22436.7.40
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY

VERI
TAS
FROM THE
Subscription Fund
BEGUN IN














THE GREAT GOD PAN


Copyrighted in the United States
All rights reserved



The Great God Pan
and The Inmost Light
by Arthur Machen
AUTHOR OF THE CHRONICLE OF
CLEMENDY,' AND TRANSLATOR
OF "THE HEPTAMERON' AND
'LE MOYEN DE PARVENIR'
Qui perrumpit sepem, illum mordebit serpens
London : John Lane, Vigo St.
Boston: Roberts Bros., 1895


22431607.40
VIRD COLLEGE
HARVIS
AUG 6 1w-6
LIBRARY
Subscriptatis oftcore
Second Edition
no
og 2
humor
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty


CONTENTS
THE GREAT GOD PAN-
THE EXPERIMENT,
MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS, .
.
.
THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS, .
THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET,
THE LETTER OF ADVICE,
THE SUICIDES,
.
.
THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO,
THE FRAGMENTS,.
THE FRAGMENTS,. .
THE INMOST LIGHT, .
.
.
.
.
III





THE GREAT GOD PAN
THE EXPERIMENT
I AM glad you came, Clarke ; very glad in-
deed. I was not sure you could spare the
time.'
'I was able to make arrangements for a few
days; things are not very lively just now.
But have you no misgivings, Raymond? Is it
absolutely safe?'
The two men were slowly pacing the terrace
in front of Dr. Raymond's house. The sun
still hung above the western mountain-line, but
it shone with a dull red glow that cast no
shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet
breath came from the great wood on the hill-
side above, and with it, at intervals, the soft
murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in
the long lovely valley, the river wound in and
out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun


2 THE GREAT GOD PAN
hovered and vanished into the west, a faint
mist, pure white, began to rise from the banks.
Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend.
'Safe? Of course it is. In itself the opera-
tion is a perfectly simple one; any surgeon
could do it.'
And there is no danger at any other stage?'
'None; absolutely no physical danger what-
ever, I give you my word. You were always
timid, Clarke, always; but you know my
history. I have devoted myself to transcen-
dental medicine for the last twenty years. I
have heard myself called quack, and charlatan
and impostor, but all the while I knew I was
on the right path. Five years ago I reached
the goal, and since then every day has been a
preparation for what we shall do to-night.'
I should like to believe it is all true.'
Clarke knit his brows, and looked doubtfully
at Dr. Raymond. ‘Are you perfectly sure,
Raymond, that your theory is not a phantas-
magoria—a splendid vision, certainly, but a
mere vision after all ?
Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and
turned sharply. He was a middle-aged man,
gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion,


THE EXPERIMENT
3
but as he answered Clarke and faced him, there
was a flush on his cheek.
'Look about you, Clarke. You see the
mountain, and hill following after hill, as wave
on wave, you see the woods and orchards, the
fields of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching
to the reed-beds by the river. You see me
standing here beside you, and hear my voice;
but I tell you that all these things-yes, from
that star that has just shone out in the sky to
the solid ground beneath our feet-I say that
all these are but dreams and shadows: the
shadows that hide the real world from our eyes.
There is a real world, but it is beyond this
glamour and this vision, beyond these “chases
in Arras, dreams in a career," beyond them all
as beyond a veil. I do not know whether any
human being has ever lifted that veil ; but I
do know, Clarke, that you and I shall see it
lifted this very night from before another's
eyes. You may think all this strange non-
sense; it may be strange, but it is true, and
the ancients knew what lifting the veil means.
They called it seeing the god Pan.
Clarke shivered; the white mist gathering
over the river was chilly.


4. THE GREAT GOD PAN
It is wonderful indeed,' he said. We are
standing on the brink of a strange world, Ray-
mond, if what you say is true. I suppose the
knife is absolutely necessary ?'
Yes; a slight lesion in the grey matter, that
is all; a trifling rearrangement of certain cells,
a microscopical alteration that would escape the
attention of ninety-nine brain specialists out of
a hundred. I don't want to bother you with
“shop," Clarke; I might give you a mass of
technical detail which would sound very im-
posing, and would leave you as enlightened
as you are now. But I suppose you have read,
casually, in out-of-the-way corners of your
paper, that immense strides have been made
recently in the physiology of the brain. I saw
a paragraph the other day about Digby's theory,
and Browne Faber's discoveries. Theories and
discoveries! Where they are standing now, I
stood fifteen years ago, and I need not tell you
that I have not been standing still for the last
fifteen years. It will be enough if I say that
five years ago. I made the discovery to which I
alluded when I said that then I reached the
goal. After years of labour, after years of
toiling and groping in the dark, after days


THE EXPÉRIMENT
5
and nights of disappointment and sometimes
of despair, in which I used now and then to
tremble and grow cold with the thought that
perhaps there were others seeking for what
I sought, at last, after so long, a pang of
sudden joy thrilled my soul, and I knew the
long journey was at an end. By what seemed
then and still seems a chance, the suggestion of
a moment's idle thought followed up upon
familiar lines and paths that I had tracked a
hundred times already, the great truth burst
upon me, and I saw, mapped out in lines of
light a whole world, a sphere unknown; con-
tinents and islands, and great oceans in which
no ship has sailed (to my belief) since a Man
first lifted up his eyes and beheld the sun, and
the stars of heaven, and the quiet earth beneath.
You will think all this high-flown language,
Clarke, but it is hard to be literal. And yet; I
do not know whether what I am hinting at
cannot be set forth in plain and homely terms.
For instance, this world of ours is pretty well
girded now with the telegraph wires and cables ;
thought, with something less than the speed of
thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset, from
north to south, across the floods and the desert


6 THE GREAT GOD PAN
places. Suppose that an electrician of to-day
were suddenly to perceive that he and his
friends have merely been playing with pebbles
and mistaking them for the foundations of the
world; suppose that such a man saw uttermost
space lie open before the current, and words of
men flash forth to the sun and beyond the sun
into the systems beyond, and the voices of arti-
culate-speaking men echo in the waste void
that bounds our thought. As analogies go,
that is a pretty good analogy of what I have
done; you can understand now a little of what
I felt as I stood here one evening ; it was a
summer evening, and the valley looked much
as it does now; I stood here, and saw before
me the unutterable, the unthinkable gulf that
yawns profound between two worlds, the world
of matter and the world of spirit; I saw the great
empty deep stretch dim before me, and in that
instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to
the unknown shore, and the abyss was spanned.
You may look in Browne Faber's book, if you
like, and you will find that to the present day
men of science are unable to account for the pre-
sence, or to specify the functions of a certain
group of nerve-cells in the brain. That group


THE EXPERIMENT
7
is, as it were, land to let, a mere waste place
for fanciful theories. I am not in the position
of Browne Faber and the specialists, I am per-
fectly instructed as to the possible functions of
those nerve-centres in the scheme of things.
With a touch I can bring them into play, with
a touch, I say, I can set free the current, with
a touch I can complete the communication be-
tween this world of sense and we shall be
able to finish the sentence later on. Yes, the
knife is necessary; but think what that knife
will effect. It will level utterly the solid wall
of sense, and probably, for the first time since
man was made, a spirit will gaze on a spirit-
world. Clarke, Mary will see the god Pan!'
‘But you remember what you wrote to me?
I thought it would be requisite that she
He whispered the rest into the doctor's ear.
Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense, I
assure you. Indeed, it is better as it is; I am
quite certain of that.'
'Consider the matter well, Raymond. It's
a great responsibility. Something might go
wrong; you would be a miserable man for the
rest of your days.'
'No, I think not, even if the worst happened.


8 THE GREAT GOD PAN
la
As you know, I rescued Mary from the gutter,
and from almost certain starvation, when she was
a child ; I think her life is mine, to use as I see
fit. Come, it is getting late ; we had better go in.'
Dr. Raymond led the way into the house,
through the hall, and down a long dark passage.
He took a key from his pocket and opened
a heavy door, and motioned Clarke into his
laboratory. It had once been a billiard-room,
and was lighted by a glass dome in the centre
of the ceiling, whence there still shone a sad
grey light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a
lamp with a heavy shade and placed it on a
table in the middle of the room.
Clarke looked about him. Scarcely a foot of
wall remained bare; there were shelves all
around laden with bottles and phials of all
shapes and colours, and at one end stood a
little Chippendale book-case. Raymond pointed
to this.
"You see that parchment Oswald Crollius?
He was one of the first to show me the way,
though I don't think he ever found it himself.
That is a strange saying of his: "In every grain
of wheat there lies hidden the soul of a star.".
There was not much of furniture in the


THE EXPERIMENT
9
laboratory. The table in the centre, a stone
slab with a drain in one corner, the two arm-
chairs on which Raymond and Clarke were sit-
ting; that was all, except an odd-looking chair
at the furthest end of the room. Clarke looked
at it, and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, that is the chair,' said Raymond. We
may as well place it in position. He got up
and wheeled the chair to the light, and began
raising and lowering it, letting down the seat,
setting the back at various angles, and adjust-
ing the foot-rest. It looked comfortable enough,
and Clarke passed his hand over the soft green
velvet, as the doctor manipulated the levers.
'Now, Clarke, make yourself quite comfort-
able. I have a couple of hours' work before
me; I was obliged to leave certain matters to
the last.'
Raymond went to the stone slab, and Clarke
watched him drearily as he bent over a row of
phials and lit the flame under the crucible.
The doctor had a small hand-lamp, shaded as
the larger one, on a ledge above his appar-
atus, and Clarke, who sat in the shadows,
looked down the great dreary room, wondering
at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and


10 THE GREAT GOD PAN
undefined darkness contrasting with one another.
Soon he became conscious of an odd odour, at
first the merest suggestion of odour, in the
room ; and as it grew more decided he felt sur-
prised that he was not reminded of the chemist's
shop or the surgery. Clarke found himself idly
endeavouring to analyse the sensation, and, half
conscious, he began to think of a day, fifteen
years ago, that he had spent in roaming through
the woods and meadows near his old home. It
was a burning day at the beginning of August,
the heat had dimmed the outlines of all things
and all distances with a faint mist, and people
who observed the thermometer spoke of an
abnormal register, of a temperature that was
almost tropical. Strangely that wonderful hot
day of 185— rose up in Clarke's imagination;
the sense of dazzling all-pervading sunlight
seemed to blot out the shadows and the lights
of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated
air beating in gusts about his face, saw the
shimmer rising from the turf, and heard the
myriad murmur of the summer.
'I hope the smell doesn't annoy you, Clarke ;
there's nothing unwholesome about it. It may
make you a bit sleepy, that's all.'


THE EXPERIMENT
II
Clarke heard the words quite distinctly, and
knew that Raymond was speaking to him, but
for the life of him he could not rouse himself
from his lethargy. He could only think of the
lonely walk he had taken fifteen years ago; it
was his last look at the fields and woods he had
known since he was a child, and now it all stood
out in brilliant light, as a picture, before him.
Above all there came to his nostrils the scent of
summer, the smell of flowers mingled, and the
odour of the woods, of cool shaded places, deep in
the green depths, drawn forth by the sun's heat;
and the scent of the good earth, lying as it
were with arms stretched forth, and smiling
lips, overpowered all. His fancies made him
wander, as he had wandered long ago, from
the fields into the wood, tracking a little path
between the shining undergrowth of beech-
trees; and the trickle of water dropping from
the limestone rock sounded as a clear melody
in the dream. Thoughts began to go astray
and to mingle with other recollections; the
beech-alley was transformed to a path beneath
ilex-trees, and here and there a vine climbed
from bough to bough, and sent up waving
tendrils and drooped with purple grapes, and


12 THE GREAT GOD PAN
the sparse grey green leaves of a wild olive-tree
stood out against the dark shadows of the ilex.
Clarke, in the deep folds of dream, was con-
scious that the path from his father's house had
led him into an undiscovered country, and he
was wondering at the strangeness of it all, when
suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of
the summer, an infinite silence seemed to fall
on all things, and the wood was hushed, and
for a moment of time he stood face to face
there with a presence, that was neither man nor
beast, neither the living nor the dead, but all
things mingled, the form of all things but
devoid of all form. And in that moment, the
sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and
a voice seemed to cry 'let us go hence,' and
then the darkness of darkness beyond the stars,
the darkness of everlasting.
When Clarke woke up with a start he saw
Raymond pouring a few drops of some oily fluid
into a green phial, which he stoppered tightly.
"You have been dozing,' he said, 'the journey
must have tired you out. It is done now. I
am going to fetch Mary; I shall be back in ten
minutes.'


THE EXPERIMENT
13
Clarke lay back in his chair and wondered.
It seemed as if he had but passed from one
dream into another. He half expected to see
the walls of the laboratory melt and disappear,
and to awake in London, shuddering at his
own sleeping fancies. But at last the door
opened, and the doctor returned, and behind
him came a girl of about seventeen, dressed all
in white. She was so beautiful that Clarke did
not wonder at what the doctor had written to
him. She was blushing now over face and
neck and arms, but Raymond seemed un-
moved.
‘Mary, he said, the time has come. You
are quite free. Are you willing to trust your-
self to me entirely?'
“Yes, dear.'
“You hear that, Clarke? You are my wit-
ness. Here is the chair, Mary. It is quite
easy. Just sit in it and lean back. Are you
ready?'
“Yes, dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss
before you begin.'
The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth,
kindly enough. Now shut your eyes,' he said.
The girl closed her eyelids, as if she were tired,


14 THE GREAT GOD PAN
and longed for sleep, and Raymond held the
green phial to her nostrils. Her face grew
white, whiter than her dress; she struggled
faintly, and then with the feeling of submission
strong within her, crossed her arms upon her
breast as a little child about to say her prayers.
The bright light of the lamp beat full upon her,
and Clarke watched changes fleeting over that
face as the changes of the hills when the
summer clouds float across the sun. And then
she lay all white and still, and the doctor turned
up one of her eyelids. She was quite uncon-
scious. Raymond pressed hard on one of the
levers and the chair instantly sank back.
Clarke saw him cutting away a circle, like a
tonsure, from her hair, and the lamp was moved
nearer. Raymond took a small glittering in-
strument from a little case, and Clarke turned
away shuddering. When he looked again the
doctor was binding up the wound he had made.
‘She will awake in five minutes.' Raymond
was still perfectly cool. There is nothing
further to be done; we can only wait.'
The minutes passed slowly; they could hear
a slow, heavy ticking. There was an old clock
in the passage. Clarke felt sick and faint; his


THE EXPERIMENT
15
knees shook beneath him, he could hardly
stand.
Suddenly, as they watched, they heard a
long-drawn sigh, and suddenly did the colour
that had vanished return to the girl's cheeks,
and suddenly her eyes opened. Clarke quailed
before them. They shone with an awful light,
looking far away, and a great wonder fell upon
her face, and her hands stretched out as if to
touch what was invisible; but in an instant the
wonder faded, and gave place to the most awful
terror. The muscles of her face were hideously
convulsed, she shook from head to foot; the
soul seemed struggling and shuddering within
the house of flesh. It was a horrible sight, and
Clarke rushed forward, as she fell shrieking to
the floor.
Three days later Raymond took Clarke to
Mary's bedside. She was lying wide-awake,
rolling her head from side to side, and grin-
ning vacantly.
“Yes,' said the doctor, still quite cool, “it is a
great pity; she is a hopeless idiot. However, it
could not be helped ; and, after all, she has
seen the Great God Pan.'


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS
MR. CLARKE, the gentleman chosen by Dr.
Raymond to witness the strange experiment of
the god Pan, was a person in whose character
caution and curiosity were oddly mingled; in
his sober moments he thought of the unusual
and the eccentric with undisguised aversion,
and yet, deep in his heart, there was a wide-
eyed inquisitiveness with respect to all the more
recondite and esoteric elements in the nature of
men. The latter tendency had prevailed when
he accepted Raymond's invitation, for though
his considered judgment had always repudiated
the doctor's theories as the wildest nonsense,
yet he secretly hugged a belief in fantasy, and
would have rejoiced to see that belief confirmed.
The horrors that he witnessed in the dreary
laboratory were to a certain extent salutary, he
was conscious of being involved in an affair not
altogether reputable, and for many years after-
16


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 17
wards he clung bravely to the commonplace,
and rejected all occasions of occult investigation.
Indeed, on some homoeopathic principle, he for
some time attended the séances of distinguished
mediums, hoping that the clumsy tricks of these
gentlemen would make him altogether disgusted
with mysticism of every kind, but the remedy,
though caustic, was not efficacious. Clarke
knew that he still pined for the unseen, and
little by little, the old passion began to reassert
itself, as the face of Mary, shuddering and con-
vulsed with an unknowable terror, faded slowly
from his memory. Occupied all day in pursuits
both serious and lucrative, the temptation to
relax in the evening was too great, especially in
the winter months, when the fire cast a warm
glow dver his snug bachelor apartment, and a
bottle of some choice claret stood ready by his
elbow. His dinner digested, he would make a
brief pretence of reading the evening paper, but
the mere catalogue of news soon palled upon
him, and Clarke would find himself casting
glances of warm desire in the direction of an
old Japanese bureau, which stood at a pleasant
distance from the hearth. Like a boy before a
jam-closet, for a few minutes he would hover


18 THE GREAT GOD PAN
indecisive, but lust always prevailed, and Clarke
ended by drawing up his chair, lighting a
candle, and sitting down before the bureau.
Its pigeon-holes and drawers teemed with docu-
ments on the most morbid subjects, and in
the well reposed a large manuscript volume, in
which he had painfully entered the gems of
his collection. Clarke had a fine contempt for
published literature; the most ghostly story
ceased to interest him if it happened to be
printed; his sole pleasure was in the reading,
compiling, arranging, and rearranging what he
called his Memoirs to prove the Existence of the
Devil,' and engaged in this pursuit the evening
seemed to fly and the night appeared too short.
On one particular evening, an ugly December
night, black with fog, and raw with frost, Clarke
hurried over his dinner, and scarcely deigned to
observe his customary ritual of taking up the
paper and laying it down again. He paced
two or three times up and down the room, and
opened the bureau, stood still a moment, and
sat down. He leant back, absorbed in one of
those dreams to which he was subject, and at
length drew out his book, and opened it at the
last entry. There were three or four pages


MR. CLARKE’S MEMOIRS 19
densely covered with Clarke's round, set pen-
manship, and at the beginning he had written
in a somewhat larger hand :
Singular Narrative told me by my Friend, Dr.
Phillips. He assures me that all the Facts
related therein are strictly and wholly True,
but refuses to give either the Surnames of
the Persons concerned, or the Place where
these Extraordinary Events occurred.
Mr. Clarke began to read over the account
for the tenth time, glancing now and then at
the pencil notes he had made when it was told
him by his friend. It was one of his humours
to pride himself on a certain literary ability; he
thought well of his style, and took pains in
arranging the circumstances in dramatic order.
He read the following story:
The persons concerned in this statement are
Helen V., who, if she is still alive, must now
be a woman of twenty-three, Rachel M., since
deceased, who was a year younger than the
above, and Trevor W., an imbecile, aged
eighteen. These persons were at the period
of the story inhabitants of a village on the
borders of Wales, a place of some importance
in the time of the Roman occupation, but now


20 THE GREAT GOD PAN
a scattered hamlet, of not more than five
hundred souls. It is situated on rising ground,
about six miles from the sea, and is sheltered
by a large and picturesque forest.
Some eleven years ago, Helen V. came to
the village under rather peculiar circumstances.
It is understood that she, being an orphan, was
adopted in her infancy by a distant relative,
who brought her up in his own house till she
was twelve years old. Thinking, however, that
it would be better for the child to have play-
mates of her own age, he advertised in several
local papers for a good home in a comfort-
able farm-house for a girl of twelve, and this
advertisement was answered by Mr. R., a well-
to-do farmer in the above-mentioned village.
His references proving satisfactory, the gentle-
man sent his adopted daughter to Mr. R., with
a letter, in which he stipulated that the girl
should have a room to herself, and stated that
her guardians need be at no trouble in the matter
of education, as she was already sufficiently
educated for the position in life which she
would occupy. In fact, Mr. R. was given to
understand that the girl was to be allowed to
find her own occupations, and to spend her time


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 21
almost as she liked. Mr. R. duly met her at
the nearest station, a town some seven miles
away from his house, and seems to have re-
marked nothing extraordinary about the child,
except that she was reticent as to her former
life and her adopted father. She was, however,
of a very different type from the inhabitants of
the village ; her skin was a pale, clear olive,
and her features were strongly marked, and of
a somewhat foreign character. She appears to
have settled down, easily enough, into farm-
house life, and became a favourite with the
children, who sometimes went with her on her
rambles in the forest, for this was her amuse-
ment. Mr. R. states that he has known her go
out by herself directly after their early break-
fast, and not return till after dusk, and that,
feeling uneasy at a young girl being out alone
for so many hours, he communicated with her
adopted father, who replied in a brief note that
Helen must do as she chose. In the winter,
when the forest paths are impassable, she spent
most of her time in her bed-room, where she
slept alone, according to the instructions of her
relative. It was on one of these expeditions to
the forest, that the first of the singular incidents


22 THE GREAT GOD PAN
with which this girl is connected occurred, the
date being about a year after her arrival at the
village. The preceding winter had been re-
markably severe, the snow drifting to a great
depth, and the frost continuing for an un-
exampled period, and the summer following
was as noteworthy for its extreme heat. On
one of the very hottest days in this summer,
Helen V. left the farm-house for one of her
long rambles in the forest, taking with her, as
usual, some bread and meat for lunch. She
was seen by some men in the fields making for
the old Roman Road, a green causeway which
traverses the highest part of the wood, and they
were astonished to observe that the girl had
taken off her hat, though the heat of the sun
was already almost tropical. As it happened, a
labourer, Joseph W. by name, was working in
the forest near the Roman Road, and at twelve
o'clock, his little son, Trevor, brought the man
his dinner of bread and cheese. After the
meal, the boy, who was about seven years old
at the time, left his father at work, and, as he
says, went to look for flowers in the wood, and
the man, who could hear him shouting with
delight over his discoveries, felt no uneasiness.


