, a renewal of yearsbelow, darker stains and yet heavier accounts! Whatever the sentence itmay now undergo, it has a hope for mercy in the remorse which the mindvainly struggles to quell. But darker its doom if longer retained toearth, yoked to the mind that corrupts it, and enslaved to the senseswhich thou bidst me restore to their tyrannous forces. "

And Grayle bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in silenceand in trembling. 

Then Sir Philip, seized with compassion, pleaded for him. "At least, could not the soul have longer time on earth for repentance?" And whileSir Philip was so pleading, Grayle fell prostrate in a swoon like that ofdeath. When he recovered, his head was leaning on Haroun's knee, and hisopening eyes fixed on the glittering phial which Haroun held, and fromwhich his lips had been moistened. 

"Wondrous!" he murmured: "how I feel life flowing back to me. And that, then, is the elixir! it is no fable!"

His hands stretched greedily as to seize the phial, and he criedimploringly, "More, more!" Haroun replaced the vessel in the folds of hisrobe, and answered, --

"I will not renew thy youth, but I will release thee from bodilysuffering: I will leave the mind and the soul free from the pangs of theflesh, to reconcile, if yet possible, their long war. My skill may affordthee months yet for repentance; Seek, in that interval, to atone for theevil of sixty years; apply thy wealth where it may most compensate forinjury done, most relieve the indigent, and most aid the virtuous. Listento thy remorse; humble thyself in prayer. "

Grayle departed, sighing heavily and muttering to himself. The next dayHaroun summoned Sir Philip Derval, and said to him, --

"Depart to Damascus. In that city the Pestilence has appeared. Gothither thou, to heal and to save. In this casket are stored the surestantidotes to the poison of the plague. Of that essence, undiluted andpure, which tempts to the undue prolongation of soul in the prison offlesh, this casket contains not a drop. I curse not my friend with somournful a boon. Thou hast learned enough of my art to know by whatsimples the health of the temperate is easily restored to its balance, andtheir path to the grave smoothed from pain. Not more should Man covetfrom Nature for the solace and weal of the body. Nobler gifts far thanaught for the body this casket contains. Herein are the essences whichquicken the life of those duplicate senses that lie dormant and coiled intheir chrysalis web, awaiting the wings of a future development, --thesenses by which we can see, though not with the eye, and hear, but not bythe ear. Herein are the links between Man's mind and Nature's; herein aresecrets more precious even than these, --those extracts of light whichenable the Soul to distinguish itself from the Mind, and discriminate thespiritual life, not more from life carnal than life intellectual. Wherethou 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 theearth 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?'--there, such aids to the soul, in the innermost vision vouchsafed to the mind, thou mayst lawfully use. But the treasures contained in this casket arelike all which a mortal can win from the mines he explores, --good or illin their uses as they pass to the hands of the good or the evil. Thouwilt never confide them but to those who will not abuse! and even then, thou art an adept too versed in the mysteries of Nature not todiscriminate between the powers that may serve the good to good ends, andthe powers that may tempt the good--where less wise than experience hasmade thee and me--to the ends that are evil; and not even to thy friendthe most virtuous--if less proof against passion than thou and I havebecome--wilt thou confide such contents of the casket as may work on thefancy, to deafen the conscience and imperil the soul. "

Sir Philip took the casket, and with it directions for use, which he didnot detail. He then spoke to Haroun about Louis Grayle, who had inspiredhim with a mingled sentiment of admiration and abhorrence, of pity andterror. And Haroun answered thus, repeating the words ascribed to him, sofar as I can trust, in regard to them--as to all else in this marvellousnarrative--to a memory habitually tenacious even in ordinary matters, andstrained to the utmost extent of its power, by the strangeness of theideas presented to it, and the intensity of my personal interest inwhatever admitted a ray into that cloud which, gathering fast over myreason, now threatened storm to my affections, --

"When the mortal deliberately allies himself to the spirits of evil, hesurrenders the citadel of his being to the guard of its enemies; and thosewho look from without can only dimly guess what passes within theprecincts abandoned to Powers whose very nature we shrink to contemplate, lest our mere gaze should invite them. This man, whom thou pitiest, isnot yet everlastingly consigned to the fiends, because his soul stillstruggles against them. His life has been one long war between hisintellect, which is mighty, and his spirit, which is feeble. Theintellect, armed and winged by the passions, has besieged and oppressedthe soul; but the soul has never ceased to repine and to repent. And atmoments it has gained its inherent ascendancy, persuaded revenge to dropthe prey it had seized, turned the mind astray from hatred and wrath intounwonted paths of charity and love. In the long desert of guilt, therehave been green spots and fountains of good. The fiends have occupied theintellect which invoked them, but they have never yet thoroughly masteredthe soul which their presence appalls. In the struggle that now passeswithin 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 moredeeply graved in my memory, --

"There have been men (thou mayst have known such), who, after an illnessin which life itself seemed suspended, have arisen, as out of a sleep, with characters wholly changed. Before, perhaps, gentle and good andtruthful, they now become bitter, malignant, and false. To the personsand the things they had before loved, they evince repugnance and loathing. Sometimes this change is so marked and irrational that their kindredascribe it to madness, --not the madness which affects them in theordinary business of life, but that which turns into harshness anddiscord the moral harmony that results from natures whole and complete. But there are dervishes who hold that in that illness, which had for itstime the likeness of death, the soul itself has passed away, and an evilgenius has fixed itself into the body and the brain, thus left void oftheir former tenant, and animates them in the unaccountable change fromthe past to the present existence. Such mysteries have formed no part ofmy study, and I tell you the conjecture received in the East withouthazarding a comment whether of incredulity or belief. But if, in this warbetween the mind which the fiends have seized, and the soul which imploresrefuge of Allah; if, while the mind of yon traveller now covets lifelengthened on earth for the enjoyments it had perverted its faculties toseek and to find in sin, and covets so eagerly that it would shrink fromno crime and revolt from no fiend that could promise the gift, the soulshudderingly implores to be saved from new guilt, and would rather abideby the judgment of Allah on the sins that have darkened it than passforever irredeemably away to the demons, --if this be so, what if thesoul's petition be heard; what if it rise from the ruins around it; whatif 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 escapedthem; that which they find would mock them by its own incompleteness evenin evil. In vain might animal life the most perfect be given to themachine of the flesh; in vain might the mind, freed from the check of thesoul, be left to roam at will through a brain stored with memories ofknowledge and skilled in the command of its faculties; in vain, inaddition to all that body and brain bestow on the normal condition of man, might unhallowed reminiscences gather all the arts and the charms of thesorcery by which the fiends tempted the soul, before it fled, through thepassions of flesh and the cravings of mind: the Thing, thus devoid of asoul, would be an instrument of evil, doubtless, --but an instrument thatof itself could not design, invent, and complete. The demons themselvescould have no permanent hold on the perishable materials. They mightenter it for some gloomy end which Allah permits in his inscrutablewisdom; but they could leave it no trace when they pass from it, becausethere is no conscience where soul is wanting. The human animal withoutsoul, but otherwise made felicitously perfect in its mere vitalorganization, might ravage and destroy, as the tiger and the serpent maydestroy and ravage, and, the moment after, would sport in the sunlightharmless and rejoicing, because, like the serpent and the tiger, it isincapable of remorse. "

"Why startle my wonder, " said Derval, "with so fantastic an image?"

"Because, possibly, the image may come into palpable form! I know, whileI speak to thee, that this miserable man is calling to his aid the evilsorcery over which he boasts his control. To gain the end he desires, hemust pass through a crime. Sorcery whispers to him how to pass throughit, secure from the detection of man. The soul resists, but in resisting, 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 thatthe death which, to my sorrow and in my foolishness I have failed torecognize as the merciful minister of Heaven, has removed me at last fromthe earth, believe that the pale Visitant was welcome, and that I humblyaccept as a blessed release the lot of our common humanity. "