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 23
Suddenly, however, he was horrified at hearing
the most dreadful screams, evidently the result
of great terror, proceeding from the direction in
which his son had gone, and he hastily threw
down his tools and ran to see what had
happened. Tracing his path by the sound, he
met the little boy who was running headlong,
and was evidently terribly frightened, and on
questioning him the man at last elicited that
after picking a posy of flowers he felt tired, and
lay down on the grass and fell asleep. He was
suddenly awakened, as he stated, by a peculiar
noise, a sort of singing he called it, and on
peeping through the branches he saw Helen V.
playing on the grass with a strange naked
man,' whom he seemed unable to describe
further. He said he felt dreadfully frightened,
and ran away crying for his father. Joseph W.
proceeded in the direction indicated by his son,
and found Helen V. sitting on the grass in
the middle of a glade or open space left by
charcoal burners. He angrily charged her
with frightening his little boy, but she entirely
denied the accusation and laughed at the child's
story of a 'strange man,' to which he himself
did not attach much credence. Joseph W.


24. THE GREAT GOD PAN
came to the conclusion that the boy had woke
up with a sudden fright, as children sometimes
do, but Trevor persisted in his story, and con-
tinued in such evident distress that at last his
father took him home, hoping that his mother
would be able to soothe him. For many
weeks, however, the boy gave his parents much
anxiety; he became nervous and strange in his
manner, refusing to leave the cottage by him-
self, and constantly alarming the household by
waking in the night with cries of the man in
the wood ! father! father!' In course of time,
however, the impression seemed to have worn
off, and about three months later he accom-
panied his father to the house of a gentleman
in the neighbourhood, for whom Joseph W.
occasionally did work. The man was shown
into the study, and the little boy was left sitting
in the hall, and a few minutes later, while the
gentleman was giving W. his instructions, they
were both horrified by a piercing shriek and
the sound of a fall, and rushing out they found
the child lying senseless on the floor, his face
contorted with terror. The doctor was imme-
diately summoned, and after some examina-
tion he pronounced the child to be suffering


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 25
from a kind of fit, apparently produced by a
sudden shock. The boy was taken to one of
the bed-rooms, and after some time recovered
consciousness, but only to pass into a condi-
tion described by the medical man as one of
violent hysteria. The doctor exhibited a strong
sedative, and in the course of two hours pro-
nounced him fit to walk home, but in passing
through the hall the paroxysms of fright re-
turned and with additional violence. The
father perceived that the child was pointing
at some object, and heard the old cry, 'the man
in the wood, and looking in the direction
indicated saw a stone head of grotesque ap-
pearance, which had been built into the wall
above one of the doors. It seems that the
owner of the house had recently made altera-
tions in his premises, and on digging the
foundations for some offices, the men had
found a curious head, evidently of the Roman
period, which had been placed in the hall in
the manner described. The head is pronounced
by the most experienced archæologists of the
district to be that of a faun or satyr.1
Dr. Phillips tells me that he has seen the head in question,
and assures me that he has never received such a vivid present-
ment of intense evil.


26 THE GREAT GOD PAN
From whatever cause arising, this second
shock seemed too severe for the boy Trevor,
and at the present date he suffers from a weak-
ness of intellect, which gives but little promise
of amending. The matter caused a good deal
of sensation at the time, and the girl Helen
was closely questioned by Mr. R., but to no
purpose, she steadfastly denying that she had
frightened or in any way molested Trevor.
The second event with which this girl's name
is connected took place about six years ago,
and is of a still more extraordinary character.
At the beginning of the summer of 188—
Helen contracted a friendship of a peculiarly
intimate character with Rachel M., the daughter
of a prosperous farmer in the neighbourhood.
This girl, who was a year younger than Helen,
was considered by most people to be the
prettier of the two, though Helen's features
had to a great extent softened as she became
older. The two girls, who were together on
every available opportunity, presented a singular
contrast, the one with her clear olive skin and
almost Italian appearance, and the other of the
proverbial red and white of our rural districts.
It must be stated that the payments made to


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 27
Mr. R. for the maintenance of Helen were known
in the village for their excessive liberality, and
the impression was general that she would one
day inherit a large sum of money from her
relative. The parents of Rachel were therefore
not averse to their daughter's friendship with
the girl, and even encouraged the intimacy,
though they now bitterly regret having done
so. Helen still retained her extraordinary fond-
ness for the forest, and on several occasions
Rachel accompanied her, the two friends setting
out early in the morning, and remaining in the
wood till dusk. Once or twice after these
excursions Mrs. M. thought her daughter's
manner rather peculiar; she seemed languid
and dreamy, and as it has been expressed,
different from herself,' but these peculiarities
seem to have been thought too trifling for
remark. One evening, however, after Rachel
had come home, her mother heard a noise
which sounded like suppressed weeping in the
girl's room, and on going in found her lying,
half-undressed, upon the bed, evidently in the
greatest distress. As soon as she saw her
mother, she exclaimed, 'Ah, mother, mother,
why did you let me go to the forest with


28 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Helen?' Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange
a question, and proceeded to make inquiries.
Rachel told her a wild story. She said
Clarke closed the book with a snap, and
turned his chair towards the fire. When his
friend sat one evening in that very chair, and
told his story, Clarke had interrupted him at a
point a little subsequent to this, had cut short
his words in a paroxysm of horror, ‘My God!'
he had exclaimed, 'think, think, what you are
saying. It is too incredible, too monstrous ;
such things can never be in this quiet world,
where men and women live and die, and
struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall
down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer
strange fortunes for many a year; but not
this, Phillips, not such things as this. There
must be some explanation, some way out of
the terror. Why, man, if such a case were
possible, our earth would be a nightmare.'
But Phillips had told his story to the end,
concluding:
'Her flight remains a mystery to this day;
she vanished in broad sunlight, they saw her
walking in a meadow, and a few moments later
she was not there.'


MR. CLARKE'S MEMOIRS 29
Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as
he sat by the fire, and again his mind shuddered
and shrank back, appalled before the sight of
such awful, unspeakable elements enthroned as
it were, and triumphant in human flesh. Before
him stretched the long dim vista of the green
causeway in the forest, as his friend had de-
scribed it: he saw the swaying leaves and the
quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in
the long distance, the two figures moved
towards him. One was Rachel, but the other ?
Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all,
but at the end of the account, as he had written
it in his book, he had placed the inscription :
ET DIABOLUS INCARNATUS EST. ET HOMO
FACTUS EST.


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS
'HERBERT! Good God! Is it possible?'
“Yes, my name's Herbert. I think I know
your face too, but I don't remember your name.
My memory is very queer.'
‘Don't you recollect Villiers of Wadham?'
"So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers,
I didn't think I was begging of an old college
friend. Good-night.'
'My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary.
My rooms are close by, but we won't go there
just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury
Avenue a little way? But how in heaven's
name have you come to this pass, Herbert ?'
'It's a long story, Villiers, and a strange one
too, but you can hear it if you like.'
Come on, then. Take my arm, you don't
seem very strong.'
The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert
Street; the one in dirty, evil-looking rags, and


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 31
the other attired in the regulation uniform of a
man about town, trim, glossy, and eminently
well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from his
restaurant after an excellent dinner of many
courses, assisted by an ingratiating little flask
of Chianti, and, in that frame of mind which
was with him almost chronic, had delayed a
moment by the door, peering round in the
dimly-lighted street in search of those mysteri-
ous incidents and persons with which the streets
of London teem in every quarter and at every
hour. Villiers prided himself as a practised
explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of
London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit
he displayed an assiduity which was worthy
of more serious employment. Thus he stood
beside the lamp-post surveying the passers-by
with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity
only known to the systematic diner, had just
enunciated in his mind the formula: ‘London
has been called the city of encounters; it is
more than that, it is the city of Resurrections,'
when these reflections were suddenly inter-
rupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and
a deplorable appeal for alms. He looked round
in some irritation, and with a sudden shock


32 THE GREAT ĠOD PAN
found himself confronted with the embodied
proof of his somewhat stilted fancies. There,
close beside him, his face altered and dis-
figured by poverty and disgrace, his body
barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood
his old friend Charles Herbert, who had
matriculated on the same day as himself, and
with whom he had been merry and wise for
twelve revolving terms. Different occupations
and varying interests had interrupted the
friendship, and it was six years since Villiers
had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this
wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled
with a certain inquisitiveness as to what dreary
chain of circumstance had dragged him down
to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt together
with compassion all the relish of the amateur
in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his
leisurely speculations outside the restaurant.
They walked on in silence for some time,
and more than one passer-by stared in astonish-
ment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-
dressed man with an unmistakable beggar
hanging on to his arm, and, observing this,
Villiers led the way to an obscure street in
Soho. Here he repeated his question.


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 33
"How on earth has it happened, Herbert ?
I always understood you would succeed to an
excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your
father disinherit you ? Surely not?'
'No, Villiers; I came into all the property at
my poor father's death; he died a year after I
left Oxford. He was a very good father to me,
and I mourned his death sincerely enough. But
you know what young men are; a few months
later I came up to town and went a good deal
into society. Of course I had excellent intro-
ductions, and I managed to enjoy myself very
much in a harmless sort of way. I played a
little, certainly, but never for heavy stakes, and
the few bets I made on races brought me in
money-only a few pounds, you know, but
enough to pay for cigars and such petty plea-
sures. It was in my second season that the
tide turned. Of course you have heard of my
marriage?'
“No, I never heard anything about it.'
“Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a
girl of the most wonderful and most strange
beauty, at the house of some people whom I
knew. I cannot tell you her age; I never
knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I should


34 THE GREAT GOD PAN
think she must have been about nineteen when
I made her acquaintance. My friends had
come to know her at Florence; she told them
she was an orphan, the child of an English father
and an Italian mother, and she charmed them as
she charmed me. The first time I saw her was at
an evening party ; I was standing by the door
talking to a friend, when suddenly above the
hum and babble of conversation a voice, which
seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing
an Italian song, I was introduced to her that
evening, and in three months I married Helen.
Villiers, that woman, if I can call her woman,
corrupted my soul. The night of the wedding
I found myself sitting in her bedroom in the
hotel, listening to her talk. She was sitting
up in bed, and I listened to her as she spoke in
her beautiful voice, spoke of things which even
now I would not dare whisper in blackest night,
though I stood in the midst of a wilderness.
You, Villiers, you may think you know life, and
London, and what goes on, day and night, in
this dreadful city ; for all I can say you may
have heard the talk of the vilest, but I tell you
you can have no conception of what I know, no,
not in your most fantastic, hideous dreams can


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 35
you have imaged forth the faintest shadow of
what I have heard—and seen. Yes, seen; I
have seen the incredible, such horrors that even
I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the
street, and ask whether it is possible for a man
to behold such things and live. In a year,
Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul,
-in body and soul.'
But your property, Herbert ? You had land
in Dorset.'
'I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear
old house—everything.'
* And the money ?'
‘She took it all from me.'
* And then left you?'
'Yes; she disappeared one night, I don't
know where she went, but I am sure if I saw
her again it would kill me. The rest of my
story is of no interest; sordid misery, that is
all. You may think, Villiers, that I have ex-
aggerated and talked for effect; but I have not
told you half. I could tell you certain things
which would convince you, but you would never
know a happy day again. You would pass the
rest of your life, as I pass mine, a haunted man,
a man who has seen hell.'


36 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Villiers took the unfortunate man to his
rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert could
eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of
wine set before him. He sat moody and silent
by the fire, and seemed relieved when Villiers
sent him away with a small present of money.
'By the way, Herbert,' said Villiers, as they
parted at the door, 'what was your wife's
name? You said Helen, I think? Helen
what?
"The name she passed under when I met her
was Helen Vaughan, but what her real name
was I can't say. I don't think she had a name.
No, no, not in that sense. Only human beings
have names, Villiers; I can't say any more.
Good-bye ; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any
way in which you can help me. Good-night.'
The man went out into the bitter night, and
Villiers returned to his fireside. There was
something about Herbert which shocked him
inexpressibly; not his poor rags or the marks
which poverty had set upon his face, but
rather an indefinite terror which hung about
him like a mist. He had acknowledged that he
himself was not devoid of blame, the woman,
he had avowed, had corrupted him body and


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 37
soul, and Villiers felt that this man, once his
friend, had been an actor in scenes evil beyond
the power of words. His story needed no con-
firmation ; he himself was the embodied proof
of it. Villiers mused curiously over the story
he had heard, and wondered whether he had
heard both the first and the last of it. "No,' he
thought, 'certainly not the last, probably only
the beginning. A case like this is like a nest
of Chinese boxes ; you open one after another
and find a quainter workmanship in every
box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one
of the outside boxes; there are stranger ones
to follow.'
Villiers could not take his mind away from
Herbert and his story, which seemed to grow
wilder as the night wore on. The fire began to
burn low, and the chilly air of the morning
crept into the room ; Villiers got up with a
glance over his shoulder, and shivering slightly,
went to bed.
A few days later he saw at his club a gentle-
man of his acquaintance, named Austin, who
was famous for his intimate knowledge of Lon-
don life, both in its tenebrous and luminous
phases. Villiers, still full of his encounter in


38 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Soho and its consequences, thought Austin
might possibly be able to shed some light on
Herbert's history, and so after some casual talk
he suddenly put the question :
'Do you happen to know anything of a man
named Herbert-Charles Herbert ?'
Austin turned round sharply and stared at
Villiers with some astonishment.
Charles Herbert ? Weren't you in town
three years ago? No; then you have not
heard of the Paul Street case? It caused a
good deal of sensation at the time.'
“What was the case?'
"Well, a gentleman, a man of very good
position, was found dead, stark dead, in the
area of a certain house in Paul Street, off
Tottenham Court Road. Of course the police
did not make the discovery; if you happen to
be sitting up all night and have a light in your
window, the constable will ring the bell, but if
you happen to be lying dead in somebody's
area, you will be left alone. In this instance as
in many others the alarm was raised by some
kind of vagabond; I don't mean a common
tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a gentle-
man, whose business or pleasure, or both, made


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 39
him a spectator of the London Streets at five
o'clock in the morning. This individual was,
as he said, “going home,” it did not appear
whence or whither, and had occasion to pass
through Paul Street between four and five A.M.
Something or other caught his eye at Number
20; he said, absurdly enough, that the house
had the most unpleasant physiognomy he had
ever observed, but, at any rate, he glanced down
the area, and was a good deal astonished to see
a man lying on the stones, his limbs all huddled
together, and his face turned up. Our gentle-
man thought this face looked peculiarly ghastly,
and so set off at a run in search of the nearest
policeman. The constable was at first inclined
to treat the matter lightly, suspecting a mere
drunken freak; however, he came, and after
looking at the man's face changed his tone,
quickly enough. The early bird, who had
picked up this fine worm, was sent off for a
doctor, and the policeman rang and knocked at
the door till a slatternly servant girl came down
looking more than half asleep. The constable
pointed out the contents of the area to the
maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake
up the street, but she knew nothing of the


40 THE GREAT GOD PAN
man; had never seen him at the house, and so
forth. Meanwhile the original discoverer had
come back with a medical man, and the next
thing was to get into the area. The gate was
open, so the whole quartet stumped down the
steps. The doctor hardly needed a moment's
examination; he said the poor fellow had been
dead for several hours, and he was moved away
to the police-station for the time being. It was
then the case began to get interesting. The
dead man had not been robbed, and in one of
his pockets were papers identifying him as-
well, as a man of good family and means, a
favourite in society, and nobody's enemy, so far
as could be known. I don't give his name,
Villiers, because it has nothing to do with the
story, and because it's no good raking up these
affairs about the dead, when there are relations
living. The next curious point was that the
medical men couldn't agree as to how he met
his death. There were some slight bruises on
his shoulders, but they were so slight that it
looked as if he had been pushed roughly out
of the kitchen door, and not thrown over the
railings from the street, or even dragged down
the steps. But there were positively no other


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 41
marks of violence about him, certainly none
that would account for his death ; and when
they came to the autopsy there wasn't a trace
of poison of any kind. Of course the police
wanted to know all about the people at Number
20, and here again, so I have heard from private
sources, one or two other very curious points
came out. It appears that the occupants of
the house were a Mr. and Mrs. Charles Her-
bert; he was said to be a landed proprietor,
though it struck most people that Paul Street
was not exactly the place to look for county
gentry. As for Mrs. Herbert, nobody seemed
to know who or what she was, and, between
ourselves, I fancy the divers after her history
found themselves in rather strange waters. Of
course they both denied knowing anything
about the deceased, and in default of any evi-
dence against them they were discharged. But
some very odd things came out about them.
Though it was between five and six in the
morning when the dead man was removed, a
large crowd had collected, and several of the
neighbours ran to see what was going on. They
were pretty free with their comments, by all
accounts, and from these it appeared that


42 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Number 20 was in very bad odour in Paul
Street. The detectives tried to trace down
these rumours to some solid foundation of fact,
but could not get hold of anything. People
shook their heads and raised their eyebrows and
thought the Herberts rather “queer," "would
rather not be seen going into their house," and
so on, but there was nothing tangible. The
authorities were morally certain that the man
met his death in some way or another in the
house and was thrown out by the kitchen door,
but they couldn't prove it, and the absence of
any indications of violence or poisoning left
them helpless. An odd case, wasn't it? But
curiously enough, there's something more that
I haven't told you. I happened to know one
of the doctors who was consulted as to the
cause of death, and some time after the inquest
I met him, and asked him about it. “Do you
really mean to tell me,” I said, "that you
were baffled by the case, that you actually don't
know what the man died of ?” “ Pardon me,”
he replied, “I know perfectly well what caused
death. Blank died of fright, of sheer, awful
terror ; I never saw features so hideously con-
torted in the entire course of my practice, and


THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS 43
I have seen the faces of a whole host of dead.”
The doctor was usually a cool customer enough,
and a certain vehemence in his manner struck
me, but I couldn't get anything more out of
him. I suppose the Treasury didn't see their
way to prosecuting the Herberts for frightening
a man to death ; at any rate, nothing was done,
and the case dropped out of men's minds. Do
you happen to know anything of Herbert?'
"Well,' replied Villiers, 'he was an old college
friend of mine.'
You don't say so ? Have you ever seen his
wife?'
"No, I haven't. I have lost sight of Herbert
for many years.'
'It's queer, isn't it, parting with a man at the
college gate or at Paddington, seeing nothing of
him for years, and then finding him pop up his
head in such an odd place. But I should like
to have seen Mrs. Herbert; people said extra-
ordinary things about her.'
What sort of things?'
Well, I hardly know how to tell you. Every
one who saw her at the police court said she
was at once the most beautiful woman and the
most repulsive they had ever set eyes on. I
wa
man


44 THE GREAT GOD PAN
have spoken to a man who saw her, and I assure
you he positively shuddered as he tried to
describe the woman, but he couldn't tell why.
She seems to have been a sort of enigma ; and
I expect if that one dead man could have told
tales, he would have told some uncommonly
queer ones. And there you are again in another
puzzle; what could a respectable country gentle-
man like Mr. Blank (we'll call him that if you
don't mind) want in such a very queer house
as Number 20? It's altogether a very odd case,
isn't it?'
'It is indeed, Austin ; an extraordinary case.
I didn't think, when I asked you about my old
friend, I should strike on such strange metal.
Well, I must be off; good-day.'
Villiers went away, thinking of his own con-
ceit of the Chinese boxes ; here was quaint
workmanship indeed.


THE DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET
A FEW months after Villiers's meeting with
Herbert, Mr. Clarke was sitting, as usual, by
his after-dinner hearth, resolutely guarding his
fancies from wandering in the direction of the
bureau. For more than a week he had suc-
ceeded in keeping away from the Memoirs,'
and he cherished hopes of a complete self-
reformation; but, in spite of his endeavours,
he could not hush the wonder and the strange
curiosity that that last case he had written
down had excited within him. He had put
the case, or rather the outline of it, conjecturally
to a scientific friend, who shook his head,
and thought Clarke getting queer, and on this
particular evening Clarke was making an effort
to rationalise the story, when a sudden knock
at his door roused him from his meditations.
"Mr. Villiers to see you, sir.'
Dear me, Villiers it is very kind of you to


46 THE GREAT GOD PAN
look me up; I have not seen you for many
months ; I should think nearly a year. Come
in, come in. And how are you, Villiers ? Want
any advice about investments ?'
No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in
that way is pretty safe. No, Clarke, I have
really come to consult you about a rather
curious matter that has been brought under my
notice of late. I am afraid you will think it all
rather absurd when I tell my tale, I sometimes
think so myself, and that's just why I made
up my mind to come to you, as I know you 're
a practical man.'
Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the 'Memoirs to
prove the Existence of the Devil.'
'Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you
my advice, to the best of my ability. What is
the nature of the case?'
'It's an extraordinary thing altogether. You
know my ways; I always keep my eyes open
in the streets, and in my time I have chanced
upon some queer customers, and queer cases
too, but this, I think, beats all. I was coming
out of a restaurant one nasty winter night
about three months ago; I had had a capital
dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I stood
*
Ilall.


DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET 47
for a moment on the pavement, thinking what
a mystery there is about London streets and
the companies that pass along them. A bottle
of red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke,
and I daresay I should have thought a page of
small type, but I was cut short by a beggar
who had come behind me, and was making the
usual appeals. Of course I looked round, and
this beggar turned out to be what was left of
an old friend of mine, a man named Herbert. I
asked him how he had come to such a wretched
pass, and he told me. We walked up and down
one of those long dark Soho streets, and there I
listened to his story. He said he had married
a beautiful girl, some years younger than him-
self, and, as he put it, she had corrupted him
body and soul. He wouldn't go into details;
he said he dare not, that what he had seen and
heard haunted him by night and day, and when
I looked in his face I knew he was speaking
the truth. There was something about the
man that made me shiver. I don't know why,
but it was there. I gave him a little money
and sent him away, and I assure you that when
he was gone I gasped for breath. His presence
seemed to chill one's blood.'


48 THE GREAT GOD PAN
'Isn't all this just a little fanciful, Villiers ?
I suppose the poor fellow had made an im-
prudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone
to the bad.'
"Well, listen to this. Villiers told Clarke
the story he had heard from Austin.
“You see,' he concluded, 'there can be but
little doubt that this Mr. Blank, whoever he
was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so
awful, so terrible, that it cut short his life. And
what he saw, he most certainly saw in that
house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad
name in the neighbourhood. I had the curio-
sity to go and look at the place for myself. It's
a saddening kind of street; the houses are old
enough to be mean and dreary, but not old
enough to be quaint. As far as I could see
most of them are let in lodgings, furnished and
unfurnished, and almost every door has three
bells to it. Here and there the ground floors
have been made into shops of the commonest
kind; it's a dismal street in every way. I
found Number 20 was to let, and I went to the
agent's and got the key. Of course I should
have heard nothing of the Herberts in that
quarter, but I asked the man, fair and square,


DISCOVERY ÎN PAUL STREET 49
how long they have left the house, and whether
there had been other tenants in the meanwhile.
He looked at me queerly for a minute, and told
me the Herberts had left immediately after the
unpleasantness, as he called it, and since then
the house had been empty.'
Mr. Villiers paused for a momenta
'I have always been rather fond of going
over empty houses; there's a sort of fascina-
tion about the desolate empty rooms, with the
nails sticking in the walls, and the dust thick
upon the window-sills. But I didn't enjoy going
over Number 20 Paul Street. I had hardly put
my foot inside the passage before I noticed
a queer, heavy feeling about the air of the
house. Of course all empty houses are stuffy,
and so forth, but this was something quite
different; I can't describe it to you, but it
seemed to stop the breath. I went into the
front room and the back room, and the kitchens
downstairs; they were all dirty and dusty enough,
as you would expect, but there was something
strange about them all. I couldn't define it to
you, I only know I felt queer. It was one of
the rooms on the first floor, though, that was
the worst. It was a largish room, and once on a


50 THE GREAT GOD PAN
time the paper must have been cheerful enough,
but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything
were most doleful. But the room was full of
horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I put my
hand on the door, and when I went in, I thought
I should have fallen fainting to the floor.
However I pulled myself together, and stood
against the end wall, wondering what on earth
there could be about the room to make my
limbs tremble, and my heart beat as if I were
at the hour of death. In one corner there was
a pile of newspapers littered about on the floor
and I began looking at them, they were papers
of three or four years ago, some of them half
torn, and some crumpled as if they had been
used for packing. I turned the whole pile over,
and amongst them I found a curious drawing;
I will show it you presently. But I couldn't
stay in the room; I felt it was overpowering
me. I was thankful to come out, safe and
sound, into the open air. People stared at me
as I walked along the street, and one man said
I was drunk. I was staggering about from one
side of the pavement to the other, and it was as
much as I could do to take the key back to the
agent and get home. I was in bed for a week,


DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET 51
suffering from what my doctor called nervous
shock and exhaustion. One of those days I
was reading the evening paper, and happened
to notice a paragraph headed : “Starved to
Death.” It was the usual style of thing; a
model lodging - house in Marylebone, a door
locked for several days, and a dead man in his
chair when they broke in. “The deceased," said
the paragraph,"was known as Charles Herbert,
and is believed to have been once a prosperous
country gentleman. His name was familiar to
the public three years ago in connection with
the mysterious death in Paul Street, Tottenham
Court Road, the deceased being the tenant of the
house Number 20, in the area of which a gentle-
man of good position was found dead under
circumstances not devoid of suspicion.” A tragic
ending, wasn't it? But after all, if what he told
me were true, which I am sure it was, the man's
life was all a tragedy, and a tragedy of a
stranger sort than they put on the boards.'
*And that is the story, is it?' said Clarke
musingly.
“Yes, that is the story.'
Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what
to say about it. There are no doubt circum-


52 THE GREAT GOD PAN
stances in the case which seem peculiar, the find-
ing of the dead man in the area of the Herberts'
house, for instance, and the extraordinary
opinion of the physician as to the cause of death,
but, after all, it is conceivable that the facts
may be explained in a straightforward manner.
As to your own sensations when you went to
see the house, I would suggest that they were
due to a vivid imagination; you must have
been brooding, in a semi-conscious way, over
what you had heard. I don't exactly see what
more can be said or done in the matter ; you
evidently think there is a mystery of some
kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you
propose to look?'
I propose to look for the woman; the woman
whom he married. She is the mystery.'
The two men sat silent by the fireside ;
Clarke secretly congratulating himself on having
successfully kept up the character of advocate
of the commonplace, and Villiers wrapt in his
gloomy fancies.
'I think I will have a cigarette,' he said at
last, and put his hand in his pocket to feel for
the cigarette-case.
*Ah!' he said, starting slightly, 'I forgot I


DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET 53
had something to show you. You remember
my saying that I had found a rather curious
sketch amongst the pile of old newspapers at
the house in Paul Street ?-here it is.'
Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his
pocket. It was covered with brown paper, and
secured with string, and the knots were trouble.
some. In spite of himself Clarke felt inquisi-
tive; he bent forward on his chair as Villiers
painfully undid the string, and unfolded the
outer covering. Inside was a second wrapping
of tissue, and Villiers took it off and handed the
small piece of paper to Clarke without a word.
There was dead silence in the room for five
minutes or more; the two men sat so still that
they could hear the ticking of the tall old-
fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall,
and in the mind of one of them the slow
monotony of sound woke up a far, far memory.
He was looking intently at the small pen-and-
ink sketch of a woman's head; it had evidently
been drawn with great care, and by a true
artist, for the woman's soul looked out of the
eyes, and the lips were parted with a strange
smile. Clarke gazed still at the face; it brought
to his memory one summer evening long ago;


54 THE GREAT GOD PAN
he saw again the long lovely valley, the river
winding between the hills, the meadows and the
cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white
mist rising from the water. He heard a voice
speaking to him across the waves of many
years, and saying, 'Clarke, Mary will see the
God Pan!' and then he was standing in the
grim room beside the doctor, listening to the
heavy ticking of the clock, waiting and watch-
ing, watching the figure lying on the green chair
beneath the lamp-light. Mary rose up, and he
looked into her eyes, and his heart grew cold
within him.
Who is this woman?' he said at last. His
voice was dry and hoarse.
"That is the woman whom Herbert married.'
Clarke looked again at the sketch ; it was
not Mary after all. There certainly was Mary's
face, but there was something else, something
he had not seen on Mary's features when the
white-clad girl entered the laboratory with the
doctor, nor at her terrible awakening, nor when
she lay grinning on the bed. Whatever it was,
the glance that came from those eyes, the smile
on the full lips, or the expression of the whole
face, Clarke shuddered before it in his inmost


DISCOVERY IN PAUL STREET 55
soul, and thought, unconsciously, of Dr. Phillips's
words, the most vivid presentment of evil I
have ever seen. He turned the paper over
mechanically in his hand and glanced at the
back.
'Good God! Clarke, what is the matter?
You are as white as death.'
Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as
Clarke fell back with a groan, and let the paper
drop from his hands.
'I don't feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to
these attacks. Pour me out a little wine ; thanks,
that will do. I shall be better in a few minutes.'
Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and
turned it over as Clarke had done.
You saw that?' he said. "That's how I
identified it as being a portrait of Herbert's
wife, or I should say his widow. How do you
feel now?'
'Better, thanks, it was only a passing faint-
ness. I don't think I quite catch your meaning.
What did you say enabled you to identify the
picture?'
*This word-Helen-written on the back.
Didn't I tell you her name was Helen? Yes;
Helen Vaughan.'


56 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Clarke groaned; there could be no shadow
of doubt.
Now, don't you agree with me,' said Villiers,
‘that in the story I have told you to-night, and
in the part this woman plays in it, there are
some very strange points ?'
“Yes, Villiers,' Clarke muttered, “it is a
strange story indeed ; a strange story indeed.
You must give me time to think it over; I may
be able to help you or I may not. Must you
be going now? Well, good - night, Villiers,
good-night. Come and see me in the course
of a week.'


THE LETTER OF ADVICE
Do you know, Austin,' said Villiers, as the two
friends were pacing sedately along Piccadilly
one pleasant morning in May, 'do you know I
am convinced that what you told me about
Paul Street and the Herberts is a mere episode
in an extraordinary history. I may as well
confess to you that when I asked you about
Herbert a few months ago I had just seen him.'
"You had seen him? Where ??
'He begged of me in the street one night.
He was in the most pitiable plight, but I
recognised the man, and I got him to tell me
his history, or at least the outline of it. In
brief, it amounted to this—he had been ruined
by his wife.'
'In what manner?'
‘He would not tell me; he would only say
that she had destroyed him body and soul.
The man is dead now.'
67


58 THE GREAT GOD PAN
* And what has become of his wife?'
Ah, that's what I should like to know, and
I mean to find her sooner or later. I know a
man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man
of business, but shrewd enough. You under-
stand my meaning; not shrewd in the mere
business sense of the word, but a man who
really knows something about men and life.
Well, I laid the case before him, and he was
evidently impressed. He said it needed con-
sideration, and asked me to come again in the
course of a week. A few days later I received
this extraordinary letter.'
Austin took the envelope, drew out the letter,
and read it curiously. It ran as follows:
'MY DEAR VILLIERS,- I have thought over the
matter on which you consulted me the other night,
and my advice to you is this. Throw the portrait into
the fire, blot out the story from your mind. Never give
it another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry. You
will think, no doubt, that I am in possession of some
secret information, and to a certain extent that is the
case. But I only know a little ; I am like a traveller
who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in
terror. What I know is strange enough and horrible
enough, but beyond my knowledge there are depths and
horrors more frightful still, more incredible than any
tale told of winter nights about the fire. I have resolved,
and nothing shall shake that resolve, to explore no whit


THE LETTER OF ADVICE 59
further, and if you value your happiness you will make
the same determination.
'Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on
more cheerful topics than this.'
Austin folded the letter methodically, and
returned it to Villiers.
'It is certainly an extraordinary letter, he
said ; 'what does he mean by the portrait ?'
*Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul
Street and have made a discovery.'
Villiers told his story as he had told it to
Clarke, and Austin listened in silence. He
seemed puzzled.
'How very curious that you should ex-
perience such an unpleasant sensation in that
room !' he said at length. “I hardly gather that
it was a mere matter of the imagination; a
feeling of repulsion, in short.'
"No, it was more physical than mental. It
was as if I were inhaling at every breath some
deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to
every nerve and bone and sinew of my body.
I felt racked from head to foot, my eyes
began to grow dim ; it was like the entrance
of death.'
'Yes, yes, very strange, certainly. You see,


60 THE GREAT GOD PAN
your friend confesses that there is some very
black story connected with this woman. Did
you notice any particular emotion in him when
you were telling your tale?'
“Yes, I did. He became very faint, but he
assured me that it was a mere passing attack to
which he was subject.'
‘Did you believe him?'
'I did at the time, but I don't now. He
heard what I had to say with a good deal of
indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It
was then he was seized with the attack of which
I spoke. He looked ghastly, I assure you.'
Then he must have seen the woman before.
But there might be another explanation ; it
might have been the name, and not the face,
which was familiar to him. What do you
think?'
'I couldn't say. To the best of my belief it
was after turning the portrait in his hands that
he nearly dropped from his chair. The name,
you know, was written on the back.'
'Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come
to any resolution in a case like this. I hate
melodrama, and nothing strikes me as more
commonplace and tedious than the ordinary


THE LETTER OF ADVICE 61
ghost story of commerce; but really, Villiers,
it looks as if there were something very queer at
the bottom of all this.'
The two men had, without noticing it, turned
up Ashley Street, leading northward from
Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a
gloomy one, but here and there a brighter taste
had illuminated the dark houses with flowers,
and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on the
doors. Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped
speaking, and looked at one of these houses;
geraniums, red and white, drooped from every
sill, and daffodil-coloured curtains were draped
back from each window.
It looks cheerful, doesn't it?' he said.
‘Yes, and the inside is still more cheery.
One of the pleasantest houses of the season, so
I have heard. I haven't been there myself, but
I have met several men who have, and they
tell me it's uncommonly jovial.'
•Whose house is it?'
‘A Mrs. Beaumont's.'
* And who is she?'
'I couldn't tell you. I have heard she comes
from South America, but, after all, who she is
is of little consequence. She is a very wealthy


62 THE GREAT GOD PAN
woman, there's no doubt of that, and some of
the best people have taken her up. I hear she
has some wonderful claret, really marvellous
wine, which must have cost a fabulous sum.
Lord Argentine was telling me about it; he
was there last Sunday evening. He assures me
he has never tasted such a wine, and Argentine,
as you know, is an expert. By the way, that
reminds me, she must be an oddish sort of
woman, this Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine asked
her how old the wine was, and what do you
think she said? “About a thousand years, I
believe.” Lord Argentine thought she was
chaffing him, you know, but when he laughed
she said she was speaking quite seriously, and
offered to show him the jar. Of course, he
couldn't say anything more after that; but it
seems rather antiquated for a beverage, doesn't
it? Why, here we are at my rooms. Come in,
won't you?'
*Thanks, I think I will. I haven't seen the
curiosity-shop for some time.'
It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly,
where every chair and bookcase and table, every
rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thing
apart, preserving each its own individuality,


THE LETTER OF ADVICE 63
* Anything fresh lately?' said Villiers after a
while.
No; I think not; you saw those queer jugs,
didn't you? I thought so. I don't think I
have come across anything for the last few
weeks.
Austin glanced round the room from cup-
board to cupboard, from shelf to shelf, in search
of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on
an old chest, pleasantly and quaintly carved,
which stood in a dark corner of the room.
'Ah,' he said, 'I was forgetting, I have got
something to show you. Austin unlocked the
chest, drew out a thick quarto volume, laid it
on the table, and resumed the cigar he had put
down.
*Did you know Arthur Meyrick the painter,
Villiers ?'
"A little; I met him two or three times at
the house of a friend of mine. What has
become of him? I haven't heard his name
mentioned for some time.'
'He's dead.'
'You don't say so! Quite young, wasn't he?'
“Yes; only thirty when he died.'
•What did he die of?'
of min three tim
27


64 THE GREAT GOD PAN
'I don't know. He was an intimate friend
of mine, and a thoroughly good fellow. He
used to come here and talk to me for hours,
and he was one of the best talkers I have met.
He could even talk about painting, and that's
more than can be said of most painters. About
eighteen months ago he was feeling rather
over-worked, and partly at my suggestion he
went off on a sort of roving expedition, with
no very definite end or aim about it. I be-
lieve New York was to be his first port, but I
never heard from him. Three months ago I.
got this book, with a very civil letter from an
English doctor practising at Buenos Ayres,
stating that he had attended the late Mr. Mey-
rick during his illness, and that the deceased
had expressed an earnest wish that the en-
closed packet should be sent to me after his
death. That was all.'
And haven't you written for further par-
ticulars?'
'I have been thinking of doing so. You
would advise me to write to the doctor?'
“Certainly. And what about the book?'
'It was sealed up when I got it. I don't
think the doctor had seen it.'


THE LETTER OF ADVICE 65
'It is something very rare? Meyrick was a
collector, perhaps ?'
No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now,
what do you think of those Ainu jugs?'
"They are peculiar, but I like them. But
aren't you going to show me poor Meyrick's
legacy?'
Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it's rather
a peculiar sort of thing, and I haven't shown it
to any one. I wouldn't say anything about it
if I were you. There it is.
Villiers took the book, and opened it at
haphazard. 'It isn't a printed volume then?'
he said.
'No. It is a collection of drawings in black
and white by my poor friend Meyrick.'
Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank;
the second bore a brief inscription, which he read:
Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore
secretus est; lucet nocturnis ignibus, chorus
Ægipanum undique personatur: audiuntur et
cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum fer
oram maritimam.
On the third page was a design which made
Villiers start and look up at Austin ; he was
gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers


66 THE GREAT GOD PAN
turned page after page, absorbed, in spite of
himself, in the frightful Walpurgis Night of
evil, strange monstrous evil, that the dead
artist had set forth in hard black and white.
The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Ægipans
danced before his eyes, the darkness of the
thicket, the dance on the mountain-top, the
scenes by lonely shores, in green vineyards, by
rocks and desert places, passed before him ; a
world before which the human soul seemed
to shrink back and shudder. Villiers whirled
over the remaining pages, he had seen enough,
but the picture on the last leaf caught his eye,
as he almost closed the book.
Austin!'
“Well, what is it?'
Do you know who that is ?'
It was a woman's face, alone on the white
page.
Know who it is ? No, of course not.'
'I do.'
•Who is it?'
'It is Mrs. Herbert.'
• Are you sure?'
'I am perfectly certain of it. Poor Meyrick!
He is one more chapter in her history.'


THE LETTER OF ADVICE 67
But what do you think of the designs?'
They are frightful. Lock the book up again,
Austin. If I were you I would burn it; it must
be a terrible companion, even though it be in
a chest.'
'Yes, they are singular drawings. But I
wonder what connection there could be between
Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between
her and these designs?'
*Ah, who can say? It is possible that the
matter may end here, and we shall never know,
but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan,
or Mrs. Herbert, is only beginning. She will
come back to London, Austin, depend upon it,
she will come back, and we shall hear more
about her then. I don't think it will be very
pleasant news.


THE SUICIDES
LORD ARGENTINE was a great favourite in
London society. At twenty he had been a
poor man, decked with the surname of an
illustrious family, but forced to earn a liveli-
hood as best he could, and the most speculative
of money-lenders would not have intrusted him
with fifty pounds on the chance of his ever
changing his name for a title, and his poverty
for a great fortune. His father had been near
enough to the fountain of good things to secure
one of the family livings, but the son, even if
he had taken orders, would scarcely have
obtained so much as this, and moreover felt no
vocation for the ecclesiastical estate. Thus he
fronted the world with no better armour than
the bachelor's gown and the wits of a younger
son's grandson, with which equipment he
contrived in some way to make a very toler-
able fight of it. At twenty-five Mr. Charles
68


THE SUICIDES 69
Aubernoun saw himself still a man of struggles
and of warfare with the world, but out of the
seven who stood between him and the high
places of his family three only remained.
These three, however, were 'good lives, but
yet not proof against the Zulu assegais and
typhoid fever, and so one morning Aubernoun
woke up and found himself Lord Argentine,
a man of thirty who had faced the difficulties
of existence, and had conquered. The situation
amused him immensely, and he resolved that
riches should be as pleasant to him as poverty
had always been. Argentine, after some little
consideration, came to the conclusion that
dining, regarded as a fine art, was perhaps the
most amusing pursuit open to fallen humanity,
and thus his dinners became famous in London,
and an invitation to his table a thing covetously
desired. After ten years of lordship and
dinners Argentine still declined to be jaded,
still persisted in enjoying life, and by a kind of
infection had become recognised as the cause
of joy in others, in short as the best of company.
His sudden and tragical death therefore caused
a wide and deep sensation. People could scarce
believe it, even though the newspaper was


70 THE GREAT GOD PAN
before their eyes, and the cry of 'Mysterious
Death of a Nobleman' came ringing up from
the street. But there stood the brief paragraph:
'Lord Argentine was found dead this morning
by his valet under distressing circumstances.
It is stated that there can be no doubt that his
lordship committed suicide, though no motive
can be assigned for the act. The deceased
nobleman was widely known in society, and
much liked for his genial manner and sumptu-
ous hospitality. He is succeeded by etc. etc.'
By slow degrees the details came to light,
but the case still remained a mystery. The
chief witness at the inquest was the dead
nobleman's valet, who said that the night before
his death Lord Argentine had dined with a
lady of good position, whose name was sup-
pressed in the newspaper reports. At about
eleven o'clock Lord Argentine had returned,
and informed his man that he should not
require his services till the next morning. A
little later the valet had occasion to cross the
hall and was somewhat astonished to see his
master quietly letting himself out at the front
door. He had taken off his evening clothes,
and was dressed in a Norfolk coat and knicker-


THE SUICIDES
71
bockers, and wore a low brown hat. The valet
had no reason to suppose that Lord Argentine
had seen him, and though his master rarely
kept late hours, thought little of the occurrence
till the next morning, when he knocked at the
bedroom door at a quarter to nine as usual.
He received no answer, and, after knocking two
or three times, entered the room, and saw Lord
Argentine's body leaning forward at an angle
from the bottom of the bed. He found that his
master had tied a cord securely to one of the
short bed-posts, and, after making a running
noose and slipping it round his neck, the un-
fortunate man must have resolutely fallen
forward, to die by slow strangulation. He was
dressed in the light suit in which the valet had
seen him go out, and the doctor who was
summoned pronounced that life had been
extinct for more than four hours. All papers,
letters, and so forth, seemed in perfect order,
and nothing was discovered which pointed in
the most remote way to any scandal either
great or small. Here the evidence ended;
nothing more could be discovered. Several
persons had been present at the dinner-party
at which Lord Argentine had assisted, and to


72 THE GREAT GOD PAN
all these he seemed in his usual genial spirits.
The valet, indeed, said he thought his master
appeared a little excited when he came home,
but he confessed that the alteration in his
manner was very slight, hardly noticeable,
indeed. It seemed hopeless to seek for any
clew, and the suggestion that Lord Argentine
had been suddenly attacked by acute suicidal
mania was generally accepted.
It was otherwise, however, when within three
weeks, three more gentlemen, one of them a
nobleman, and the two others men of good
position and ample means, perished miserably
in almost precisely the same manner. Lord
Swanleigh was found one morning in his dress-
ing-room, hanging from a peg affixed to the
wall, and Mr. Collier-Stuart and Mr. Herries
had chosen to die as Lord Argentine. There
was no explanation in either case; a few bald
facts; a living man in the evening, and a dead
body with a black swollen face in the morning.
The police had been forced to confess them-
selves powerless to arrest or to explain the
sordid murders of Whitechapel ; but before
the horrible suicides of Piccadilly and Mayfair,
they were dumfoundered, for not even the mere


THE SUICIDES
73
ferocity which did duty as an explanation of
the crimes of the East End, could be of service
in the West. Each of these men who had
resolved to die a tortured shameful death was
rich, prosperous, and to all appearance in love
with the world, and not the acutest research
could ferret out any shadow of a lurking
motive in either case. There was a horror in
the air, and men looked at one another's faces
when they met, each wondering whether the
other was to be the victim of a fifth nameless
tragedy. Journalists sought in vain in their
scrap-books for materials whereof to concoct
reminiscent articles; and the morning paper
was unfolded in many a house with a feeling of
awe ; no man knew when or where the blow
would next light.
A short while after the last of these terrible
events, Austin came to see Mr. Villiers. He
was curious to know whether Villiers had suc-
ceeded in discovering any fresh traces of Mrs.
Herbert, either through Clarke or by other
sources, and he asked the question soon after
he had sat down.
"No,' said Villiers, 'I wrote to Clarke, but
he remains obdurate, and I have tried other


74 THE GREAT GOD PAN
channels, but without any result. I can't find
out what became of Helen Vaughan after she
left Paul Street, but I think she must have gone
abroad. But to tell the truth, Austin, I haven't
paid very much attention to the matter for the
last few weeks ; I knew poor Herries intimately,
and his terrible death has been a great shock to
me, a great shock.'
I can well believe it,' answered Austin
gravely, 'you know Argentine was a friend of
mine. If I remember rightly, we were speaking
of him that day you came to my rooms.'
“Yes; it was in connection with that house
in Ashley Street, Mrs. Beaumont's house. You
said something about Argentine's dining there.'
Quite so. Of course you know it was there
Argentine dined the night before-before his
death.'
"No, I haven't heard that.'
Oh yes; the name was kept out of the
papers to spare Mrs. Beaumont. Argentine was
a great favourite of hers, and it is said she was
in a terrible state for some time after.'
A curious look came over Villiers's face ; he
seemed undecided whether to speak or not.
Austin began again.