Sir Philip went to Damascus. There he found the pestilence raging, therehe devoted himself to the cure of the afflicted; in no single instance, soat least he declared, did the antidotes stored in the casket fail in theireffect. The pestilence had passed, his medicaments were exhausted, whenthe news reached him that Haroun was no more. The Sage had been found, one morning, lifeless in his solitary home, and, according to popularrumour, marks on his throat betrayed the murderous hand of the strangler. Simultaneously, Louis Grayle had disappeared from the city, and wassupposed to have shared the fate of Haroun, and been secretly buried bythe assassins who had deprived him of life. Sir Philip hastened toAleppo. There he ascertained that on the night in which Haroun died, Grayle did not disappear alone; with him were also missing two of hisnumerous suite, --the one, an Arab woman, named Ayesha, who had for someyears been his constant companion, his pupil and associate in the mysticpractices to which his intellect had been debased, and who was said tohave acquired a singular influence over him, partly by her beauty andpartly by the tenderness with which she had nursed him through his longdecline; the other, an Indian, specially assigned to her service, of whomall the wild retainers of Grayle spoke with detestation and terror. Hewas believed by them to belong to that murderous sect of fanatics whoseexistence as a community has only recently been made known to Europe, andwho strangle their unsuspecting victim in the firm belief that theythereby propitiate the favour of the goddess they serve. The currentopinion at Aleppo was, that if those two persons had conspired to murderHaroun, perhaps for the sake of the treasures he was said to possess, itwas still more certain that they had made away with their own Englishlord, whether for the sake of the jewels he wore about him, or for thesake of treasures less doubtful than those imputed to Haroun, and of whichthe hiding-place would be to them 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 companion. And the Indian whom Grayle had assigned to her service was allowed to have that brute kind of 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 elixir) 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 common-sense verdict, --namely, 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; realizing, I verily believe, the image which Haroun's words had raised up, in what then seemed to me the metaphysics of fantasy, ---criminal, without consciousness of crime; the dreadest of the mere animal race; an incarnation of the blind powers of Nature, --beautiful and joyous, wanton and terrible and destroying! Such as ancient myths have personified in the idols of Oriental creeds; such as Nature, of herself, might form man in her moments of favour, if man were wholly the animal, and spirit were no longer the essential 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 fragmentary memories of a pristine intelligence which no mind, unaided 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 unconscious, all the faculties which, skilful in sorcery, still place a mind at the control of their malice?

 "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 daughters; one of them--"

I had just read thus far when a dim shadow fell over the page, and a coldair seemed to breathe on me, --cold, so cold, that my blood halted in myveins as if suddenly frozen! Involuntarily I started, and looked up, surethat some ghastly presence was in the room. And then, on the oppositeside of the wall, I beheld an unsubstantial likeness of a human form. Shadow I call it, but the word is not strictly correct, for it wasluminous, though with a pale shine. In some exhibition in London there isshown a curious instance of optical illusion; at the end of a corridor yousee, apparently in strong light, a human skull. You are convinced it isthere as you approach; it is, however, only a reflection from a skull at adistance. The image before me was less vivid, less seemingly prominentthan is the illusion I speak of. I was not deceived. I felt it was aspectrum, a phantasm; but I felt no less surely that it was a reflectionfrom an animate form, --the form and face of Margrave; it was there, distinct, unmistakable. Conceiving that he himself must be behind me, Isought to rise, to turn round, to examine. I could not move: limb andmuscle were overmastered by some incomprehensible spell. Gradually mysenses forsook me; I became unconscious as well as motionless. When Irecovered, I heard the clock strike three. I must have been nearly twohours insensible! The candles before me were burning low. My eyes restedon the table; the dead man's manuscript was gone!

[1] The reader will here observe a discrepancy between Mrs. Poyntz'saccount and Sir Philip Derval's narrative. According to the former, LouisGrayle was tried in his absence from England, and sentenced to threeyears' imprisonment, which his flight enabled him to evade. According tothe latter, Louis Grayle stood his trial, and obtained an acquittal. SirPhilip's account must, at least, be nearer the truth than the lady's, because Louis Grayle could not, according to English law, have been triedon a capital charge without being present in court. Mrs. Poyntz tells herstory as a woman generally does tell a story, --sure to make a mistake whenshe touches on a question of law; and--unconsciously perhaps toherself--the woman of the World warps the facts in her narrative so as tosave the personal dignity of the hero, who has captivated her interest, not from the moral odium of a great crime, but the debasing position of aprisoner at the bar. Allen Fenwick, no doubt, purposely omits to noticethe discrepancy between these two statements, or to animadvert on themistake which, in the eyes of a lawyer, would discredit Mrs. Poyntz's. Itis consistent with some of the objects for which Allen Fenwick makespublic his Strange Story, to invite the reader to draw his own inferencesfrom 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 ismade to differ from the same fact stated by another. The rapidity withwhich a truth becomes transformed into fable, when it is once sent on itstravels from lip to lip, is illustrated by an amusement at this moment infashion. The amusement is this: In a party of eight or ten persons, letone whisper to another an account of some supposed transaction, or a pieceof invented gossip relating to absent persons, dead or alive; let theperson, who thus first hears the story, proceed to whisper it, as exactlyas he can remember what he has just heard, to the next; the next does thesame to his neighbour, and so on, till the tale has run the round of theparty. Each narrator, as soon as he has whispered his version of thetale, writes down what he has whispered. And though, in this game, no onehas had any interest to misrepresent, but, on the contrary, each for hisown credit's sake strives to repeat what he has heard as faithfully as hecan, it will be almost invariably found that the story told by the firstperson has received the most material alterations before it has reachedthe eighth or the tenth. Sometimes the most important feature of thewhole narrative is altogether omitted; sometimes a feature altogether newand preposterously absurd has been added. At the close of the experimentone is tempted to exclaim, "How, after this, can any of those portions ofhistory which the chronicler took from hearsay be believed?" But, aboveall, does not every anecdote of scandal which has passed, not through tenlips, but perhaps through ten thousand, before it has reached us, becomequite as perplexing to him who would get at the truth, as the marvels herecounts are to the bewildered reason of Fenwick the Sceptic?

CHAPTER XL. 

The dead man's manuscript was gone. But how? A phantom might delude myeye, a human will, though exerted at a distance, might, if the tales ofmesmerism be true, deprive me of movement and of consciousness; butneither phantom nor mesmeric will could surely remove from the tablebefore me the material substance of the book that had vanished! Was I toseek explanation in the arts of sorcery ascribed to Louis Grayle in thenarrative? I would not pursue that conjecture. Against it my reason roseup half alarmed, half disdainful. Some one must have entered the room, some one have removed the manuscript. I looked round. The windows wereclosed, the curtains partly drawn over the shutters, as they were beforemy consciousness had left me: all seemed undisturbed. Snatching up one ofthe candles, fast dying out, I went into the adjoining library, thedesolate state-rooins, into the entrance-hall, and examined the outerdoor. Barred and locked! The robber had left no vestige of his stealthypresence. 

I resolved to go at once to Strahan's room and tell him of the losssustained. A deposit had been confided to me, and I felt as if therewere a slur on my honour every moment in which I kept its abstractionconcealed from him to whom I was responsible for the trust. I hastilyascended the great staircase, grim with faded portraits, and found myselfin a long corridor opening on my own bedroom; no doubt also on Strahan's. Which was his? I knew not. I opened rapidly door after door, peered intoempty chambers, went blundering on, when to the right, down a narrowpassage. I recognized the signs of my host's whereabouts, --signsfamiliarly commonplace and vulgar; signs by which the inmate of anychamber in lodging-house or inn makes himself known, --a chair before adoorway, clothes negligently thrown on it, beside it a pair of shoes. Andso ludicrous did such testimony of common every-day life, of the habitswhich Strahan would necessarily have contracted in his desultoryunluxurious bachelor's existence, --so ludicrous, I say, did these homelydetails seem to me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of which Ihad been reading, with the wonders yet more incredible of which I myselfhad been witness and victim, that as I turned down the passage, I heard myown unconscious half-hysterical laugh; and, startled by the sound of thatlaugh as if it came from some one else, I paused, my hand on the door, andasked myself: "Do I dream? Am I awake? And if awake what am I to say tothe common place mortal I am about to rouse? Speak to him of a phantom!Speak to him of some weird spell over this strong frame! Speak to him ofa mystic trance in which has been stolen what he confided to me, withoutmy knowledge! What will he say? What should I have said a few days agoto any man who told such a tale to me?" I did not wait to resolve thesequestions. I entered the room. There was Strahan sound asleep on hisbed. I shook him roughly. He started up, rubbed his eyes. "You, Allen, --you! What the deuce?--what 's the matter?"

"Strahan, I have been robbed!--robbed of the manuscript you lent me. Icould not rest till I had told you. "

"Robbed, robbed! Are you serious?"

By this time Strahan had thrown off the bed-clothes, and sat upright, staring at me. 

And then those questions which my mind had suggested while I was standingat his door repeated themselves with double force. Tell this man, thisunimaginative, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-haired Northcountryman, --tell this man a story which the most credulous school-girlwould have rejected as a fable! Impossible!

"I fell asleep, " said I, colouring and stammering, for the slightestdeviation from truth was painful to me, "and-and--when I awoke--themanuscript was gone. Some one must have entered and committed thetheft--"

"Some one entered the house at this hour of the night and then only stolena manuscript which could be of no value to him! Absurd! If thieves havecome in it must be for other objects, --for plate, for money. I willdress; we will see!"

Strahan hurried on his clothes, muttering to himself and avoiding my eye. He was embarrassed. He did not like to say to an old friend what was onhis mind; but I saw at once that he suspected I had resolved to deprivehim of the manuscript, and had invented a wild tale in order to conceal myown dishonesty. 