THE SUICIDES
75
I never experienced such a feeling of horror
as when I read the account of Argentine's
death. I didn't understand it at the time, and
I don't now. I knew him well, and it com- :
pletely passes my understanding for what
possible cause he—or any of the others for the
matter of that-could have resolved in cold
blood to die in such an awful manner. You
know how men babble away each other's
characters in London, you may be sure any
buried scandal or hidden skeleton would have
been brought to light in such a case as this ;
but nothing of the sort has taken place. As
for the theory of mania, that is very well, of
course, for the coroner's jury, but everybody
knows that it's all nonsense. Suicidal mania is
not smallpox.'
Austin relapsed into gloomy silence. Villiers
sat silent also, watching his friend. The expres-
sion of indecision still fleeted across his face,
he seemed as if weighing his thoughts in the
balance, and the considerations he was revolv-
ing left him still silent. Austin tried to shake
off the remembrance of tragedies as hopeless
and perplexed as the labyrinth of Dædalus, and
began to talk in an indifferent voice of the


76 THE GREAT GOD PAN
more pleasant incidents and adventures of the
season.
'That Mrs. Beaumont,' he said, of whom we
were speaking, is a great success ; she has taken
London almost by storm. I met her the other
night at Fulham's; she is really a remarkable
woman.'
"You have met Mrs. Beaumont?'
“Yes; she had quite a court around her. She
would be called very handsome, I suppose, and
yet there is something about her face which I
didn't like. The features are exquisite, but the
expression is strange. And all the time I was
looking at her, and afterwards, when I was going
home, I had a curious feeling that that very
expression was in some way or other familiar
to me.'
You must have seen her in the Row.'
No, I am sure I never set eyes on the woman
before ; it is that which makes it puzzling.
And to the best of my belief I have never seen
anybody like her; what I felt was a kind of
dim far-off memory, vague but persistent. The
only sensation I can compare it to, is that
odd feeling one sometimes has in a dream,
when fantastic cities and wondrous lands and


THE SUICIDES 77
phantom personages appear familiar and ac-
customed.'
Villiers nodded and glanced aimlessly round
the room, possibly in search of something on
which to turn the conversation. His eyes fell
on an old chest somewhat like that in which the
artist's strange legacy lay hid beneath a Gothic
scutcheon.
Have you written to the doctor about poor
Meyrick ?' he asked.
'Yes; I wrote asking for full particulars as to
his illness and death. I don't expect to have
an answer for another three weeks or a month.
I thought I might as well inquire whether Mey-
rick knew an Englishwoman named Herbert,
and if so, whether the doctor could give me
any information about her. But it's very pos-
sible that Meyrick fell in with her at New York,
or Mexico, or San Francisco; I have no idea
as to the extent or direction of his travels.' ...
'Yes, and it's very possible that the woman
may have more than one name.'
*Exactly. I wish I had thought of asking
you to lend me the portrait of her which you
possess. I might have enclosed it in my letter
to Dr. Mathews.


78 THE GREAT GOD PAN
So you might; that never occurred to me.
We might even now do so. Hark! what are
those boys calling ?
While the two men had been talking together
a confused noise of shouting had been gradually
growing louder. The noise rose from the
eastward and swelled down Piccadilly, drawing
nearer and nearer, a very torrent of sound;
surging up streets usually quiet, and making
every window a frame for a face, curious or
excited. The cries and voices came echoing up
the silent street where Villiers lived, growing
more distinct as they advanced, and, as Villiers
spoke, an answer rang up from the pavement:
"The West End Horrors; Another Awful
Suicide ; Full Details !
Austin rushed down the stairs and bought a
paper and read out the paragraph to Villiers
as the uproar in the street rose and fell. The
window was open and the air seemed full of
noise and terror.
* Another gentleman has fallen a victim to
the terrible epidemic of suicide which for the
last month has prevailed in the West End.
Mr. Sidney Crashaw of Stoke House, Fulham,
and King's Pomeroy, Devon, was found, after


THE SUICIDES
79
a prolonged search, hanging from the branch of
a tree in his garden at one o'clock to-day. The
deceased gentleman dined last night at the
Carlton Club and seemed in his usual health and
spirits. He left the Club at about ten o'clock,
and was seen walking leisurely up St. James's
Street a little later. Subsequent to this his
movements cannot be traced. On the discovery
of the body medical aid was at once summoned,
but life had evidently been long extinct. So
far as is known Mr. Crashaw had no trouble
or anxiety of any kind. This painful suicide,
it will be remembered, is the fifth of the kind
in the last month. The authorities at Scotland
Yard are unable to suggest any explanation of
these terrible occurrences.'
Austin put down the paper in mute horror.
'I shall leave London to-morrow,' he said,
'it is a city of nightmares. How awful this is,
Villiers !
Mr. Villiers was sitting by the window quietly
looking out into the street. He had listened to
the newspaper report attentively, and the hint
of indecision was no longer on his face.
"Wait a moment, Austin,' he replied, 'I have
made up my mind to mention a little matter


80 THE GREAT GOD PAN
that occurred last night. It is stated, I think,
that Crashaw was last seen alive in St. James's
Street shortly after ten ?'
, 'Yes, I think so. I will look again. Yes,
you are quite right.'
'Quite so. Well, I am in a position to con-
tradict that statement at all events. Crashaw
was seen after that; considerably later indeed.'
How do you know?'
'Because I happened to see Crashaw myself
at about two o'clock this morning.'
"You saw Crashaw? You, Villiers ?'
'Yes, I saw him quite distinctly ; indeed there
were but a few feet between us.'
"Where, in heaven's name, did you see him ?'
*Not far from here. I saw him in Ashley
Street. He was just leaving a house.'
• Did you notice what house it was ?'
“Yes. It was Mrs. Beaumont's.'
· Villiers! Think what you are saying ; there
must be some mistake. How could Crashaw
be in Mrs. Beaumont's house at two o'clock in
the morning? Surely, surely, you must have
been dreaming, Villiers, you were always rather
fanciful.'
*No; I was wide awake enough. Even if I


THE SUICIDES
81
had been dreaming as you say, what I saw
would have roused me effectually.'
"What you saw? What did you see? Was
there anything strange about Crashaw? But I
can't believe it; it is impossible.'
"Well, if you like I will tell you what I saw,
or if you please, what I think I saw, and you
can judge for yourself.
*Very good, Villiers.'
The noise and clamour of the street had died
away, though now and then the sound of shout-
ing still came from the distance, and the dull,
leaden silence seemed like the quiet after an
earthquake or a storm. Villiers turned from
the window and began speaking.
'I was at a house near Regent's Park last
night, and when I came away the fancy took
me to walk home instead of taking a hansom.
It was a clear pleasant night enough, and after
a few minutes I had the streets pretty much to
myself. It's a curious thing, Austin, to be alone
in London at night, the gas-lamps stretching
away in perspective, and the dead silence, and
then perhaps the rush and clatter of a hansom
on the stones, and the fire starting up under the
horse's hoofs. I walked along pretty briskly,


82 THE GREAT GOD PAN
for I was feeling a little tired of being out in
the night, and as the clocks were striking two I
turned down Ashley Street, which, you know,
is on my way. It was quieter than ever there,
and the lamps were fewer, altogether it looked
as dark and gloomy as a forest in winter. I
had done about half the length of the street
when I heard a door closed very softly, and
naturally I looked up to see who was abroad
like myself at such an hour. As it happens,
there is a street lamp close to the house in
question, and I saw a man standing on the step.
He had just shut the door and his face was
towards me, and I recognised Crashaw directly.
I never knew him to speak to, but I had often
seen him, and I am positive that I was not
mistaken in my man. I looked into his face
for a moment, and then I will confess the
truth-I set off at a good run, and kept it up
till I was within my own door.'
•Why?'
“Why? Because it made my blood run cold
to see that man's face. I could never have
supposed that such an infernal medley of
passions could have glared out of any human
eyes; I almost fainted as. I looked. I knew I


THE SUICIDES
83
had looked into the eyes of a lost soul, Austin,
the man's outward form remained, but all hell
was within it. Furious lust, and hate that was
like fire, and the loss of all hope and horror that
seemed to shriek aloud to the night, though
his teeth were shut; and the utter blackness of
despair. I am sure he did not see me; he saw
nothing that you or I can see, but he saw what
I hope we never shall. I do not know when he
died; I suppose in an hour, or perhaps two, but
when I passed down Ashley Street and heard
the closing door, that man no longer belonged
to this world; it was a devil's face that I looked
upon.'
There was an interval of silence in the room
when Villiers ceased speaking. The light was
failing, and all the tumult of an hour ago was
quite hushed. Austin had bent his head at the
close of the story, and his hand covered his eyes.
"What can it mean?' he said at length.
“Who knows, Austin, who knows? It's a
black business, but I think we had better keep it
to ourselves, for the present at any rate. I will
see if I cannot learn anything about that house
through private channels of information, and if
I do light upon anything I will let you know.'


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO
THREE weeks later Austin received a note
from Villiers, asking him to call either that
afternoon or the next. He chose the nearer
date and found Villiers sitting as usual by the
window, apparently lost in meditation on the
drowsy traffic of the street. There was a
bamboo table by his side, a fantastic thing,
enriched with gilding and queer painted scenes,
and on it lay a little pile of papers arranged and
docketed as neatly as anything in Mr. Clarke's
office.
"Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries
in the last three weeks?'
'I think so; I have here one or two
memoranda which struck me as singular, and
there is a statement to which I shall call your
attention.
*And these documents relate to Mrs. Beau-
mont? it was really Crashaw whom you saw
84


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 85
that night standing on the doorstep of the house
in Ashley Street ?'
'As to that matter my belief remains un-
changed, but neither my inquiries nor their
results have any special relation to Crashaw.
But my investigations have had a strange issue ;
I have found out who Mrs. Beaumont is!'
Who she is? In what way do you mean?'
'I mean that you and I know her better
under another name.'
What name is that?'
Herbert.
'Herbert !' Austin repeated the word, dazed
with astonishment.
Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen
Vaughan of earlier adventures unknown to me.
You had reason to recognise the expression of
her face; when you go home look at the face in
Meyrick's book of horrors, and you will know
the sources of your recollection.'
And you have proof of this ?'
“Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs.
Beaumont, or shall we say Mrs. Herbert ?'
"Where did you see her?'
Hardly in a place where you would expect
to see a lady who lives in Ashley Street,


86 THE GREAT GOD PAN
Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one
of the meanest and most disreputable streets in
Soho. In fact, I had made an appointment,
though not with her, and she was precise both
to time and place.'
*All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot
call it incredible. You must remember, Villiers,
that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary
adventure of London society, talking and
laughing, and sipping her chocolate in a
commonplace drawing - room, with common-
place people. But you know what you are
saying.'
'I do; I have not allowed myself to be led
by surmises or fancies. It was with no thought
of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for
Mrs. Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of
London, but such has been the issue.'
You must have been in strange places,
Villiers.
“Yes, I have been in very strange places. It
would have been useless, you know, to go to
Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to kindly
give me a short sketch of her previous history.
No; assuming, as I had to assume, that her
record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 87
certain that at some previous time she must
have moved in circles not quite so refined as
her present ones. If you see mud on the top
of a stream, you may be sure that it was once
at the bottom. I went to the bottom. I have
always been fond of diving into Queer Street
for my amusement, and I found my knowledge
of that locality and its inhabitants very useful.
It is perhaps needless to say that my friends
had never heard the name of Beaumont, and as
I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable
to describe her, I had to set to work in an in-
direct way. The people there know me, I have
been able to do some of them a service now and
again, so they made no difficulty about giving
their information; they were aware I had no
communication direct or indirect with Scotland
Yard. I had to cast out a good many lines
though, before I got what I wanted, and when I
landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose
it was my fish. But I listened to what I was
told out of a constitutional liking for useless
information, and I found myself in possession
of a very curious story, though, as I imagined,
not the story I was looking for. It was to this
effect. Some five or six years ago a woman


88 THE GREAT GOD PAN
named Raymond suddenly made her appear-
ance in the neighbourhood to which I am re-
ferring. She was described to me as being
quite young, probably not more than seventeen
or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if
she came from the country. I should be wrong
in saying that she found her level in going to
this particular quarter, or associating with these
people, for from what I was told, I should think
the worst den in London far too good for her.
The person from whom I got my information,
as you may suppose, no great Puritan, shuddered
and grew sick in telling me of the nameless
infamies which were laid to her charge. After
living there for a year, or perhaps a little more,
she disappeared as suddenly as she came, and
they saw nothing of her till about the time of
the Paul Street case. At first she came to her
old haunts only occasionally, then more fre-
quently, and finally took up her abode there as
before, and remained for six or eight months.
It's of no use my going into details as to the
life that woman led; if you want particulars
you can look at Meyrick's legacy. Those
designs were not drawn from his imagination.
She again disappeared, and the people of the


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 89
place saw nothing of her till a few months ago.
My informant told me that she had taken some
rooms in a house which he pointed out, and
these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two
or three times a week and always at ten in the
morning. I was led to expect that one of these
visits would be paid on a certain day about a
week ago, and I accordingly managed to be on
the look-out in company with my cicerone at a
quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came
with equal punctuality. My friend and I were
standing under an archway, a little way back
from the street, but she saw us, and gave me a
glance that I shall be long in forgetting. That
look was quite enough for me; I knew Miss
Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs.
Beaumont she had quite gone out of my head.
She went into the house, and I watched it till
four o'clock, when she came out, and then I
followed her. It was a long chase, and I had
to be very careful to keep a long way in the
background, and yet not to lose sight of the
woman. She took me down to the Strand, and
then to Westminster, and then up St. James's
Street, and along Piccadilly. I felt queerish
when I saw her turn up Ashley Street; the


30 THE GREAT GOD PAN
thought that Mrs. Herbert was Mrs. Beaumont
came into my mind, but it seemed too im-
probable to be true. I waited at the corner,
keeping my eye on her all the time, and I took
particular care to note the house at which she
stopped. It was the house with the gay
curtains, the house of flowers, the house out of
which Crashaw came the night he hanged himself
in his garden. I was just going away with my
discovery, when I saw an empty carriage come
round and draw up in front of the house, and I
came to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was
going out for a drive, and I was right. I took
a hansom and followed the carriage into the
Park. There, as it happened, I met a man I
know, and we stood talking together a little
distance from the carriage-way, to which I had
my back. We had not been there for ten
minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I
glanced round and saw the lady I had been
following all day. “Who is that?” I said, and
his answer was, “Mrs. Beaumont; lives in
Ashley Street.” Of course there could be no
doubt after that. I don't know whether she
saw me, but I don't think she did. I went
home at once, and, on consideration, I thought


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHỌ 91
that I had a sufficiently good case with which
to go to Clarke.
"Why to Clarke ?'
‘Because I am sure that Clarke is in pos-
session of facts about this woman, facts of which
I know nothing.'
Well, what then?'
Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and
looked reflectively at Austin for a moment
before he answered:
*My idea was that Clarke and I should call
on Mrs. Beaumont.'
“You would never go into such a house as
that? No, no, Villiers, you cannot do it.
Besides, consider ; what result ...
'I will tell you soon. But I was going to say
that my information does not end here; it has
been completed in an extraordinary manner.
‘Look at this neat little packet of manuscript ;
it is paginated, you see, and I have indulged
in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape.
It has almost a legal air, hasn't it? Run your
eye over it, Austin. It is an account of the
entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her
choicer guests. The man who wrote this
escaped with his life, but I do not think he will


92 THE GREAT GOD PAN
live many years. The doctors tell him he must
have sustained some severe shock to the nerves.'
Austin took the manuscript, but never read
it. Opening the neat pages at haphazard his
eye was caught by a word and a phrase that
followed it; and, sick at heart, with white lips
and a cold sweat pouring like water from his
temples, he flung the paper down.
'Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this
again. Are you made of stone, man? Why,
the dread and horror of death itself, the thoughts
of the man who stands in the keen morning air
on the black platform, bound, the bell tolling in
his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle of the
bolt, are as nothing compared to this. I will
not read it; I should never sleep again.'
Very good. I can fancy what you saw.
Yes; it is horrible enough; but after all, it is
an old story, an old mystery played in our day,
and in dim London streets instead of amidst
the vineyards and the olive gardens. We know
what happened to those who chanced to meet
the Great God Pan, and those who are wise
know that all symbols are symbols of some-
thing, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an
exquisite symbol beneath which men long ago


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 93
veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most
secret forces which lie at the heart of all things;
forces before which the souls of men must
wither and die and blacken, as their bodies
blacken under the electric current. Such forces
cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be
imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a
symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint,
poetic fancy, to some a foolish, silly tale. But
you and I, at all events, have known something
of the terror that may dwell in the secret place
of life, manifested under human flesh; that
which is without form taking to itself a form.
Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the
very sunlight does not turn to blackness before
this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath
such a burden ?'
Villiers was pacing up and down the room,
and the beads of sweat stood out on his fore-
head. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers
saw him make a sign upon his breast.
'I say again, Villiers, you will surely never
enter such a house as that? You would never
pass out alive.
“Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive-I, and
Clarke with me.


94 THE GREAT GOD PAN
"What do you mean? You cannot, you
would not dare ...'.
"Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant
and fresh this morning; there was a breeze
blowing, even through this dull street, and I
thought I would take a walk. Piccadilly
stretched before me a clear, bright vista, and
the sun flashed on the carriages and on the
quivering leaves in the park. It was a joyous
morning, and men and women looked at the
sky and smiled as they went about their work
or their pleasure, and the wind blew as blithely
as upon the meadows and the scented gorse.
But somehow or other I got out of the bustle
and the gaiety, and found myself walking
slowly along a quiet, dull street, where there
seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and
where the few foot-passengers loitered as they
walked, and hung indecisively about corners
and archways. I walked along, hardly knowing
where I was going or what I did there, but
feeling impelled, as one sometimes is, to
explore still further, with a vague idea of
reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged
up the street, noting the small traffic of the
milk-shop, and wondering at the incongruous
reaching sout noting the same the incongrue


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 95
medley of penny pipes, black tobacco, sweets,
newspapers, and comic songs which here and
there jostled one another in the short compass
of a single window. I think it was a cold
shudder that suddenly passed through me that
first told me I had found what I wanted. I
looked up from the pavement and stopped
before a dusty shop, above which the lettering
had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred
years ago had grimed to black; where the
windows had gathered to themselves the fog
and the dirt of winters innumerable. I saw
what I required; but I think it was five
minutes before I had steadied myself and could
walk in and ask for it in a cool voice and with
a calm face. I think there must even then
have been a tremor in my words, for the old
man who came out from his back parlour, and
fumbled slowly amongst his goods, looked
oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what
he asked, and stood leaning by the counter,
with a strange reluctance to take up my goods
and go. I asked about the business, and learnt
that trade was bad and profits cut down sadly;
but then the street was not what it was before
traffic had been diverted, but that was done


96 THE GREAT GOD PAN
forty years ago, “just before my father died,” he
said. I got away at last, and walked along
sharply; it was a dismal street indeed, and I
was glad to return to the bustle and the noise.
Would you like to see my purchase?'
Austin said nothing, but nodded his head
slightly; he still looked white and sick. Villiers
pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and
showed Austin a long coil of cord, hard and
new; and at one end was a running noose.
'It is the best hempen cord,' said Villiers, just
as it used to be made for the old trade, the man
told me. Not an inch of jute from end to end.'
Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at
Villiers, growing whiter as he looked.
You would not do it,' he murmured at
last. “You would not have blood on your
hands. My God!'he exclaimed, with sudden
vehemence, 'you cannot mean this, Villiers,
that you will make yourself a hangman?'.
No. I shall offer a choice, and leave the
thing alone with this cord in a locked room for
fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not done,
I shall call the nearest policeman. That is all.'
'I must go now. I cannot stay here any
longer; I cannot bear this. Good-night.'


THE ENCOUNTER IN SOHO 97
Good-night, Austin.'
The door shut, but in a moment it was
opened again, and Austin stood, white and
ghastly, in the entrance.
'I was forgetting,' he said, 'that I too have
something to tell. I have received a letter
from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says
that he attended Meyrick for three weeks
before his death.'
* And does he say what carried him off in
the prime of life? It was not fever?'
'No, it was not fever. According to the
doctor, it was an utter collapse of the whole
system, probably caused by some severe shock.
But he states that the patient would tell him
nothing, and that he was consequently at some
disadvantage in treating the case.'
'Is there anything more?'
Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying:
“I think this is all the information I can give
you about your poor friend. He had not been
long in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely
any one, with the exception of a person who
did not bear the best of characters, and has
since left-a Mrs. Vaughan.”)


THE FRAGMENTS
[Amongst the papers of the well-known physician, Dr.
Robert Matheson, of Ashley Street, Piccadilly, who died
suddenly, of apoplectic seizure, at the beginning of 1892,
a leaf of manuscript paper was found, covered with pencil
jottings. These notes were in Latin, much abbreviated,
and had evidently been made in great haste. The MS.
was only deciphered with great difficulty, and some
words have up to the present time evaded all the efforts
of the expert employed. The date, 'xxv Jul. 1888,' is
written on the right-hand corner of the Ms. The fol-
lowing is a translation of Dr. Matheson's manuscript.]
WHETHER science would benefit by these brief
notes if they could be published, I do not
know, but rather doubt.' But certainly I shall
never take the responsibility of publishing or
divulging one word of what is here written,
not only on account of my oath freely given
to those two persons who were present, but
also because the details are too loathsome. It
is probable that, upon mature consideration,
and after weighing the good and evil, I shall


THE FRAGMENTS
gy
99
one day destroy this paper, or at least leave
it under seal to my friend D., trusting in his
discretion, to use it or to burn it, as he may
think fit.
"As was befitting I did all that my knowledge
suggested to make sure that I was suffering
under no delusion. At first astounded, I could
hardly think, but in a minute's time I was sure
that my pulse was steady and regular and that
I was in my real and true senses. I ran over
the anatomy of the foot and arm and repeated
the formulæ of some of the carbon compounds,
and then fixed my eyes quietly on what was
before me.
'Though horror and revolting nausea rose up
within me, and an odour of corruption choked
my breath, I remained firm. I was then
privileged or accursed, I dare not say which,
to see that which was on the bed, lying there
black like ink, transformed before my eyes.
The skin, and the flesh, and the muscles, and
the bones, and the firm structure of the human
body that I had thought to be unchangeable,
and permanent as adamant, began to melt and
dissolve.
'I knew that the body may be separated into


100 THE GREAT GOD PAN
its elements by external agencies, but I should
have refused to believe what I saw. For here
there was some internal force, of which I knew
nothing, that caused dissolution and change.
'Here too was all the work by which man
has been made repeated before my eyes. I saw
the form waver from sex to sex, dividing itself
from itself, and then again reunited. Then I
saw the body descend to the beasts whence it
ascended, and that which was on the heights
go down to the depths, even to the abyss of
all being. The principle of life, which makes
organism, always remained, while the outward
form changed.
“The light within the room had turned to
blackness, not the darkness of night, in which
objects are seen dimly, for I could see clearly
and without difficulty. But it was the negation
of light; objects were presented to my eyes,
if I may say so, without any medium, in such
a manner that if there had been a prism in the
room, I should have seen no colours represented
in it.
'I watched, and at last I saw nothing but
a substance as jelly. Then the ladder was
ascended again ... [Here the MS. is illegible]


THE FRAGMENTS
101
... for one instant I saw a Form, shaped in
dimness before me, which I will not further
describe. But the symbol of this form may be
seen in ancient sculptures, and in paintings
which survived beneath the lava, too foul to
be spoken of ... as a horrible and un-
speakable shape, neither man nor beast, was
changed into human form, there came finally
death.
'I who saw all this, not without great horror
and loathing of soul, here write my name,
declaring all that I have set on this paper to
be true.
ROBERT MATHESON, Med. Dr.'
· * * * * *
... Such, Raymond, is the story of what I
know, and what I have seen. The burden of
it was too heavy for me to bear alone, and yet
I could tell it to none but you. Villiers, who
was with me at the last knows nothing of that
awful secret of the wood, of how what we both
saw die, lay upon the smooth sweet turf amidst
the summer flowers, half in sun and half in
shadow, and holding the girl Rachel's hand,
called and summoned those companions, and
shaped in solid form, upon the earth we tread


102 THE GREAT GOD PAN
on, the horror which we can but hint at, which
we can only name under a figure. I would not
tell Villiers of this, nor of that resemblance,
which struck me as with a blow upon my heart,
when I saw the portrait, which filled the cup of
terror at the end. What this can mean I dare
not guess. I know that what I saw perish was
not Mary, and yet in the last agony Mary's
eyes looked into mine. Whether there be
any one who can show the last link in this
chain of awful mystery, I do not know, but
if there be any one who can do this, you,
Raymond, are the man. And if you know
the secret, it rests with you to tell it or not,
as you please.
I am writing this letter to you immediately
on my getting back to town. I have been in
the country for the last few days; perhaps you
may be able to guess in what part. While the
horror and wonder of London was at its height,
--for 'Mrs. Beaumont,' as I have told you, was
well known in society,I wrote to my friend
Dr. Phillips, giving some brief outline, or rather
hint, of what had happened, and asking him to
tell me the name of the village where the events
he had related to me occurred. He gave me


THE FRAGMENTS
103
the name, as he said with the less hesitation,
because Rachel's father and mother were dead,
and the rest of the family had gone to a relative
in the State of Washington six months before.
The parents, he said, had undoubtedly died of
grief and horror caused by the terrible death of
their daughter, and by what had gone before
that death. On the evening of the day on
which I received Phillips's letter I was at Caer-
maen, and standing beneath the mouldering
Roman walls, white with the winters of seven-
teen hundred years, I looked over the meadow
where once had stood the older temple of the
'God of the Deeps,' and saw a house gleaming
in the sunlight. It was the house where Helen
had lived. I stayed at Caermaen for several
days. The people of the place, I found, knew
little and had guessed less. Those whom I
spoke to on the matter seemed surprised that
an antiquarian (as I professed myself to be)
should trouble about a village tragedy, of which
they gave a very commonplace version, and, as
you may imagine, I told nothing of what I
knew. Most of my time was spent in the great
wood that rises just above the village and climbs
the hillside, and goes down to the river in the


104 THE GREAT GOD PAN
valley; such another long lovely valley, Ray-
mond, as that on which we looked one summer
night, walking to and fro before your house.
For many an hour I strayed through the maze
of the forest, turning now to right and now to
left, pacing slowly down long alleys of under-
growth, shadowy and chill, even under the
mid-day sun, and halting beneath great oaks;
lying on the short turf of a clearing where the
faint sweet scent of wild roses came to me on
the wind and mixed with the heavy perfume of
the elder whose mingled odour is like the odour
of the room of the dead, a vapour of incense
and corruption. I stood by rough banks at the
edges of the wood, gazing at all the pomp and
procession of the foxgloves towering amidst the
bracken and shining red in the broad sunshine,
and beyond them into deep thickets of close
undergrowth where springs boil up from the
rock and nourish the water-weeds, dank and
evil. But in all my wanderings I avoided one
part of the wood; it was not till yesterday that
I climbed to the summit of the hill, and stood
upon the ancient Roman road that threads
the highest ridge of the wood. Here they had
walked, Helen and Rachel, along this quiet


THE FRAGMENTS
105
causeway, upon the pavement of green turf,
shut in on either side by high banks of red
earth, and tall hedges of shining beech, and
here I followed in their steps, looking out, now
and again, through partings in the boughs, and
seeing on one side the sweep of the wood
stretching far to right and left, and sinking
into the broad level, and beyond, the yellow
sea, and the land over the sea. On the other
side was the valley and the river, and hill
following hill as wave on wave, and wood and
meadow, and cornfield, and white houses gleam-
ing, and a great wall of mountain, and far blue
peaks in the north. And so at last, I came to
the place. The track went up a gentle slope,
and widened out into an open space with a
wall of thick undergrowth around it, and then,
narrowing again, passed on into the distance
and the faint blue mist of summer heat. And
into this pleasant summer glade Rachel passed
a girl, and left it, who shall say what? I did
not stay long there.
*
In a small town near Caermaen there is a
museum, containing for the most part Roman
remains which have been found in the neigh-
*
*
*


106 THE GREAT GOD PAN
bourhood at various times. On the day after
my arrival at Caermaen I walked over to the
town in question, and took the opportunity
of inspecting this museum. After I had seen
most of the sculptured stones, the coffins, rings,
coins, and fragments of tessellated pavement
which the place contains, I was shown a small
square pillar of white stone, which had been
recently discovered in the wood of which I
have been speaking, and, as I found on inquiry,
in that open space where the Roman road
broadens out. On one side of the pillar was
an inscription, of which I took a note. Some
of the letters have been defaced, but I do not
think there can be any doubt as to those which
I supply. The inscription is as follows:
DEVOMNODENT
FLAVIVSSENILISPOSSVit
PROPTERNVPtias
quasVIDITSVBVMBra
‘To the great god Nodens (the god of the
Great Deep or Abyss), Flavius Senilis has
erected this pillar on account of the marriage
which he saw beneath the shade.'
The custodian of the museum informed me
that local antiquaries were much puzzled, not


THE FRAGMENTS
107
by the inscription, or by any difficulty in trans-
lating it, but as to the circumstance or rite to
which allusion is made.
... And now, my dear Clarke, as to what
you tell me about Helen Vaughan, whom you
say you saw die under circumstances of the
utmost and almost incredible horror. I was
interested in your account, but a good deal,
nay, all of what you told me, I knew already.
I can understand the strange likeness you
remarked both in the portrait and in the actual
face; you have seen Helen's mother. You
remember that still summer night so many
years ago, when I talked to you of the world
beyond the shadows, and of the god Pan.
You remember Mary. She was the mother of
Helen Vaughan, who was born nine months
after that night.
Mary never recovered her reason. She lay,
as you saw her, all the while upon her bed,
and a few days after the child was born, she
died. I fancy that just at the last she knew
me; I was standing by the bed, and the old
look came into her eyes for a second, and then
she shuddered and groaned and died. It was


108 THE GREAT GOD PAN
an ill work I did that night, when you were
present; I broke open the door of the house
of life, without knowing or caring what might
pass forth or enter in. I recollect your telling
me at the time, sharply enough, and rightly
enough too, in one sense, that I had ruined the
reason of a human being by a foolish experi-
ment, based on an absurd theory. You did
well to blame me, but my theory was not all
absurdity. What I said Mary would see, she
saw, but I forgot that no human eyes could
look on such a vision with impunity. And I
forgot, as I have just said, that when the house
of life is thus thrown open, there may enter in
that for which we have no name, and human
flesh may become the veil of a horror one dare
not express. I played with energies which I
did not understand and you have seen the
ending of it. Helen Vaughan did well to bind
the cord about her neck and die, though the
death was horrible. The blackened face, the
hideous form upon the bed, changing and
melting before your eyes from woman to man,
from man to beast, and from beast to worse
than beast, all the strange horror that you
witnessed, surprises me but little. What you


THE FRAGMENTS
109
say the doctor whom you sent for saw and
shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what
I had done the moment the child was born,
and when it was scarcely five years old I
surprised it, not once or twice but several times
with a playmate, you may guess of what
kind. It was for me a constant, an incarnate
horror, and after a few years I felt I could bear
it no longer, and I sent Helen Vaughan away.
You know now what frightened the boy in the
wood. The rest of the strange story, and all
else that you tell me, as discovered by your
friend, I have contrived to learn from time to
time, almost to the last chapter. And now
Helen is with her companions. . . .
THE END
Note.--Helen Vaughan was born on August 5th,
1865, at the Red House, Breconshire, and died on
July 25th, 1888, in her house in a street off Piccadilly,
called Ashley Street in the story.





12 THE INMOST LIGHT
getting rather hard up when you came to my
place at Charlotte Street ?'
'Perfectly. I think I remember your telling
me that you owed five weeks' rent, and that
you had parted with your watch for a com-
paratively small sum.'
‘My dear Salisbury, your memory is admir-
able. Yes, I was hard up. But the curious
thing is that soon after you saw me I became
harder up. My financial state was described
by a friend as “stone broke." I don't approve
of slang, mind you, but such was my condition.
But suppose we go in; there might be other
people who would like to dine—it's a human
weakness, Salisbury.'
*Certainly; come along. I was wondering
as I walked down whether the corner table
were taken. It has a velvet back, you know.'
'I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was
saying, I became even harder up.'
What did you do then?' asked Salisbury,
disposing of his hat, and settling down in the
corner of the seat, with a glance of fond an-
ticipation at the menu.
What did I do? Why, I sat down and
reflected. I had a good classical education,


THE INMOST LIGHT 113
and a positive distaste for business of any kind :
that was the capital with which I faced the
world. Do you know, I have heard people
describe olives as nasty! What lamentable
Philistinism! I have often thought, Salisbury,
that I could write genuine poetry under the
influence of olives and red wine. Let us have
Chianti; it may not be very good, but the
flasks are simply charming.'
It is pretty good here. We may as well
have a big flask.'
Very good. I reflected, then, on my want
of prospects, and I determined to embark in
literature.'
'Really, that was strange. You seem in
pretty comfortable circumstances, though.'
'Though! What a satire upon a noble
profession. I am afraid, Salisbury, you haven't
a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You
see me sitting at my desk-or at least you can
see me if you care to call—with pen and ink,
and simple nothingness before me, and if you
come again in a few hours you will in all
probability) find a creation!'
“Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature
was not remunerative.'


114 THE INMOST LIGHT
“You are mistaken; its rewards are great. I
may mention, by the way, that shortly after
you saw me I succeeded to a small income.
An uncle died, and proved unexpectedly
generous.'
Ah, I see. That must have been convenient.'
'It was pleasant-undeniably pleasant. I
have always considered it in the light of an en-
dowment of my researches. I told you I was
a man of letters; it would, perhaps, be more
correct to describe myself as a man of science.'
‘Dear me, Dyson, you have really changed
very much in the last few years. I had a
notion, don't you know, that you were a sort of
idler about town, the kind of man one might
meet on the north side of Piccadilly every day
from May to July
'Exactly. I was even then forming myself,
though all unconsciously. You know my poor
father could not afford to send me to the
University. I used to grumble in my ignorance
at not having completed my education. That
was the folly of youth, Salisbury; my University
was Piccadilly. There I began to study the
great science which still occupies me.'
"What science do you mean?'


THE INMOST LIGHT 115
*The science of the great city; the physiology
of London ; literally and metaphysically the
greatest subject that the mind of man can
conceive. What an admirable salmi this is;
undoubtedly the final end of the pheasant.
Yes, I feel sometimes positively overwhelmed
with the thought of the vastness and com-
plexity of London. Paris a man may get
to understand thoroughly with a reasonable
amount of study; but London is always a
mystery. In Paris you may say: here live the
actresses, here the Bohemians, and the Ratés ;
but it is different in London. You may point
out a street, correctly enough, as the abode of
washerwomen ; but, in that second floor, a man
may be studying Chaldee roots, and in the
garret over the way a forgotten artist is dying
by inches.'
'I see you are Dyson, unchanged and un-
changeable,' said Salisbury, slowly sipping his
Chianti. “I think you are misled by a too
fervid imagination; the mystery of London
exists only in your fancy. It seems to me a
dull place enough. We seldom hear of a really
artistic crime in London, whereas I believe
Paris abounds in that sort of thing.'


116 THE INMOST LIGHT
Give me some more wine. Thanks. You
are mistaken, my dear fellow, you are really
mistaken. London has nothing to be ashamed
of in the way of crime. Where we fail is for
want of Homers, not Agamemnons. Carent
quia vate sacro, you know.'
'I recall the quotation. But I don't think I
quite follow you.'
Well, in plain language, we have no good
writers in London who make a speciality of
that kind of thing. Our common reporter is
a dull dog ; every story that he has to tell is
spoilt in the telling. His idea of horror and of
what excites horror is so lamentably deficient.
Nothing will content the fellow but blood,
vulgar red blood, and when he can get it he
lays it on thick, and considers that he has
produced a telling article. It's a poor notion.
And, by some curious fatality, it is the most
commonplace and brutal murders which always
attract the most attention and get written up
the most. For instance, I daresay that you
never heard of the Harlesden case?'
No; no I don't remember anything about it.'
Of course not. And yet the story is a
curious one. I will tell it you over our coffee.


118 THE INMOST LIGHT
a quiet lane, and your staring houses into elm
trees, and the back-gardens into green meadows.
You pass instantly from town to country; there
is no transition as in a small country town, no
soft gradations of wider lawns and orchards,
with houses gradually becoming less dense, but
a dead stop. I believe the people who live
there mostly go into the city. I have seen
once or twice a laden 'bus bound thitherwards.
But however that may be, I can't conceive a
greater loneliness in a desert at midnight than
there is there at mid-day. It is like a city of
the dead; the streets are glaring and desolate,
and as you pass it suddenly strikes you that
this too is part of London. Well, a year or
two ago there was a doctor living there; he
had set up his brass plate and his red lamp at
the very end of one of those shining streets,
and from the back of the house, the fields
stretched away to the north. I don't know
what his reason was in settling down in such
an out-of-the-way place, perhaps Dr. Black as
we will call him was a far-seeing man and
looked ahead. His relations, so it appeared
afterwards, had lost sight of him for many
years and didn't even know he was a doctor,


120 THE INMOST LIGHT
that Mrs. Black was dead, and that the doctor
had made away with her. But this wasn't the
case; Mrs. Black was seen alive in June. It
was a Sunday afternoon, one of those few
exquisite days that an English climate offers,
and half London had strayed out into the
fields, north, south, east, and west, to smell
the scent of the white May, and to see if the
wild roses were yet in blossom in the hedges.
I had gone out myself early in the morning,
and had had a long ramble, and somehow or
other as I was steering homeward I found
myself in this very Harlesden we have been
talking about. To be exact, I had a glass
of beer in the “General Gordon," the most
flourishing house in the neighbourhood, and
as I was wandering rather aimlessly about, I
saw an uncommonly tempting gap in a hedge-
row, and resolved to explore the meadow
beyond. Soft grass is very grateful to the
feet after the infernal grit strewn on suburban
sidewalks, and after walking about for some
time I thought I should like to sit down on a
bank and have a smoke. While I was getting
out my pouch, I looked up in the direction of the
houses, and as I looked I felt my breath caught


THE INMOST LIGHT 121
back, and my teeth began to chatter, and the
stick I had in one hand snapped in two with
the grip I gave it. It was as if I had had an
electric current down my spine, and yet for
some moment of time which seemed long, but
which must have been very short, I caught
myself wondering what on earth was the
matter. Then I knew what had made my
very heart shudder and my bones grind to-
gether in an agony. As I glanced up I had
looked straight towards the last house in the
row before me, and in an upper window of that
house I had seen for some short fraction of a
second a face. It was the face of a woman,
and yet it was not human. You and I,
Salisbury, have heard in our time, as we sat
in our seats in church in sober English fashion,
of a lust that cannot be satiated and of a fire
that is unquenchable, but few of us have any
notion what these words mean. I hope you
never may, for as I saw that face at the
window, with the blue sky above me and the
warm air playing in gusts about me, I knew I
had looked into another world-looked through
the window of a commonplace, brand-new
house, and seen hell open before me. When


122 THE INMOST LIGHT
the first shock was over, I thought once or
twice that I should have fainted; my face
streamed with a cold sweat, and my breath came
and went in sobs, as if I had been half drowned.
I managed to get up at last, and walked round
to the street, and there I saw the name Dr. Black
on the post by the front gate. As fate or my
luck would have it, the door opened and a man
came down the steps as I passed by. I had
no doubt it was the doctor himself. He was of
a type rather common in London ; long and
thin, with a pasty face and a dull black mous-
tache. He gave me a look as we passed each
other on the pavement, and, though it was
merely the casual glance which one foot-
passenger bestows on another, I felt convinced
in my mind that here was an ugly customer to
deal with. As you may imagine I went my
way a good deal puzzled and horrified too by
what I had seen ; for I had paid another visit
to the “General Gordon," and had got together
a good deal of the common gossip of the place
about the Blacks. I didn't mention the fact
that I had seen a woman's face in the window;
but I heard that Mrs. Black had been much
admired for her beautiful golden hair, and


THE INMOST LIGHT 123
round what had struck me with such a name-
less terror, there was a mist of flowing yellow
hair, as it were an aureole of glory round the
visage of a satyr. The whole thing bothered 1.
me in an indescribable manner; and when I
got home I tried my best to think of the
impression I had received as an illusion, but it
was no use. I knew very well I had seen what
I have tried to describe to you, and I was
morally certain that I had seen Mrs. Black.
And then there was the gossip of the place, the
suspicion of foul play, which I knew to be false,
and my own conviction that there was some
deadly mischief or other going on in that bright
red house at the corner of Devon Road : how
to construct a theory of a reasonable kind out
of these two elements. In short, I found my-
self in a world of mystery ; I puzzled my head
over it and filled up my leisure moments by
gathering together odd threads of speculation,
but I never moved a step towards any real
solution, and as the summer days went on the
matter seemed to grow misty and indistinct,
shadowing some vague terror, like a nightmare
of last month. I suppose it would before long
have faded into the background of my brain-


THE INMOST LIGHT 125
in brain trouble, made some remarks in giving
his evidence which struck me deeply at the
time, though I did not then grasp their full
significance. He said: “At the commencement
of the examination I was astonished to find
appearances of a character entirely new to me,
notwithstanding my somewhat large experience.
I need not specify these appearances at present,
it will be sufficient for me to state that as I
proceeded in my task I could scarcely believe
that the brain before me was that of a human
being at all.” There was some surprise at this
statement, as you may imagine, and the coroner
asked the doctor if he meant to say that the
brain resembled that of an animal. “No," he
replied, “I should not put it in that way. Some
of the appearances I noticed seemed to point
in that direction, but others, and these were the
more surprising, indicated a nervous organisa-
tion of a wholly different character from that
either of man or of the lower animals.” It was
a curious thing to say, but of course the jury
brought in a verdict of death from natural
causes, and, so far as the public was concerned,
the case came to an end. But after I had read
what the doctor said I made up my mind that I


126 THE INMOST LIGHT
should like to know a good deal more, and I
set to work on what seemed likely to prove an
interesting investigation. I had really a good
deal of trouble, but I was successful in a
measure. Though—why, my dear fellow, I
had no notion of the time. Are you aware
that we have been here nearly four hours ?
The waiters are staring at us. Let's have the
bill and be gone.
The two men went out in silence, and stood
a moment in the cool air, watching the hurrying
traffic of Coventry Street pass before them to
the accompaniment of the ringing bells of
hansoms and the cries of the newsboys; the
deep far murmur of London surging up ever
and again from beneath these louder noises.
'It is a strange case, isn't it?' said Dyson at
length. What do you think of it?'
My dear fellow, I haven't heard the end,
so I will reserve my opinion. When will you
give me the sequel ?
'Come to my rooms some evening ; say next
Thursday. Here's the address. Good-night;
I want to get down to the Strand.'
Dyson hailed a passing hansom, and Salisbury
turned northward to walk home to his lodgings.