Nevertheless, he proceeded to search the house. I followed him insilence, oppressed with my own thoughts, and longing for solitude in myown chamber. We found no one, no trace of any one, nothing to excitesuspicion. There were but two female servants sleeping in the house, --theold housekeeper, and a country girl who assisted her. It was not possibleto suspect either of these persons; but in the course of our search weopened the doors of their rooms. We saw that they were both in bed, bothseemingly asleep: it seemed idle to wake and question them. When theformality of our futile investigation was concluded, Strahan stopped atthe door of my bedroom, and for the first time fixing his eyes on mesteadily, said, --

"Allen Fenwick, I would have given half the fortune I have come intorather than this had happened. The manuscript, as you know, wasbequeathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whose slightest wish itis my duty to observe religiously. If it contained aught valuable to aman of your knowledge and profession, why, you were free to use itscontents. Let me hope, Allen, that the book will reappear to-morrow. "

He said no more, drew himself away from the hand I involuntarily extended, and walked quickly back towards his own room. 

Alone once more, I sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands, and strovein vain to collect into some definite shape my own tumultuous anddisordered thoughts. Could I attach serious credit to the marvellousnarrative I had read? Were there, indeed, such powers given to man, suchinfluences latent in the calm routine of Nature? I could not believe it;I must have some morbid affection of the brain; I must be under anhallucination. Hallucination? The phantom, yes; the trance, yes. Butstill, how came the book gone? That, at least, was not hallucination. 

I left my room the next morning with a vague hope that I should find themanuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance, I might havesecreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secrete things, withoutremembrance of their acts in their waking state. 

I searched minutely in every conceivable place. Strahan found me stillemployed in that hopeless task. He had breakfasted in his own room, andit was past eleven o'clock when he joined me. His manner was now hard, cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shown that my distressgave way to resentment. 

"Is it possible, " I cried indignantly, "that you, who have known me sowell, can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitously base?Purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power to copy from itwhatever I might desire, use its contents in any way that might seem to meserviceable to science, or useful to me in my own calling!"

"I have not accused you, " answered Strahan, sullenly. "But what are we tosay to Mr. Jeeves; to all others who know that this manuscript existed?Will they believe what you tell me?"

"Mr. Jeeves, " I said, "cannot suspect a fellow-townsman, whose characteris as high as mine, of untruth and theft. And to whom else have youcommunicated the facts connected with a memoir and a request of soextraordinary a nature?"

"To young Margrave; I told you so!"

"True, true. We need not go farther to find the thief. Margrave has beenin this house more than once. He knows the position of the rooms. Youhave named the robber!"

"Tut! what on earth could a gay young fellow like Margrave want with awork of such dry and recondite nature as I presume my poor kinsman'smemoir must be?"

I was about to answer, when the door was abruptly opened, and theservant-girl entered, followed by two men, in whom I recognized thesuperintendent of the L---- police and the same subordinate who had foundme by Sir Philip's corpse. 

The superintendent came up to me with a grave face, and whispered in myear. I did not at first comprehend him. "Come with you, " I said, "and toMr. Vigors, the magistrate? I thought my deposition was closed. "

The superintendent shook his head. "I have the authority here, Dr. Fenwick. "

"Well, I will come, of course. Has anything new transpired?"

The superintendent turned to the servant-girl, who was standing withgaping mouth and staring eyes. 

"Show us Dr. Fenwick's room. You had better put up, sir, whatever thingsyou have brought here. I will go upstairs 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 atonce that some new and strange calamity had befallen me. I turned towardsStrahan. He was at the threshold, speaking in a low voice to thesubordinate policeman, and there was an expression of amazement and horrorin his countenance. As I came towards him he darted away without a word. 

I went up the stairs, entered my bedroom, the superintendent close behindme. As I took up mechanically the few things I had brought with me, thepolice-officer drew them from me with an abruptness that appearedinsolent, and deliberately searched the pockets of the coat which I hadworn the evening before, then opened the drawers in the room, and evenpried into the bed. 

"What do you mean?" I asked haughtily. 

"Excuse me, sir. Duty. You are-"

"Well, I am what?"

"My prisoner; here is the warrant. "

"Warrant! on what charge?"

"The murder of Sir Philip Derval. "

"I--I! Murder!" I could say no more. 

I must hurry over this awful passage in my marvellous record. Itis torture to dwell on the details; and indeed I have so sought to chasethem from my recollection, that they only come back to me in hideousfragments, like the incoherent remains of a horrible dream. 