THE INMOST LIGHT 127
MR. SALISBURY, as may have been gathered
from the few remarks which he had found it
possible to introduce in the course of the
evening, was a young gentleman of a peculiarly
solid form of intellect, coy and retiring before
the mysterious and the uncommon, with a
constitutional dislike of paradox. During the
restaurant dinner he had been forced to listen
in almost absolute silence to a strange tissue
of improbabilities strung together with the
ingenuity of a born meddler in plots and
mysteries, and it was with a feeling of weariness
that he crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, and dived
into the recesses of Soho, for his lodgings were
in a modest neighbourhood to the north of
Oxford Street. As he walked he speculated
on the probable fate of Dyson, relying on
literature, unbefriended by a thoughtful relative,
and could not help concluding that so much
subtlety united to a too vivid imagination
would in all likelihood have been rewarded
with a pair of sandwich-boards or a super's
banner. Absorbed in this train of thought, and
admiring the perverse dexterity which could


128 THE INMOST LIGHT
transmute the face of a sickly woman and a
case of brain disease into the crude elements of
romance, Salisbury strayed on through the
dimly-lighted streets, not noticing the gusty
wind which drove sharply round corners and
whirled the stray rubbish of the pavement into
the air in eddies, while black clouds gathered
over the sickly yellow moon. Even a stray
drop or two of rain blown into his face did not
rouse him from his meditations, and it was only
when with a sudden rush the storm tore down
upon the street that he began to consider the
expediency of finding some shelter. The rain,
driven by the wind, pelted down with the
violence of a thunderstorm, dashing up from
the stones and hissing through the air, and
soon a perfect torrent of water coursed along
the kennels and accumulated in pools over the
choked-up drains. The few stray passengers
who had been loafing rather than walking
about the street, had scuttered away, like
frightened rabbits, to some invisible places of
refuge, and though Salisbury whistled loud and
long for a hansom, no hansom appeared. He
looked about him, as if to discover how far he
might be from the haven of Oxford Street, but


THE INMOST LIGHT 129
strolling carelessly along, he had turned out of
his way, and found himself in an unknown
region, and one to all appearance devoid even
of a public-house where shelter could be bought
for the modest sum of twopence. The street
lamps were few and at long intervals and
burned behind grimy glasses with the sickly
light of oil lamps, and by this wavering light
Salisbury could make out the shadowy and
vast old houses of which the street was com-
posed. As he passed along, hurrying, and
shrinking from the full sweep of the rain, he
noticed the innumerable bell - handles, with
names that seemed about to vanish of old age
graven on brass plates beneath them, and here
and there a richly carved pent-house overhung
the door, blackening with the grime of fifty
years. The storm seemed to grow more and
more furious, he was wet through and a new
hat had become a ruin, and still Oxford Street
seemed as far off as ever; it was with deep
relief that the dripping man caught sight of a
dark archway which seemed to promise shelter
from the rain if not from the wind. Salisbury
took up his position in the driest corner and
· looked about him; he was standing in a kind


130 THE INMOST LIGHT
of passage contrived under part of a house, and
behind him stretched a narrow footway leading
between blank walls to regions unknown. He
had stood there for some time, vainly endeavour-
ing to rid himself of some of his superfluous
moisture, and listening for the passing wheel of
a hansom, when his attention was aroused by
a loud noise coming from the direction of the
passage behind, and growing louder as it drew
nearer. In a couple of minutes he could make
out the shrill, raucous voice of a woman,
threatening and renouncing and making the
very stones echo with her accents, while now
and then a man grumbled and expostulated.
Though to all appearance devoid of romance,
Salisbury had some relish for street rows, and
was, indeed, somewhat of an amateur in the
more amusing phases of drunkenness; he there-
fore composed himself to listen and observe
with something of the air of a subscriber to
grand opera. To his annoyance, however, the
tempest seemed suddenly to be composed, and
he could hear nothing but the impatient steps
of the woman and the slow lurch of the man
as they came towards him. Keeping back in
the shadow of the wall he could see the two


THE INMOST LIGHT 131
mon.
drawing nearer; the man was evidently drunk,
and had much ado to avoid frequent collision
with the wall as he tacked across from one side
to the other, 'like some barque beating up
against a wind. The woman was looking
straight in front of her, with tears streaming
from her eyes, but suddenly as they went by
the flame blazed up again, and she burst forth
into a torrent of abuse, facing round upon her
companion.
'You low rascal, you mean, contemptible
cur,' she went on, after an incoherent storm of
curses, ‘you think I'm to work and slave for
you always, I suppose, while you're after that
Green Street girl and drinking every penny
you've got? But you're mistaken, Sam-
indeed, I'll bear it no longer. Damn you, you
dirty thief, I've done with you and your master
too, so you can go your own errands, and I
only hope they 'll get you into trouble.'
The woman tore at the bosom of her dress,
and taking something out that looked like
paper, crumpled it up and flung it away. It
fell at Salisbury's feet. She ran out and dis-
appeared in the darkness, while the man lurched
slowly into the street, grumbling indistinctly to


132 THE INMOST LIGHT
himself in a perplexed tone of voice. Salisbury
looked out after him, and saw him maundering
along the pavement, halting now and then and
swaying indecisively, and then starting off at
some fresh tangent. The sky had cleared, and
white fleecy clouds were fleeting across the
moon, high in the heaven. The light came
and went by turns, as the clouds passed by,
and, turning round as the clear, white rays
shone into the passage, Salisbury saw the little
ball of crumpled paper which the woman had
cast down. Oddly curious to know what it
might contain, he picked it up and put it in his
pocket, and set out afresh on his journey.
III
Salisbury was a man of habit. When he got
home, drenched to the skin, his clothes hanging
lank about him, and a ghastly dew besmearing
his hat, his only thought was of his health, of
which he took studious care. So, after changing
his clothes and encasing himself in a warm
dressing-gown, he proceeded to prepare a
sudorific in the shape of hot gin and water,
warming the latter over one of those spirit-


THE INMOST LIGHT 133
lamps which mitigate the austerities of the
modern hermit's life. By the time this prepara-
tion had been exhibited, and Salisbury's dis-
turbed feelings had been soothed by a pipe of
tobacco, he was able to get into bed in a happy
state of vacancy, without a thought of his
adventure in the dark archway, or of the weird
fancies with which Dyson had seasoned his
dinner. It was the same at breakfast the next
morning, for Salisbury made a point of not
thinking of anything until that meal was over ;
but when the cup and saucer were cleared
away, and the morning pipe was lit, he re-
membered the little ball of paper, and began
fumbling in the pockets of his wet coat. He
did not remember into which pocket he had
put it, and as he dived now into one, and now
into another, he experienced a strange feeling
of apprehension lest it should not be there at
all, though he could not for the life of him have
explained the importance he attached to what
was in all probability mere rubbish. But he
sighed with relief when his fingers touched the
crumpled surface in an inside pocket, and he
drew it out gently and laid it on the little desk
by his easy chair with as much care as if it had


134 THE INMOST LIGHT
with it, st the thing
Culation
been some rare jewel. Salisbury sat smoking
and staring at his find for a few minutes, an
odd temptation to throw the thing in the fire
and have done with it, struggling with as odd a
speculation as to its possible contents, and as to
the reason why the infuriated woman should
have flung a bit of paper from her with such
vehemence. As might be expected, it was the
latter feeling that conquered in the end, and
yet it was with something like repugnance that
he at last took the paper and unrolled it, and
laid it out before him. It was a piece of
common dirty paper, to all appearance torn out
of a cheap exercise-book, and in the middle
were a few lines written in a queer cramped
hand. Salisbury bent his head and stared
eagerly at it for a moment, drawing a long
breath, and then fell back in his chair gazing
blankly before him, till at last with a sudden
revulsion he burst into a peal of laughter, so
long and loud and uproarious that the land-
lady's baby in the floor below awoke from sleep
and echoed his mirth with hideous yells. But
he laughed again and again, and took the paper
up to read a second time what seemed such
meaningless nonsense.


THE INMOST LIGHT 135
'Q. has had to go and see his friends in Paris,'
it began. "Traverse Handel S. “Once
around the grass, and twice around the
lass, and thrice around the maple tree.”'
Salisbury took up the paper and crumpled
it as the angry woman had done, and aimed it
at the fire. He did not throw it there, however,
but tossed it carelessly into the well of the desk,
and laughed again. The sheer folly of the
thing offended him, and he was ashamed of his
own eager speculation, as one who pores over
the high-sounding announcements in the agony
column of the daily paper, and finds nothing
but advertisement and triviality. He walked
to the window, and stared out at the languid
morning life of his quarter; the maids in
slatternly print dresses washing door-steps, the
fishmonger and the butcher on their rounds,
and the tradesmen standing at the doors of
their small shops, drooping for lack of trade
and excitement. In the distance a blue haze
gave some grandeur to the prospect, but the
view as a whole was depressing, and would
only have interested a student of the life of
London, who finds something rare and choice
in its every aspect. Salisbury turned away in


136 THE INMOST LIGHT
disgust, and settled himself in the easy-chair,
upholstered in a bright shade of green, and
decked with yellow gimp, which was the pride
and attraction of the apartments. Here he
composed himself to his morning's occupation-
the perusal of a novel that dealt with sport and
love in a manner that suggested the collabora-
tion of a stud-groom and a ladies' college. In
an ordinary way, however, Salisbury would
have been carried on by the interest of the
story up to lunch-time, but this morning he
fidgeted in and out of his chair, took the book
up and laid it down again, and swore at last to
himself and at himself in mere irritation. In
point of fact the jingle of the paper found in
the archway had ‘got into his head,' and do
what he would he could not help muttering
over and over, ‘Once around the grass, and
twice around the lass, and thrice around the
maple tree.' It became a positive pain, like the
foolish burden of a music - hall song, ever-
lastingly quoted, and sung at all hours of the
day and night, and treasured by the street
boys as an unfailing resource for six months
together. He went out into the streets, and
tried to forget his enemy in the jostling of the


THE INMOST LIGHT 137
crowds, and the roar and clatter of the traffic,
but presently he would find himself stealing
quietly aside, and pacing some deserted byway,
vainly puzzling his brains, and trying to fix
some meaning to phrases that were meaning-
less. It was a positive relief when Thursday
came, and he remembered that he had made
an appointment to go and see Dyson ; the
Alimsy reveries of the self-styled man of letters
appeared entertaining when compared with
this ceaseless iteration, this maze of thought
from which there seemed no possibility of
escape. Dyson's abode was in one of the
quietest of the quiet streets that lead down
from the Strand to the river, and when Salis-
bury passed from the narrow stairway into
his friend's room, he saw that the uncle had
been beneficent indeed. The floor glowed
and flamed with all the colours of the East,
it was as Dyson pompously remarked, 'a
sunset in a dream, and the lamplight, the
twilight of London streets, was shut out with
strangely worked curtains, glittering here and
there with threads of gold. In the shelves of
an oak armoire stood jars and plates of old
French china, and the black and white of


138 THE INMOST LIGHT
etchings not to be found in the Haymarket or
in Bond Street, stood out against the splendour
of a Japanese paper. Salisbury sat down on
the settle by the hearth, and sniffed the mingled
fumes of incense and tobacco, wondering and
dumb before all this splendour after the green
rep and the oleographs, the gilt-framed mirror
and the lustres of his own apartment.
'I am glad you have come,' said Dyson.
* Comfortable little room, isn't it? But you
don't look very well, Salisbury. Nothing dis-
agreed with you, has it?'
'No; but I have been a good deal bothered
for the last few days. The fact is I had an odd
kind of-of-adventure, I suppose I may call it,
that night I saw you, and it has worried me a
good deal. And the provoking part of it is
that it's the merest nonsense—but, however, I
will tell you all about it, by and by. You were
going to let me have the rest of that odd story
you began at the restaurant.'
“Yes. But I am afraid, Salisbury, you are
incorrigible. You are a slave to what you call
matter of fact. You know perfectly well that
in your heart you think the oddness in that
case is of my making, and that it is all really


140 THE INMOST LIGHT
on it I have had to confess that what I found
out, or thought I found out, amounts in reality
to nothing. I am as far away from the heart
of the case as ever. However, I may as well
tell you what I do know. You may remember
my saying that I was impressed a good deal
by some remarks of one of the doctors who
gave evidence at the inquest. Well, I deter-
mined that my first step must be to try if I
could get something more definite and in-
telligible out of that doctor. Somehow or
other I managed to get an introduction to
the man, and he gave me an appointment to
come and see him. He turned out to be a
pleasant, genial fellow; rather young and not
in the least like the typical medical man, and
he began the conference by offering me whisky
and cigars. I didn't think it worth while to
beat about the bush, so I began by saying that
part of his evidence at the Harlesden Inquest
struck me as very peculiar, and I gave him the
printed report, with the sentences in question
underlined. He just glanced at the slip, and
gave me a queer look. “It struck you as
peculiar, did it?” said he. “Well, you must
remember that the Harlesden case was very


THE INMOST LIGHT 141
peculiar. In fact, I think I may safely say
that in some features it was unique-quite
unique.” “ Quite so," I replied, “and that's
exactly why it interests me, and why I want
to know more about it. And I thought that
if anybody could give me any information it
would be you. What is your opinion of the
matter?”
'It was a pretty downright sort of question,
and my doctor looked rather taken aback.
"Well,” he said, “as I fancy your motive
in inquiring into the question must be mere
curiosity, I think I may tell you my opinion
with tolerable freedom. So, Mr., Mr. Dyson ?
if you want to know my theory, it is this: I
believe that Dr. Black killed his wife.”
““But the verdict," I answered, "the verdict
was given from your own evidence.”
"“Quite so; the verdict was given in accord-
ance with the evidence of my colleague and
myself, and, under the circumstances, I think
the jury acted very sensibly. In fact, I don't
see what else they could have done. But I
stick to my opinion mind you, and I say this
also. I don't wonder at Black's doing what I
firmly believe he did. I think he was justified.”


THE INMOST LIGHT 143
It must have been a beautiful face, no doubt,
but I can honestly say that I would not have
looked in that face when there was life behind
it for a thousand guineas, no, nor for twice that
sum.”
""My dear sir," I said, "you surprise me
extremely. You say that it was not the brain
of a human being. What was it, then ?"
""The brain of a devil.” He spoke quite
coolly, and never moved a muscle. “The brain
of a devil,” he repeated, “and I have no doubt
that Black put a pillow over her mouth and
kept it there for a few minutes. I don't blame
him if he did. Whatever Mrs. Black was, she
was not fit to stay in this world. Will you
have anything more? No? Good-night, good-
night.”
“It was a queer sort of opinion to get from
a man of science, wasn't it? When he was
saying that he would not have looked on that
face when alive for a thousand guineas, or two
thousand guineas, I was thinking of the face
I had seen, but I said nothing. I went again
to Harlesden, and passed from one shop to
another, making small purchases, and trying
to find out whether there was anything about


144 THE INMOST LIGHT
the Blacks which was not already common
property, but there was very little to hear.
One of the tradesmen to whom I spoke said
he had known the dead woman well, she used
to buy of him such quantities of grocery as
were required for their small household, for
they never kept a servant, but had a char-
woman in occasionally, and she had not seen
Mrs. Black for months before she died. Ac-
cording to this man Mrs. Black was “a nice
lady," always kind and considerate, and so fond
of her husband and he of her, as every one
thought. And yet, to put the doctor's opinion
on one side, I knew what I had seen. And
then after thinking it all over, and putting one
thing with another, it seemed to me that the
only person likely to give me much assistance
would be Black himself, and I made up my
mind to find him. Of course he wasn't to be
found in Harlesden; he had left, I was told,
directly after the funeral. Everything in the
house had been sold, and one fine day Black
got into the train with a small portmanteau,
and went, nobody knew where. It was a
chance if he were ever heard of again, and it
was by a mere chance that I came across him


THE INMOST LIGHT 145
at last. I was walking one day along Gray's
Inn Road, not bound for anywhere in particular,
but looking about me, as usual, and holding on
to my hat, for it was a gusty day in early
March, and the wind was making the tree-tops
in the Inn rock and quiver. I had come up from
the Holborn end, and I had almost got to
Theobald's Road when I noticed a man walking
in front of me, leaning on a stick, and to all
appearance very feeble. There was something
about his look that made me curious, I don't
know why, and I began to walk briskly with
the idea of overtaking him, when of a sudden
his hat blew off and came bounding along the
pavement to my feet. Of course I rescued the
hat, and gave it a glance as I went towards
its owner. It was a biography in itself; a
Piccadilly maker's name in the inside, but I
don't think a beggar would have picked it out
of the gutter. Then I looked up and saw Dr.
Black of Harlesden waiting for me. A queer
thing, wasn't it? But, Salisbury, what a
change! When I saw Dr. Black come down
the steps of his house at Harlesden he was an
upright man, walking firmly with well-built
limbs; a man, I should say, in the prime of his


146 THE INMOST LIGHT
life. And now before me there crouched
this wretched creature, bent and feeble, with
shrunken cheeks, and hair that was whitening
fast, and limbs that trembled and shook together,
and misery in his eyes. He thanked me for
bringing him his hat, saying, “I don't think
I should ever have got it, I can't run much now.
A gusty day, sir, isn't it?" and with this he was
turning away, but by little and little I contrived
to draw him into the current of conversation,
and we walked together eastward. I think the
man would have been glad to get rid of me;
but I didn't intend to let him go, and he
stopped at last in front of a miserable house in
a miserable street. It was, I verily believe, one
of the most wretched quarters I have ever
seen: houses that must have been sordid and
hideous enough when new, that had gathered
foulness with every year, and now seemed to
lean and totter to their fall. “I live up there,"
said Black, pointing to the tiles, “not in the
front-in the back. I am very quiet there. I
won't ask you to come in now, but perhaps
some other day— " I caught him up at that,
and told him I should be only too glad to come
and see him. He gave me an odd sort of


THE INMOST LIGHT 147
glance, as if he was wondering what on earth I
or anybody else could care about him, and I
left him fumbling with his latch-key. I think
you will say I did pretty well when I tell you
that within a few weeks I had made myself an
intimate friend of Black's. I shall never forget
the first time I went to his room; I hope I
shall never see such abject, squalid misery again.
The foul paper, from which all pattern or trace
of a pattern had long vanished, subdued and
penetrated with the grime of the evil street, was
hanging in mouldering pennons from the wall.
Only at the end of the room was it possible to
stand upright, and the sight of the wretched
bed and the odour of corruption that pervaded
the place made me turn faint and sick Here
I found him munching a piece of bread; he
seemed surprised to find that I had kept my
promise, but he gave me his chair and sat on
the bed while we talked. I used to go and see
him often, and we had long conversations
together, but he never mentioned Harlesden or
his wife. I fancy that he supposed me ignorant
of the matter, or thought that if I had heard of
it, I should never connect the respectable Dr.
Black of Harlesden with a poor garreteer in the


148 THE INMOST LIGHT
backwoods of London. He was a strange man,
and as we sat together smoking, I often
wondered whether he were mad or sane, for I
think the wildest dreams of Paracelsus and the
Rosicrucians would appear plain and sober fact
compared with the theories I have heard him
earnestly advance in that grimy den of his. I
once ventured to hint something of the sort to
him. I suggested that something he had said
was in flat contradiction to all science and all
experience. “No, Dyson,” he answered, “not
all experience, for mine counts for something.
I am no dealer in unproved theories; what I
say I have proved for myself, and at a terrible
cost. There is a region of knowledge of which
you will never know, which wise men seeing
from afar off shun like the plague, as well they
may, but into that region I have gone. If you
knew, if you could even dream of what may be
done, of what one or two men have done in this
quiet world of ours, your very soul would
shudder and faint within you. What you have
heard from me has been but the merest husk
and outer covering of true science—that science
which means death, and that which is more
awful than death, to those who gain it. No,


150 THE INMOST LIGHT
scream that I thought I should have gone right
off. And then we heard a stamping, and down
he came, raging and cursing most dreadful,
swearing he had been robbed of something that
was worth millions. And then he just dropped
down in the passage, and we thought he was
dead. We got him up to his room, and put
him on his bed, and I just sat there and waited,
while my ’usband he went for the doctor. And
there was the winder wide open, and a little tin
box he had lying on the floor open and empty,
but of course nobody could possible have got
in at the winder, and as for him having any-
thing that was worth anything, it's nonsense,
for he was often weeks and weeks behind with
his rent, and my 'usband he threatened often
and often to turn him into the street, for, as he
said, we've got a living to myke like other
people—and of course that's true: but somehow
I didn't like to do it, though he was an odd
kind of a man, and I fancy had been better off.
And then the doctor came and looked at him,
and said as he couldn't do nothing, and that
night he died as I was a-sitting by his bed; and
I can tell you that, with one thing and another,
we lost money by him, for the few bits of


THE INMOST LIGHT 153
Never mind, let 's have it, absurd or not.'
With many hesitations, and with much in-
ward resentment of the folly of the thing,
Salisbury told his tale, and repeated reluctantly
the absurd intelligence and the absurder
doggerel of the scrap of paper, expecting to
hear Dyson burst out into a roar of laughter.
* Isn't it too bad that I should let myself be
bothered by such stuff as that?' he asked, when
he had stuttered out the jingle of once, and
twice, and thrice.
Dyson had listened to it all gravely, even to
the end, and meditated for a few minutes in
silence.
“Yes,' he said at length, it was a curious
chance, your taking shelter in that archway just
as those two went by. But I don't know that I
should call what was written on the paper
nonsense; it is bizarre certainly, but I expect
it has a meaning for somebody. Just repeat it
again, will you, and I will write it down.
Perhaps we might find a cipher of some sort,
though I hardly think we shall.'
Again had the reluctant lips of Salisbury to
slowly stammer out the rubbish he abhorred,
while Dyson jotted it down on a slip of paper.


154 THE INMOST LIGHT
'Look over it, will you?' he said when it was
done ; ‘it may be important that I should have
every word in its place. Is that all right?'
“Yes; that is an accurate copy. But I don't
think you will get much out of it. Depend
upon it, it is mere nonsense, a wanton scribble.
-I must be going now, Dyson. No, no more ;
that stuff of yours is pretty strong. Good-
night.'
'I suppose you would like to hear from me,
if I did find out anything?'
'No, not I; I don't want to hear about the
thing again. You may regard the discovery, if
it is one, as your own.'
*Very well. Good-night.'
IV
A good many hours after Salisbury had
returned to the company of the green rep
chairs, Dyson still sat at his desk, itself a
Japanese romance, smoking many pipes, and
meditating over his friend's story. The bizarre
quality of the inscription which had annoyed
Salisbury was to him an attraction, and now
and again he took it up and scanned thought-


THE INMOST LIGHT 155
fully what he had written, especially the quaint
jingle at the end. It was a token, a symbol, he
decided, and not a cipher, and the woman who
had flung it away was in all probability entirely
ignorant of its meaning; she was but the agent
of the 'Sam’ she had abused and discarded,
and he too was again the agent of some one
unknown; possibly of the individual styled Q,
who had been forced to visit his French friends.
But what to make of ‘Traverse Handel S.'
Here was the root and source of the enigma,
and not all the tobacco of Virginia seemed
likely to suggest any clew here. It seemed
almost hopeless, but Dyson regarded himself as
the Wellington of mysteries, and went to bed
feeling assured that sooner or later he would
hit upon the right track. For the next few
days he was deeply engaged in his literary
labours, labours which were a profound mystery
even to the most intimate of his friends, who
searched the railway bookstalls in vain for the
result of so many hours spent at the Japanese
bureau in company with strong tobacco and
black tea. On this occasion Dyson confined
himself to his room for four days, and it was
with genuine relief that he laid down his pen


156 THE INMOST LIGHT
and went out into the streets in quest of relaxa-
tion and fresh air. The gas lamps were being
lighted, and the fifth edition of the evening
papers was being howled through the streets,
and Dyson, feeling that he wanted quiet, turned
away from the clamorous Strand, and began to
trend away to the north-west. Soon he found
himself in streets that echoed to his footsteps,
and crossing a broad new thoroughfare, and
verging still to the west, Dyson discovered
that he had penetrated to the depths of Soho.
Here again was life; rare vintages of France
and Italy, at prices which seemed contemptibly
small, allured the passer-by ; here were cheeses,
vast and rich, here olive oil, and here a grove
of Rabelaisian sausages; while in a neighbour-
ing shop the whole press of Paris appeared to
be on sale. In the middle of the roadway a
strange miscellany of nations sauntered to and
fro, for there cab and hansom rarely ventured ;
and from window over window the inhabitants
looked forth in pleased contemplation of the
scene. Dyson made his way slowly along,
mingling with the crowd on the cobble-stones,
listening to the queer babel of French and
German, and Italian and English, glancing now


158 THE INMOST LIGHT
who was sitting behind the counter. The fellow
rose to his feet, and returned the stare a little
curiously, and then began in stereotyped phrase:
“What can I do for you, sir?'
Dyson enjoyed the situation and a dawning
perplexity on the man's face. He propped his
stick carefully against the counter and leaning
over it, said slowly and impressively:
'Once around the grass, and twice around
the lass, and thrice around the maple-tree.'
Dyson had calculated on his words producing
an effect, and he was not disappointed. The
vendor of miscellanies gasped, open-mouthed like
a fish, and steadied himself against the counter.
When he spoke, after a short interval, it was in
a hoarse mutter, tremulous and unsteady..
Would you mind saying that again, sir? I
didn't quite catch it.'
My good man, I shall most certainly do
nothing of the kind. You heard what I said
perfectly well. You have got a clock in your
shop, I see; an admirable timekeeper, I have
no doubt. Well, I give you a minute by your
own clock.'
The man looked about him in perplexed inde-
cision, and Dyson felt that it was time to be bold.


THE INMOST LIGHT 159
'Look here, Travers, the time is nearly up.
You have heard of Q, I think. Remember, I
hold your life in my hands. Now!'
Dyson was shocked at the result of his own
audacity. The man shrunk and shrivelled in
terror, the sweat poured down a face of ashy
white, and he held up his hands before him.
'Mr. Davies, Mr. Davies, don't say that-don't,
for heaven's sake. I didn't know you at first,
I didn't indeed. Good God! Mr. Davies, you
wouldn't ruin me? I 'll get it in a moment.'
You had better not lose any more time.'
The man slunk piteously out of his shop,
and went into a back parlour. Dyson heard
his trembling fingers fumbling with a bunch
of keys, and the creak of an opening box.
He came back presently with a small package
neatly tied up in brown paper in his hands,
and still, full of terror, handed it to Dyson.
'I'm glad to be rid of it,' he said. “I'll
take no more jobs of this sort.'
Dyson took the parcel and his stick, and
walked out of the shop with a nod, turning
round as he passed the door. Travers had
sunk into his seat, his face still white with
terror, with one hand over his eyes, and Dyson


160 THE INMOST LIGHT
speculated a good deal as he walked rapidly
away as to what queer chords those could be
on which he had played so roughly. He hailed
the first hansom he could see, and drove home,
and when he had lit his hanging lamp, and laid
his parcel on the table, he paused for a moment,
wondering on what strange thing the lamplight
would soon shine. He locked his door, and cut
the strings, and unfolded the paper layer after
layer, and came at last to a small wooden box,
simply but solidly made. There was no lock,
and Dyson had simply to raise the lid, and as
he did so he drew a long breath and started
back. The lamp seemed to glimmer feebly
like a single candle, but the whole room blazed
with light—and not with light alone, but with a
thousand colours, with all the glories of some
painted window; and upon the walls of his
room and on the familiar furniture, the glow
flamed back and seemed to flow again to its
source, the little wooden box. For there
upon a bed of soft wool lay the most splendid
jewel, a jewel such as Dyson had never dreamed
of, and within it shone the blue of far skies, and
the green of the sea by the shore, and the red
of the ruby, and deep violet rays, and in the


THE INMOST LIGHT 161
middle of all it seemed aflame as if a
fountain of fire rose up, and fell, and rose
again with sparks like stars for drops. Dyson
gave a long deep sigh, and dropped into his
chair, and put his hands over his eyes to think.
The jewel was like an opal, but from a long
experience of the shop-windows he knew there
was no such thing as an opal one quarter ord
one-eighth of its size. He looked at the stone
again, with a feeling that was almost awe, and
placed it gently on the table under the lamp,
and watched the wonderful flame that shone
and sparkled in its centre, and then turned to
the box, curious to know whether it might
contain other marvels. He lifted the bed of
wool on which the opal had reclined, and saw
beneath, no more jewels, but a little old pocket-
book, worn and shabby with use. Dyson
opened it at the first leaf, and dropped the
book again appalled. He had read the name
of the owner, neatly written in blue ink:
STEVEN BLACK, M.D.,
Oranmore,
Devon Road,
Harlesden.
It was several minutes before Dyson could


162 THE INMOST LIGHT
bring himself to open the book a second time;
he remembered the wretched exile in his garret,
and his strange talk, and the memory too of the
face he had seen at the window, and of what
the specialist had said surged up in his mind,
and as he held his finger on the cover, he
shivered, dreading what might be written
within. When at last he held it in his hand,
and turned the pages, he found that the first
two leaves were blank, but the third was
covered with clear, minute writing, and Dyson
began to read with the light of the opal flaming
in his eyes.
‘Ever since I was a young man'-the record
began—'I devoted all my leisure and a good
deal of time that ought to have been given to
other studies to the investigation of curious
and obscure branches of knowledge. What
are commonly called the pleasures of life had
never any attractions for me, and I lived alone
in London, avoiding my fellow-students, and
in my turn avoided by them as a man self-
absorbed and unsympathetic. So long as I


THE INMOST LIGHT 163
could gratify my desire of knowledge of a
k peculiar kind, knowledge of which the very
existence is a profound secret to most men,
I was intensely happy, and I have often spent
#whole nights sitting in the darkness of my
room, and thinking of the strange world on the
brink of which I trod. My professional studies,
however, and the necessity of obtaining a degree,
for some time forced my more obscure employ-
ment into the background, and soon after I
had qualified I met Agnes, who became my
wife. We took a new house in this remote
suburb, and I began the regular routine of a
sober practice, and for some months lived
happily enough, sharing in the life about me,
and only thinking at odd intervals of that
occult science which had once fascinated my
whole being. I had learnt enough of the paths
I had begun to tread to know that they were
beyond all expression difficult and dangerous,
that to persevere meant in all probability the
wreck of a life, and that they lead to regions so
terrible that the mind of man shrinks appalled
at the very thought. Moreover, the quiet and
the peace I had enjoyed since my marriage
had wiled me away to a great extent from


THE INMOST LIGHT 165
gulf between the world of consciousness and
the world of matter. My experiments were
many and complicated in their nature, and it
was some months before I realised whither they
all pointed, and when this was borne in upon
me in a moment's time, I felt my face whiten
and my heart still within me. But the power
to draw back, the power to stand before the
doors that now opened wide before me and not
to enter in, had long ago been absent; the way
was closed, and I could only pass onward. My
position was as utterly hopeless as that of the
prisoner in an utter dungeon, whose only light
is that of the dungeon above him; the doors
were shut and escape was impossible. Ex.
periment after experiment gave the same result,
and I knew, and shrank even as the thought
passed through my mind, that in the work I
had to do there must be elements which no
laboratory could furnish, which no scales could
ever measure. In that work, from which even
I doubted to escape with life, life itself must
enter; from some human being there must be
drawn that essence which men call the soul,
and in its place (for in the scheme of the world
there is no vacant chamber)-in its place would


166 THE INMOST LIGHT
enter in what the lips can hardly utter, what
the mind cannot conceive without a horror
more awful than the horror of death itself.
And when I knew this, I knew also on whom
this fate would fall; I looked into my wife's
eyes. Even at that hour, if I had gone out and
taken a rope and hanged myself, I might have
escaped, and she also, but in no other way. At
last I told her all. She shuddered, and wept,
and called on her dead mother for help, and
asked me if I had no mercy, and I could only
sigh. I concealed nothing from her; I told
her what she would become, and what would
enter in where her life had been; I told her of
all the shame and of all the horror. You who
will read this when I am dead-if indeed I
allow this record to survive, you who have
opened the box and have seen what lies there,
if you could understand what lies hidden in
that opal. For one night my wife consented
to what I asked of her, consented with the
tears running down her beautiful face, and hot
shame Alushing red over her neck and breast,
consented to undergo this for me. I threw open
the window, and we looked together at the sky
and the dark earth for the last time; it was a


168 THE INMOST LIGHT
turned away, and for a moment stood sick and
trembling, and then with a start he leapt across
the room and steadied himself against the door.
There was an angry hiss, as of steam escaping
under great pressure, and as he gazed, motion-
less, a volume of heavy yellow smoke was
slowly issuing from the very centre of the
jewel, and wreathing itself in snakelike coils
above it. And then a thin white flame burst
forth from the smoke, and shot up into the air
and vanished; and on the ground there lay a
thing like a cinder, black and crumbling to the
touch.
THE END
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press


John Lane
The Bodley Head
VIGO STREET, LONDON, W.
THE KEYNOTES SER:ES.
Crown 8vo, cloth. Each volume with a Tiile page and Cover
Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 35. 64. net.
1. KEYNOTES. By George EGERTON. Sixth Edition.
11. The DANCING FAUN. ByFLORENCE FARR.
III. POOR FOLK. By Fedor DOSTOJEVSKY. Translated
from the Russian by LENA MILMAN. With an
Introduction by GEORGE MOORE,
IV. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS.
V. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST Light.
By ARTHUR MACHEN.
VI. DISCORDS, By George EGERION. Third Edition.
VII. Prince ZALESKI. By M. P, Shiei.
VIII. The WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN.
IX. WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. By II. D. LOWRY.
[In preparation.
x. The BOHEMIAN GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. By
HENRY HARLAND.
[In preparation.
XI. AT THE FIRST CORNER AND OTHER STORIES. By
H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON. [In preparation.
XII. A VOLUME OF STORIES. By Ella D'Arcy.
[In preparation.
XIII. AT THE RELTON ARMS. By Evelyn SHARP.
[In preparation.
XIV. THE GIRL FROM THE FARM. By GERTRUDE Dix.
[In preparation.
xv. The MIRROR OF MUSIC. By STANLEY V. MAKOWER.
[In preparation.
Copyright Editions of the volumes of the KEYNOTES
SERIES are published in the United States by
Messrs. ROBERTS Bros. of Boston.


THE KEYNOTES SERIES
"She is a writer with a profound understanding of the human heart. She
understands men; and, more than this, she understands women. ... For
those who weary of the conventional fiction, and who long for something
out of the ordinary run of things, these are tales that carry the zest of
living.'-—Boston Beacon.
'It is not a book for babes and sucklings, since it cuts deep into rather
dangerous soil; but it is refined and skilful . . . strikes a very true and
touching note of pathos.'-Westminster Gazette.
"The author of these able word sketches is manifestly a close observer of
Nature's moods, and one, moreover, who carefully takes stock of the up.
to-date thoughts that shake mankind.'—Daily Telegraph.
'Powerful pictures of human beings living to-day, full of burning pain,
and thought, and passion.'-Bookman.
'A work of genius. There is upon the whole thing a stamp of down-
right inevitableness as of things which must be written, and written exactly
in that way.'-Speaker.
""Keynotes' is a singularly clever book.'-Truth.
THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. With
Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
"We welcome the light and merry pen of Miss Farr as one of the deftest
that has been wielded in the style of to-day. She has written the cleverest
and the most cynical sensation story of the season.'--Liverpool Daily Post.
Slight as it is, the story is, in its way, strong.'-Literary World.
'Full of bright paradox, and paradox which is no mere topsy-turvy play
upon words, but the product of serious thinking upon life. One of the
cleverest of recent novels.'-Star.
'It is full of epigrammatic effects, and it has a certain thread of pathos
calculated to win our sympathy.'-Queen.
“The story is subtle and psychological after the fashion of modern
psychology; it is undeniably clever and smartly written.'-Gentlewoman.
'No one can deny its freshness and wit. Indeed there are things in it
here and there which John Oliver Hobbes herself might have signed with.
out loss of reputation.'-Woman.
There is a lurid power in the very anreality of the story. One does not
quite understand how Lady Geraldine worked herself up to shooting her
lover, but when she has done it, the description of what passes through her
mind is magnificent.'-Atheneum.
*Written by an obviously clever woman.'-Black and White.
"Miss Farr has talent. “The Dancing Faun" contains writing that is
distinctively good. Doubtless it is only a prelude to something much
stronger.'-Academy.
'As a work of art the book has the merit of brevity and smart writing;
while the dénoûment is skilfully prepared, and comes as a surprise. If
the book had been intended as a satire on the new woman" sort of litera.
ture, it would have been most brilliant; but assuming it to be written in
earnest, we can heartily praise the form of its construction without
agreeing with the sentiments expressed.'-St. James's Gazette.
Shows considerable power and aptitude. -Saturday Review.
"The book is extremely clever and some of the situations very striking,
while there are sketches of character which really live. The final dénou-
ment might at first sight be thought impossible, but the effect on those who
take part in it is so free of exaggeration, that we can almost imagine that
such people are in our midst.'- Guardian.
really live effect on toine that


THE KEYNOTES SERIES
POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of FEDOR
DOSTOIEVSKY. By LENA MILMAN. With an Intro-
duction by GEORGE Moore, and a Title-page and Cover
Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY, Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
"The book is cleverly translated, “Poor Folk" gains in reality and pathos
by the very means that in less skilful hands would be tedio
place.'--Spectator.
'A charming story of the love of a Charles Lamb kind of old bachelor
for a young work-girl. Full of quiet humour and still more full of the
lachrymæ rerum.'--Star.
'Scenes of poignant realism, described with so admirable a blending of
humour and pathos that they haunt the memory.' --Daily News.
'No one will read it attentively without feeling both its power and its
pathos.'-Scotsman.
'The book is one of great pathos and absorbing interest. Miss Milman
has given us an admirable version of it which will commend itself to every
one who cares for good literature.'-Glasgow Herald.
"These things seem small, but in the hands of Dostoievsky they make.
a work of gen
of genius.'--Black and White.
One of the most pathetic things in all literature, heartrending just
because its tragedy is so repressed.'- Bookman.
"As to novels, the very finest I have read of late or for long is "Poor Folk,
by Fedor Dostoievsky, translated by Miss Lena Milman.'--Truth.
'A book to be read for the merits of its execution. The translator by
the way has turned it into excellent English.'--Pall Mall Gazette.
"The narrative vibrates with feeling, and these few unstudied letters con-
vey to us a cry from the depths of a famished human soul. As far as we
can judge, the English rendering, though simple, retains that ring of
emotion which must distinguish the original.'-Westminster Review.
'One of the most striking studies in plain and simple realism which was
ever written.' - Daily Telegraph.
""Poor Folk" is certainly a vivid and pathetic story.'-Globe.
*A triumph of realistic art-a masterpiece of a great writer.'—Morning
Post.
‘Dostoievsky's novel has met with that rare advantage, a really good
translator.'--Queen.
*This admirable translation of a great author.'-Liverpool Mercury.
““ Poor Folk” Englished does not read like a translation-indubitably a
masterpiece.'-Literary World.
"Told with a gradually deepening intensity and force, a pathetic truth-
fulness which lives in the memory.'-Leeds Mercury.
'What Charles Dickens in his attempts to reproduce the sentiment and
pathos of the bumble deceived himself and others into thinking that he did,
that Fedor Dostoievsky actually does.'-Manchester Guardian,
'It is a story that leaves the reader" almost stunned. Miss Milman's
translation is admirable.'-Gentlewoman.
'The translation appears to be well done so far as we have compared it
with the original.'-W. R. MORFIL. in The Academy.
A most impressive and characteristic specimen of Russian fiction.
Those to whom Russian is a sealed book will be duly grateful to the trans-
lator (who has acquitted herself excellently), to Mr. Moore, and to the
publisher for this presentment of Dostoievsky's remarkable novel.'-Times.
will be duly S'Moore, and Times.