All that I need state is as follows: Early on the very morning on which Ihad been arrested, a man, a stranger in the town, had privately sought Mr. Vigors, and deposed that on the night of the murder, he had been takingrefuge from a sudden storm under shelter of the eaves and buttresses of awall adjoining an old archway; that he had heard men talking within thearchway; had heard one say to the other, "You still bear me a grudge. "The other had replied, "I can forgive you on one condition. " That he thenlost 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 wasthe possession of a casket which the other carried about with him; thatthere seemed an altercation on this matter between the two men, which, tojudge by the tones of voice, was angry on the part of the man demandingthe casket; that, finally, this man said in a loud key, "Do you stillrefuse?" and on receiving the answer, which the witness did not overhear, exclaimed threateningly, "It is you who will repent, " and then steppedforth from the arch into the street. The rain had then ceased, but by abroad flash of lightning the witness saw distinctly the figure of theperson thus quitting the shelter of the arch, --a man of tall stature, powerful frame, erect carriage. A little time afterwards, witness saw aslighter and older man come forth from the arch, whom he could onlyexamine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near the wall, thelightning having ceased, but whom he fully believed to be the person heafterwards discovered to be Sir Philip Derval. 

He said that he himself had only arrived at the town a few hours before; astranger to L----, and indeed to England, having come from the UnitedStates of America, where he had passed his life from childhood. He hadjourneyed on foot to L----, in the hope of finding there some distantrelatives. He had put up at a small inn, after which he had strolledthrough the town, when the storm had driven him to seek shelter. He hadthen failed to find his way back to the inn, and after wandering about invain, and seeing no one at that late hour of night of whom he could askthe way, lie 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 hisway to the inn, when he saw, in a narrow street before him, two men, oneof whom he recognized as the taller of the two to whose conversation hehad listened under the arch; the other he did not recognize at the moment. The taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he heard him say, "Thecasket; I will have it. " There then seemed to be a struggle between thesetwo persons, when the taller one struck down the shorter, knelt on hisbreast, and he caught distinctly the gleam of some steel instrument. Thathe was so frightened that he could not stir from the place, and thatthough he cried out, he believed his voice was not heard. He then saw thetaller man rise, the other resting on the pavement motionless; and aminute or so afterwards beheld policemen coming to the place, on which he, the witness, walked away. He did not know that a murder had beencommitted; it might be only an assault; it was no business of his, he wasa stranger. He thought it best not to interfere, the police havingcognizance of the affair. He found out his inn; for the next few days hewas absent from L---- in search of his relations, who had left the town, many years ago, to fix their residence in one of the neighbouringvillages. 

He was, however, disappointed; none of these relations now survived. Hehad 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 anunsupported testimony. But, on the day before the evidence wasvolunteered, as he was lounging in the streets, he had seen a gentlemanpass by on horseback, in whom he immediately recognized the man who, inhis belief, was the murderer of Sir Philip Derval. He inquired of abystander the name of the gentleman; the answer was "Dr. Fenwick. " That, the rest of the day, he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking tovolunteer such a charge against a man of apparent respectability andstation; but that his conscience would not let him sleep that night, andhe had resolved at morning to go to the magistrate and make a clean breastof it. 

The story was in itself so improbable that any other magistrate but Mr. Vigors would perhaps have dismissed it in contempt. But Mr. Vigors, already so bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry, perhaps, tosubject me to the humiliation of so horrible a charge, immediately issuedhis warrant to search my house. I was absent at Derval Court; the housewas searched. In the bureau in my favourite study, which was leftunlocked, the steel casket was discovered, and a large case-knife, on theblade of which the stains of blood were still perceptible. On thisdiscovery I was apprehended; and on these evidences, and on the depositionof this vagrant stranger, I was not, indeed, committed to take my trialfor murder, but placed in confinement, all bail for my appearance refused, and the examination adjourned to give time for further evidence andinquiries. I had requested the professional aid of Mr. Jeeves. To mysurprise and dismay, Mr. Jeeves begged me to excuse him. He said he waspre-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 fromthe little he said that Strahan had already been to him that morning andtold him of the missing manuscript, that Strahan had ceased to be myfriend. I engaged another solicitor, a young man of ability, and whoprofessed personal esteem for me. Mr. Stanton (such was the lawyer'sname) believed in my innocence; but he warned me that appearances weregrave, he implored me to be perfectly frank with him. Had I heldconversation with Sir Philip under the archway as reported by the witness?Had I used such or similar words? Had the deceased said, "I had a grudgeagainst him"? Had I demanded the casket? Had I threatened Sir Philipthat he would repent? And of what, --his refusal?

I felt myself grow pale, as I answered, "Yes; I thought such or similarexpressions had occurred in my conversation with the deceased. "

"What was the reason of the grudge? What was the nature of this casket, that I should so desire its possession?"