THE KEYNOTES SERIES
A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMȘ. Title-
page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown
8vo, 3s. 6d. net
'English or foreign, there is no work among those now before me which
is so original as that of the late Francis Adams. “A Child of the Age” is
original, moving, often fascinating.'-Academy.
A great deal of cleverness and perhaps something more has gone to the
writing of "A Child of the Age."'--Vanity Fair.
'It comes recognisably near to great excellence. There is a love episode
in this book which is certainly fine. Clearly conceived and expressed with
point.'-Pall Mall Gazette.
'Those whose actual experience or natural intuition will enable them to
see beneath the mere narrative, will appreciate the perfect art with which
a boy of nineteen-this was the author's age when the book was written-
has treated one of the most delicate subjects on which a man can write-
the history of his own innermost feelings.'--Weekly Sun.
The book possesses a depth and clearness of insight, a delicacy of touch,
and a brilliancy and beauty of style very remarkable in so young a writer.'
:-Weekly Scotsman.
"A Child of the Age” is as fully saturated with the individuality of its
author as “Wuthering Heights" was saturated with the individuality of
Emily Brontë.'—Daily Chronicle.
'I am writing about the book because it is one you should read, for it is
typical of a certain sort of character and contains some indubitable excel-
lences.'-Pall Mall Budget.
'Not faultless, indeed, but touched with the magic of real poetry; with.
out the elaborate carving of the chisel. The love incident is exquisite and
exquisitely told. “Rosy” lives; her emotions stir us. Wonderfully sug.
gested in several parts of the work is the severe irony of nature before
profound human suffering.'-Saturday Review.
'There is a bloom of romance upon their story which recalls Lucy and
Richard Feverel. .... It is rarely that a novelist is able to suffuse his
story with the first rosy purity of passion as Mr. Adams has done in this
book.'-Realm.
"Only a man of big talent could have produced it.'-Literary World.
THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT.
By ARTHUR MACHEN., With Title-page and Cover
Design by AUBREY BĘARDSLEY. . Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
net.
"Since Mr. Stevenson played with the crucibles of science in “Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" we have not encountered a more successful experi-
ment of the sort.'--Pall Mall Gazette..
"Nothing so appalling as these tales has been given to publicity within
our remembrance; in which, nevertheless, such ghastly fictions as Poe's
“ Telltale Heart," Bulwer's "The House and the Brain," and Le Fanu's
“In a Glass Darkly” still are vividly present. The supernatural element
is utilised with extraordinary power and effectiveness in both these blood-
chilling masterpieces.'—Daily Telegraph.
'He imparts the shudder of awe without giving rise to a feeling of disgust.
Let me strongly advise anyone anxious for a real, durable thrill, to get it.'
Woman.


THE KEYNOTES SERIES
A nightmarisb business it is-suggested, seemingly, by "Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde"-and capital reading, we should say, for ghouls
mpires
in their leisure moments.' - Daily Chronicle.
"The rest we leave for those whose nerves are strong, merely saying that
since “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," we bave read nothing so uncanny.'-
The Literary World.
'The literature of the "supernatural" has recently been supplemented
by two striking books, which carry on with much ability the traditions of
Sheridan Le Fanu: one is “The Great God Pan," by Arthur Machen.'-
Star.
Will arouse the sort of interest that was created by “Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde." The tales present a frankly impossible horror, which, never-
theless, kindles the imagination and excites a powerful curiosity. It is
almost a book of genius, and we are not sure that the safeguarding adverb
is not superfluous.'— Birmingham Post.
"The coarser terrors of Edgar Allen Poe do not leave behind them the
shudder that one feels at the shadowed devil-mysteries of “The Great God
Pan."'-Liverpool Mercury.
"If any one labours under a burning desire to experience the sensation
familiarly known as making one's flesh creep, he can hardly do better than
read “The Great God Pan."'-Speaker.
For sheer gruesome horror Mr. Machen's story, "The Great God Pan,"
surpasses anything that has been published for a long time.'-Scotsman.
'Nothing more striking or more skilful than this book has been produced
in the way of what one may call Borderland fiction since Mr. Stevenson's
indefatigable Brownies gave the world “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."'-
Glasgow Herald.
•The mysteries he deals with lie far beyond the reach of ordinary human
experience, and as they are vague, though so horror-producing, he wisely
treats them with a reticence that, while it accords with the theme, im-
mensely heightens the effect.' - Dundee Advertiser.
•The author is an artist, and tells his tale with reticence and grace,
hinting the demoniac secret at first obscurely, and only gradually permit-
ting the reader to divine bow near to us are the infernal powers, and how
terribly they satiate their lusts and wreak their malice upon mankind. It
is a work of something like genius, fascinating and fearsome.'--Bradford
Observer.
DISCORDS. By George EGERTON. With Title-page and
Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo,
3s. 6d. net.
We have the heights as well as the depths of life. The transforming
touch of beauty is upon it, of that poetry of conception beneath whose spell
nothing is ugly or unclean.'--Star.
The writer is a warm-blooded enthusiast, not a cold-blooded
"scientist." In the long run perhaps it will do some good.'-National
Observer.
The power and passion which every reader felt in "Keynotes“ are
equally present in this new volume. But there is also in at least equal
measure that artistic force and skill which went so far to overcome the
repugnance which many felt to the painful dissection of feminine nature,
North British Daily Mail,
Force of conception and power of vivid p sentment mark these sketches,
and are sure to impress all who read them.'--Birmingham Post.
"Written with all “George Egerton's " eloquence and tervour,'-York.
shire Herald.


THE KEYNOTES SERIES
'It almost takes one's breath away by its prodigious wrong-headedness,
its sheer impudence.'-MR. A. B. WALKLEY in The Morning Leader.
"The wonderful power of observation, the close analysis and the really
brilliant writing revealed in parts of this volume...."George Egerton"
would seem to be well equipped for the task.'--Cork Examiner.
"Readers who have a leaning to psychological fiction, and who revel in
such studies of character as George Meredith's "Diana of the Crossways"
will find much to interest them in these clever stories.' -Western Daily
Press.
There is no escape from the fact that it is vividly interesting.' - The
Christian World.
With all her realism there is a refinement and a pathos and a brilliance
of style that lift the book into a region altogether removed from the merely
sensational or the merely repulsive. It is a book that one might read with
a pencil in his hand, for it is studded with many fine, vivid passages.'-
Weekly Scotsman.
"She has many fine qualities. Her work throbs with temperament, and
here and there we come upon touches that linger in the memory as of things
felt and seen, not read of.'-_Daily News.
“Mrs. Grundy, to whom they would be salutary, will not be induced to
read either “Keynotes” or “Discords."-Westminster Gazette.
What an absorbing, wonderful book it is: How absolutely sincere, and
how finely wrong! George Egerton may be what the indefatigable Mr.
Zangwill calls a one-I'd person, but she is a literary artist of exceptional
endowment-probably a genius.'-Woman.
She has given, times without number, examples of her ripening powers
that astonish us. Her themes astound; her audacity is tremendous. In
the many great passages an advance is proved that is little short of amaz-
ing.'-Literary World.
'Interesting and skilfully written.'-Sunday Times.
'A series of undoubtedly clever stories, told with a poetic dreaminess
which softens the rugged truths of which they treat. Mothers might benefit
themselves and convey help to young girls who are about to be married by
the perusal of its pages.'-Liverpool Mercury.
"They are the work of an author of considerable power, not to say genius.
-Scotsman.
"The book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and, let us
as heart. It is representative; it is, in the hackneyed phrase, a
human document.'-Speaker.
It is another note in the great chorus of revolt ... on the whole
clearer, more eloquent, and bra ver than almost any I have yet heard.'-
T. P. (* Book of the Week'), Weekly Sun, December 30.
'These masterly word-sketches.'-Daily Telegraph.


List of Books
in
Belles Lettres

JOHN LANE PUB
LISMERS BELLES
LETTRES &
THEBODLEY HEAD
VIGO ST LONDON
ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE
ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES
1895
Telegraphic Address-
* BODLEIAN, LONDON'


1895.
List of Books
IN
BELLES LETTRES
(Including some Transfers)
Published by John Lane
The Bodley Head
VIGO STREET, LONDON, W.
N.B.-The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting
any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases
where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing
a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the
numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers
mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those
sent for review.
Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and
America, and in many instances the names of the American
Publishers are appended.
ADAMS (FRANCIS).
ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Crown 8vo. 55. net. (Shortly.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
A CHILD OF THE AGE. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)


THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE
ALLEN (GRANT).
THE LOWER SLOPES : A Volume of Verse. With Title-
page and Cover Design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY.
600 copies. Crown 8vo. 55. net.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
THE WOMAN Who Did. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
BEARDSLEY (AUBREY).
THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER, in which is set
forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by
Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the
famous Hörselberg, and containing the adventures of
Tannhäuser in that place, his repentance, his jour-
neying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain.
By AUBREY BEARDSLEY. With 20 full-page illus-
trations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the
same hand. Sq, 16mo. Ios. 6d. net. [In preparation.
BEDDOES (T. L.).
See GOSSE (EDMUND).
BEECHING (REV. H. C.).
IN A GARDEN: Poems. With Title-page designed by
ROGER FRY. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.
New York: Macmillan & Co.
BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER).
LYRICS. Fcap. 8vo., buckram. 5s. net.
New York: Macmillan & Co.
BROTHERTON (MARY).
ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. With Title-page and
Cover Design by WALTER WEST. Fcap. 8vo. 35. bd.net.
CAMPBELL (GERALD).
The JoneSES AND THE ASTERISKS. Illustrated. Fcap.
8vo. 35. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
CASTLE (EGERTON).
See STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS).


THE PUBLICATIONS OF
DALMON (C. W.).
SONG Favours. With a specially-designed Title-page.
Sq. 16mo. 45. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
D'ARCY (ELLA).
A VOLUME OF STORIES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
DAVIDSON (JOHN).
PLAYS: An Unhistorical Pastoral; A Romantic Farce ;
Bruce, a Chronicle Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce ;
Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis.
piece and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies. Small
4to. 75. 6d. net.
Chicago : Stone & Kimball.
FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Fcap. 8vo, buckram. 55.
net.
[Out of Print at present.
A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD. With a Fron.
tispiece and Title-page by LAURENCE HOUSMAN.
600 copies. Fcap. Svo, Irish Linen. 5s. net. .
Boston : Copeland & Day.
BALLADS AND Songs. With a Title-page and Cover
Design by WALTER WEST. Third Edition. Fcap.
8vo, buckram. 5s. net.
Boston: Copeland & Day.
DE TABLEY (LORD).
POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER
WARREN (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover
Design by C. S. RICKETTS. Second Edition.
Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. net
New York : Macmillan & Co.
Poems, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. Second Series, uni.
form in binding with the former volume. Crown 8vo.
5s. net.
New York: Macmillan & Co.


JOHN LANE
HOPPER (NORA).
BALLADS IN PROSE. With a Title-page and Cover by
WALTER WEST. Sq. Ihmo. 5s. net.
Boston : Roberts Bros.
IRVING (LAURENCE).
GODEFROI AND YOLANDE: A Play. With three Illus-
trations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Sm. 4to. 5s. net.
[In preparation.
JAMES (W. P.).
ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS: A Volume of Essays. With
Title - page designed by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY.
Crown 8vo. 5s. net.
New York : Macmillan & Co.
JOHNSON (LIONEL).
THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY : Six Essays. With Etched
Portrait by WM. STRANG, and Bibliography by JOHN
LANE. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net.
Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £1, is.
net.
New York : Dodd, Mead & Co.
JOHNSON (PAULINE).
WHITE WAMPUM: Poems. With a Title-page and Cover
Design by E. H. NEW. Crown 8vo. 55. net.
[In preparation.
JOHNSTONE (C. E.).
BALLADS OF BOY AND BEAK. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
KEYNOTES SERIES.
Each volume with specially designed Title-page by AUBREY
BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, cloth. 35. 6d. net.
Vol. I. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON.
[Sixth edition now ready.
Vol. 11. THE DANCING Faun. By FLORENCE FARR.
Vol. III. POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of
F. Dostoievsky by LENA MILMAN. With
a Preface by GEORGE MOORE.
Vol. IV. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS.


JOHN LANE
LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD).
GEORGE MEREDITH: Some Characteristics. With a Biblio-
graphy (much enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, etc.
Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform
with “The Religion of a Literary Man.' 5s. 6d. net.
THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY MAN. 5th thousand.
Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 35. 6d. net.
Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. 8vo.
Ios. 6d. net.
New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons.
LOWRY (H. D.).
WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
LUCAS (WINIFRED).
A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 45. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
LYNCH (HANNAH).
THE GREAT GALEOTO AND FOLLY OR SAINTLINESS. Two
Plays, from the Spanish of JOSÉ ECHEGARAY, with an
Introduction. Small 4to. 5s. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
MACHEN (ARTHUR).
THE GREAT GOD PAN. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
MAKOWER (STANLEY V.).
THE MIRROR OF Music. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.)
MARZIALS (THEO.).
THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Post
8vo. 45. 6d. net.
[Very few remain.
Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher,
MEREDITH (GEORGE).
THE FIRST PUBLISHED PORTRAIT OF THIS AUTHOR,
engraved on the wood by W. BISCOMBE GARDNER,
after the painting by G. F. WATTS. Proof copies on
Japanese vellum, signed by painter and engraver.
ki, is. net.
MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON).
POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [Out of Print at present.
A few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain, 12s. 6d. aet.


JOHN LANE
IX
OXFORD CHARACTERS.
A series of lithographed portraits by WILL ROTHENSTEIN,
with text by F. YORK Powell and others. To be
issued monthly in term. Each number will contain
two portraits. Parts I. to V, ready. 200 sets only,
folio, wrapper, 5s. net per part; 25 special large
paper sets containing proof impressions of the por-
traits signed by the artist, ios. 6d. net per part.
PETERS (WM. THEODORE).
POSIES OUT OF Rings. Sg. 16mo. 35. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
PLARR (VICTOR).
A VOLUME OF POEMS. Cr. 8vo. 55. net. [In preparation.
RADFORD (DOLLIE).
SONGS AND OTHER VERSES. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
RICKETTS (C. S.) AND C. H. SHANNON.
HERO AND LEANDER. By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
and GEORGE CHAPMAN. With Borders, Initials, and
Illustrations designed and engraved on the wood by
C. S. Ricketts and C. H. SHANNON. Bound in
English vellum and gold. 200 copies only. 355. net.
Boston : Copeland & Day.
RHYS (ERNEST).
A LONDON ROSE AND OTHER RHYMES. With Title-page
designed by SELWYN IMAGE. 350 copies. Crown
8vo. 55. net.
New York: Dodd, Mead & Co.
SHARP (EVELYN).
AT THE RELTON ARMS. (See KEYNOTES SERIEs.)
SHIEL (M. P.).
PRINCE ZALESKI. (See KEYNOTES Series.)
STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS).
PRINCE OTTO. A Rendering in French by EGERTON
CASTLE. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [In preparation.
Also 100 copies on large paper, uniform in size with the Edinburgh
Edition of the Works.


JOHN LANE
13
WATSON (WILLIAM).
THE ELOPING ANGELS: A Caprice. Second Edition.
Square 16mo, buckram. 35. 6d. net.
New York: Macmillan & Co.
EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM : being some Prose Recrea-
tions of a Rhymer. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net.
New York: Macmillan & Co.
THE PRINCE'S QUEST AND OTHER Poems. With a
Bibliographical Note added. Second Edition. Fcap.
8vo. 45. 6d. net.
WATTS (THEODORE).
Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [In preparation.
There will also be an Edition de Luxe of this volume printed at
the Kelmscott Press.
WELLS (H. G.).
A VOLUME OF ESSAYS. Fcap. 8vo. [In preparation.
WHARTON (H. T.).
SAPPHO. Memoir, Text, Selected Renderings, and a
Literal Translation by Henry THORNTON WHARTON.
With three Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
WILDE (OSCAR).
THE SPHINX. A poem decorated throughout in line and
colour, and bound in a design by CHARLES RICKETTS.
250 copies. £2, 25. net. 25 copies large paper.
£5, 5s. net.
Boston: Copeland & Day.
THE INCOMPARABLE AND INGENIOUS HISTORY OF MR.
W. H., being the true secret of Shakespear's Sonnets
now for the first time here fully set forth, with Initial
Letters and Cover Design by CHARLES RICKETTS.
500 copies. 1os. 6d. net.
Also 50 copies large paper. 215. net.
(In preparation


THE PUBLICATIONS OF
WILDE (OSCAR).
DRAMATIC WORKS, now printed for the first time. With a
specially-designed binding to each volume, by CHAS.
SHANNON. 500 copies. Sm. 4to. 7s.6d. net per vol.
Also 50 copies large paper. 155. Det per vol.
Vol. 1. LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN: A Comedy in
Four Acts.
[Out of print.
Vol. II. A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE: A Comedy
in Four Acts.
(Just published.
Vol. III. The Duchess OF PADUA : A Blank Verse
Tragedy in Five Acts.
(Very shortly.
Boston : Copeland & Day.
SALOMÉ: A Tragedy in One Act done into English.
With 10 Illustrations, Title-page, Tail-piece, and
Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 500 copies.
Small 4to. 155. net.
Also 100 copies large paper. 3os. net.
Boston: Copeland & Day.
THE YELLOW BOOK
An Illustrated Quarterly
Vol. 1. Fourth Edition, 272 pages, 15 Illustrations, Title-page,
and a Cover Design. Cloth. Price 5s. net. Pott 4to.
The Literary Contributions by MAX BeerBOHM, A. C. BENSON,
HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, ELLA D'ARCY, JOHN DAVID-
SON, GEORGE EGERTON, RICHARD GARNETT, EDMUND
Gosse, HENRY HARLAND, JOHN OLIVER HOBBES, HENRY
JAMES, RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, GEORGE MOORE,
GEORGE SAINTSBURY, FRED. M. SIMPSON, ARTHUR
SYMONS, WILLIAM WATSON, ARTHUR WAUGH.
The Art Contributions by Sir FREDERIC LEIGHTON, P.R.A.,
AUBREY BEARDSLEY, R. ANNING Bell, CHARLES .W.
FURSE, LAURENCE HOUSMAN, J. T. NETTLESHIP, JOSEPH
PenneLL, WILL ROTHENSTEIN, WALTER SICKERT.


JOHN LANE
Vol. 11. Third Edition. Pott 4to, 364 pages, 23 Illustrations,
and a New Title-page and Cover Design. Cloth. Price 55. net.
The Literary Contributions by FREDERICK GREENWOOD,
ELLA D'Arcy, CHARLES WILLEBY, JOHN DAVIDSON,
HENRY HARLAND, DOLLIE RADFORD, CHARLOTTE M.
MEW, AUSTIN DOBSON, V., O., C. S., KATHARINE DE
MATTOS, PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, RONALD CAMP-
BELL MACFIE, DAUPHIN MEUNIER, KENNETH GRAHAME,
NORMAN GALE, NETTA SYRETT, HUBERT CRACKAN-
THORPE, ALFRED HAYES, MAX BEERBOHM, WILLIAM
WATSON, and HENRY JAMES.
The Art Contributions by WALTER CRANE, A. S. HARTRICK,
AUBREY BEARDSLEY, ALFRED THORNTON, P. WILSON
STEER, JOHN S. SARGENT, A.R.A., SYDNEY ADAMSON,
WALTER SICKERT, W. BROWN MACDOUGAL, E. J.
SULLIVAN, FRANCIS FORSTER, BERNHARD SICKERT,
and AYMER VALLANCE.
A Special Feature of Volume II. is a frank criticism of
the Literature and Art of Volume 1. by PHILIP GILBERT
HAMERTON.
Vol. III. Third Edition. Now Ready. Pott 4to, 280 pages,
15 Illustrations, and a New Title-page and Cover Design.
Cloth. Price 5s. net.
The Literary Contributions by WILLIAM WATSON, KENNETH
GRAHAME, ARTHUR SYMONS, ELLA D'ARCY, JOSÉ MARIA
DE HÉRÉDIA, ELLEN M. CLERKE, HENRY HARLAND,
THEO MARZIALS, ERNEST DowsoN, THEODORE WRATIS-
LAW, ARTHUR MOORE, OLIVE CUSTANCE, LIONEL JOHN-
SON, ANNIE MACDONELL, C. S., NORA HOPPER, S.
CORNISH WATKINS, HUBERT CRACKANTHORPE, MORTON
FULLERTON, LEILA MACDONALD, C. W. DALMON, MAX
BEERBOHM, and John DAVIDSON.
The Art Contributions by PHILIP BROUGHTON, GEORGE
THOMSON, AUBREY BEARDSLEY, ALBERT FOSCHTER,
WALTER SICKERT, P. WILSON STEER, WILLIAM Hyde.
and MAX BEERBOHM.


26
THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE
Vol. IV. Now Ready. Pott 4to, 285 pages, 16 Full-page
Illustrations. With a New Cover Design and a Double-
page Supplement by Aubrey Beardsley. Price 5s. net.
The Literary Contributions by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE,
HENRY HARLAND, GRAHAM R. TOMSON, H. B. MARRIOTT
WATSON, DOLF WYLLARDE, MÉNIE MURIEL Dowie,
OLIVE CUSTANCE, JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE, LEILA MAC-
DONALD, C. S., RICHARD GARNETT, VICTORIA Cross,
CHARLES SYDNEY, KENNETH GRAHAME, C. NEWTON
ROBINSON, NORMAN HAPGOOD, E. NESBIT, MARION HEP-
WORTH DIXON, C. W. DALMON, EVELYN SHARP, MAX
BEERBOHM, and John DAVIDSON.
The Art Contributions by H. J. DRAPER, WILLIAM HYDE,
WALTER SICKERT, PATTEN WILSON, W. W. RUSSELL,
A. S. HARTRICK, CHARLES CONDER, WILL ROTHENSTEIN,
Miss SUMNER, P. WILSON Steer, and AUBREY BEARDS-
LEY.
Prospectuses Post Free on Application.
LONDON: JOHN LANE
BOSTON: COPELAND & DAY
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press






3 2044 018 751 719
THE BORROWER Wili ve
AN OVERDUE FEE IF THIS BOOK IS NOT
RETURNED TO THE LIBRARY ON OR
BEFORE THE LAST DATE STAMPED
BELOW. NON-RECEIPT OF OVERDUE
NOTICES DOES NOT EXEMPT THE
BORROWER FROM OVERDUE FEES.
1983
ASEPA 5, 1988
SEP 10 19921993