There, I became terribly embarrassed. What could I say to a keen, sensible, worldly man of law, --tell him of the powder and the fumes, ofthe scene in the museum, of Sir Philip's tale, of the implied identity ofthe youthful Margrave with the aged Grayle, of the elixir of life, and ofmagic arts? I--I tell such a romance! I, --the noted adversary of allpretended mysticism; I, --I a sceptical practitioner of medicine! Had thatmanuscript of Sir Philip's been available, --a substantial record ofmarvellous events by a man of repute for intellect and learning, --I mightperhaps have ventured to startle the solicitor of I--with my revelations. But the sole proof that all which the solicitor urged me to confide wasnot a monstrous fiction or an insane delusion had disappeared; and itsdisappearance was a part of the terrible mystery that enveloped the whole. I answered therefore, as composedly as I could, that "I could have noserious grudge against Sir Philip, whom I had never seen before thatevening; that the words which applied to my supposed grudge were lightlysaid by Sir Philip, in reference to a physiological dispute on mattersconnected with mesmerical phenomena; that the deceased had declared hiscasket, which he had shown me at the mayor's house, contained drugs ofgreat potency in medicine; that I had asked permission to test those drugsmyself; and that when I said he would repent of his refusal, I merelymeant that he would repent of his reliance on drugs not warranted by theexperiments of professional science. "

My replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but "how could I aceountfor the casket and the knife being found in my room?"

"In no way but this; the window of my study is a door-window opening onthe 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 doorany more familiar private acquaintance. "

"Whom, for instance?"

I hesitated a moment, and then said, with a significance I could notforbear, "Mr. Margrave! He would know the locale perfectly; he wouldknow that the door was rarely bolted from within during the daytime: hecould enter at all hours; he could place, or instruct any one to deposit, the knife and casket in my bureau, which he knew I never kept locked; itcontained no secrets, no private correspondence, --chiefly surgicalimplements, or such things as I might want for professional experiments. "

"Mr. Margrave! But you cannot suspect him--a lively, charming young man, against whose character not a whisper was ever heard--of connivance withsuch a charge against you, --a connivance that would implicate him in themurder itself; for if you are accused wrongfully, he who accuses you iseither the criminal or the criminal's accomplice, his instigator or histool. "

"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 themayor's house, expressed a strong abhorrence of him, more than hinted atcrimes he had committed, appointed me to come to Derval Court the dayafter that on which the murder was committed. Sir Philip had knownsomething 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 ismy conviction that this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless, is the real criminal, and in some way which I cannot conjecture hasemployed this lying vagabond in the fabrication of a charge againstmyself. Reflect: of Mr. Margrave's antecedents we know nothing; of themnothing was known even by the young gentleman who first introduced him tothe society of this town. If you would serve and save me, it is to thatquarter that you will direct your vigilant and unrelaxing researches. "

I had scarcely so said when I repented my candour, for I observed in theface of Mr. Stanton a sudden revulsion of feeling, an utter incredulity ofthe accusation I had thus hazarded, and for the first time a doubt of myown innocence. The fascination exercised by Margrave was universal; norwas it to be wondered at: for besides the charm of his joyous presence, heseemed so singularly free from even the errors common enough with theyoung, --so gay and boon a companion, yet a shunner of wine; so dazzling inaspect, so more than beautiful, so courted, so idolized by women, yet notale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to his name! As to hisantecedents, he had so frankly owned himself a natural son, a nobody, atraveller, an idler; his expenses, though lavish, were so unostentatious, so regularly defrayed; he was so wholly the reverse of the characterassigned to criminals, that it seemed as absurd to bring a charge ofhomicide against a butterfly or a goldfinch as against this seeminglyinnocent and delightful favourite of humanity and nature. 

However, Mr. Stanton said little or nothing, and shortly afterwards leftme, with a dry expression of hope that my innocence would be cleared inspite of evidence that, he was bound to say, was of the most seriouscharacter. 

I was exhausted. I fell into a profound sleep early that night; it mightbe a little after twelve when I woke, and woke as fully, as completely, asmuch restored to life and consciousness, as it was then my habit to be atthe break of day. And so waking, I saw, on the wall opposite my bed, thesame luminous phantom I had seen in the wizard's study at Derval Court. Ihave read in Scandinavian legends of an apparition called the Scin-Laeca, or shining corpse. It is supposed in the northern superstition, sometimesto haunt sepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. It is the spectre of ahuman body seen in a phosphoric light; and so exactly did this phantomcorrespond to the description of such an apparition in Scandinavian fablethat I knew not how to give it a better name than that of Scin-Laeca, --theshining corpse. 

There it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead; there, as in thehaunted study of the wizard Forman!--the form and the face of Margrave. Constitutionally, my nerves are strong, and my temper hardy, and now I wasresolved to battle against any impression which my senses might receivefrom my own deluding fancies. Things that witnessed for the first timedaunt us witnessed for the second time lose their terror. I rose from mybed with a bold aspect, I approached the phantom with a firm step; butwhen within two paces of it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my armbecame fixed in air, my feet locked to the ground. I did not experiencefear; I felt that my heart beat regularly, but an invincible somethingopposed itself to me. I stood as if turned to stone. And then from thelips of this phantom there came a voice, but a voice which seemed bornefrom a great distance, --very low, muffled, and yet distinct; I could noteven be sure that my ear heard it, or whether the sound was not conveyedto me by an inner sense. 

"I, and I alone, can save and deliver you, " said the voice. "I will doso; and the conditions I ask, in return, are simple and easy. "

"Fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own brain, " cried I, "there canbe no compact between thee and me. I despise thy malice, I reject thyservices; I accept no conditions to escape from the one or to obtain theother. "

"You may give a different answer when I ask again. "

The Scin-Laeca slowly waned, and, fading first into a paler shadow, thenvanished. I rejoiced at the reply I had given. Two days elapsed beforeMr. Stanton again came to me; in the interval the Scin-Laeca did notreappear. I had mustered all my courage, all my common-sense, noted downall the weak points of the false evidence against me, and felt calm andsupported by the strength of my innocence. 

The first few words of the solicitor dashed all my courage to the ground;for I was anxious to hear news of Lilian, anxious to have some messagefrom her that might cheer and strengthen me, and my first question wasthis, --

"Mr. Stanton, you are aware that I am engaged in marriage to MissAshleigh. Your family are not unacquainted with her. What says, whatthinks she of this monstrous charge against her betrothed?"

"I was for two hours at Mrs. Ashleigh's house last evening, " replied thelawyer; "she was naturally anxious to see me as employed in your defence. Who do you think was there? Who, eager to defend you, to express hispersuasion of your innocence, to declare his conviction that the realcriminal would be soon discovered, --who but that same Mr. Margrave; whom, pardon me my frankness, you so rashly and groundlessly suspected. "

"Heavens! Do you say that he is received in that house; that he--he isfamiliarly admitted to her presence?"

"My good sir, why these unjust prepossessions against a true friend? Itwas as your friend that, as soon as the charge against you amazed andshocked the town of L----, Mr. Margrave called on Mrs. Ashleigh, presentedto her by Miss Brabazon, 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 invain endeavoured to calm, until at length I halted abruptly: "Well, andyou saw Miss Ashleigh? What message does she send to me--her betrothed?"

Mr. Stanton looked confused. "Message! Consider, sir, Miss Ashleigh'ssituation--the delicacy--and--and--"

"I understand, no message, no word, from a young lady so respectable to aman accused of murder. "

Mr. Stanton was silent for some moments, and then said quietly, "Let uschange this subject; let us think of what more immediately presses. I seeyou have been making some notes: may I look at them?"

I composed myself and sat down. "This accuser! Have inquiries reallybeen made as to himself, and his statement of his own proceedings? Hecomes, he says, from America: in what ship? At what port did he land? Isthere any evidence to corroborate his story of the relations he tried todiscover; of the inn at which he first put up, and to which he could notfind his way?"

"Your suggestions are sensible, Dr. Fenwick. I have forestalled them. Itis true that the man lodged at a small inn, --the Rising Sun; true thatlie made inquiries about some relations of the name of Walls, who formerlyresided at L----, and afterwards removed to a village ten milesdistant, --two brothers, tradesmen of small means but respectablecharacter. He at first refused to say at what seaport he landed, in whatship he sailed. I suspect that he has now told a falsehood as to thesematters. I sent my clerk to Southampton, for it is there he said that hewas put on shore; we shall see: the man himself is detained in closecustody. I hear that his manner is strange and excitable; but that hepreserves silence as much as possible. It is generally believed that heis a bad character, perhaps a returned convict, and that this is the truereason why he so long delayed giving evidence, and has been since soreluctant to account for himself. But even if his testimony should beimpugned, should break down, still we should have to account for the factthat the casket and the case-knife were found in your bureau; for, granting that a person could, in your absence, have entered your study andplaced the articles in your bureau, it is clear that such a person musthave been well acquainted with your house, and this stranger to L----could not have possessed that knowledge. "

"Of course not. Mr. Margrave did possess it!"

"Mr. Margrave again! oh, sir!"

I arose and moved away with an impatient gesture. I could not trustmyself to speak. That night I did not sleep; I watched impatiently, gazing on the opposite wall for the gleam of the Scin-Laeca. But thenight passed away, and the spectre did not appear.