THE BROWN HAND
Every one knows that Sir Dominick Holden, the famous Indian surgeon,made me his heir, and that his death changed me in an hour from ahard-working and impecunious medical man to a well-to-do landedproprietor. Many know also that there were at least five people betweenthe inheritance and me, and that Sir Dominick’s selection appeared to bealtogether arbitrary and whimsical. I can assure them, however, thatthey are quite mistaken, and that, although I only knew Sir Dominick inthe closing years of his life, there were none the less very realreasons why he should show his goodwill towards me. As a matter of fact,though I say it myself, no man ever did more for another than I did formy Indian uncle. I cannot expect the story to be believed, but it is sosingular that I should feel that it was a breach of duty if I did notput it upon record—so here it is, and your belief or incredulity is yourown affair.
Sir Dominick Holden, C.B., K.C.S.I., and I don’t know what besides, wasthe most distinguished Indian surgeon of his day. In the Armyoriginally, he afterwards settled down into civil practice in Bombay,and visited as a consultant every part of India. His name is bestremembered in connection with the Oriental Hospital, which he foundedand supported. The time came, however, when his iron constitution beganto show signs of the long strain to which he had subjected it, and hisbrother practitioners (who were not, perhaps, entirely disinterestedupon the point) were unanimous in recommending him to return to England.He held on so long as he could, but at last he developed nervoussymptoms of a very pronounced character, and so came back, a broken man,to his native county of Wiltshire. He bought a considerable estate withan ancient manor-house upon the edge of Salisbury Plain, and devoted hisold age to the study of Comparative Pathology, which had been hislearned hobby all his life, and in which he was a foremost authority.
We of the family were, as may be imagined, much excited by the news ofthe return of this rich and childless uncle to England. On his part,although by no means exuberant in his hospitality, he showed some senseof his duty to his relations, and each of us in turn had an invitationto visit him. From the accounts of my cousins it appeared to be amelancholy business, and it was with mixed feelings that I at lastreceived my own summons to appear at Rodenhurst. My wife was socarefully excluded in the invitation that my first impulse was to refuseit, but the interests of the children had to be considered, and so, withher consent, I set out one October afternoon upon my visit to Wiltshire,with little thought of what that visit was to entail.
My uncle’s estate was situated where the arable land of the plainsbegins to swell upwards into the rounded chalk hills which arecharacteristic of the county. As I drove from Dinton Station in thewaning light of that autumn day, I was impressed by the weird nature ofthe scenery. The few scattered cottages of the peasants were so dwarfedby the huge evidences of prehistoric life, that the present appeared tobe a dream and the past to be the obtrusive and masterful reality. Theroad wound through the valleys, formed by a succession of grassy hills,and the summit of each was cut and carved into the most elaboratefortifications, some circular and some square, but all on a scale whichhas defied the winds and the rains of many centuries. Some call themRoman and some British, but their true origin and the reasons for thisparticular tract of country being so interlaced with entrenchments havenever been finally made clear. Here and there on the long, smooth,olive-coloured slopes there rose small rounded barrows or tumuli.Beneath them lie the cremated ashes of the race which cut so deeply intothe hills, but their graves tell us nothing save that a jar full of dustrepresents the man who once laboured under the sun.
It was through this weird country that I approached my uncle’s residenceof Rodenhurst, and the house was, as I found, in due keeping with itssurroundings. Two broken and weather-stained pillars, each surmounted bya mutilated heraldic emblem, flanked the entrance to a neglected drive.A cold wind whistled through the elms which lined it, and the air wasfull of the drifting leaves. At the far end, under the gloomy arch oftrees, a single yellow lamp burned steadily. In the dim half-light ofthe coming night I saw a long, low building stretching out two irregularwings, with deep eaves, a sloping gambrel roof, and walls which werecriss-crossed with timber balks in the fashion of the Tudors. The cheerylight of a fire flickered in the broad, latticed window to the left ofthe low-porched door, and this, as it proved, marked the study of myuncle, for it was thither that I was led by his butler in order to makemy host’s acquaintance.
He was cowering over his fire, for the moist chill of an English autumnhad set him shivering. His lamp was unlit, and I only saw the red glowof the embers beating upon a huge, craggy face, with a Red Indian noseand cheek, and deep furrows and seams from eye to chin, the sinistermarks of hidden volcanic fires. He sprang up at my entrance withsomething of an old-world courtesy and welcomed me warmly to Rodenhurst.At the same time I was conscious, as the lamp was carried in, that itwas a very critical pair of light-blue eyes which looked out at me fromunder shaggy eyebrows, like scouts beneath a bush, and that thisoutlandish uncle of mine was carefully reading off my character with allthe ease of a practised observer and an experienced man of the world.
For my part I looked at him, and looked again, for I had never seen aman whose appearance was more fitted to hold one’s attention. His figurewas the framework of a giant, but he had fallen away his coat dangledstraight down in a shocking fashion from a pair of broad and bonyshoulders. All his limbs were huge and yet emaciated, and I could nottake my gaze from his knobby wrists, and long, gnarled hands. But hiseyes—those peering light-blue eyes—they were the most arrestive of anyof his peculiarities. It was not their colour alone, nor was it theambush of hair in which they lurked; but it was the expression which Iread in them. For the appearance and bearing of the man were masterful,and one expected a certain corresponding arrogance in his eyes, butinstead of that I read the look which tells of a spirit cowed andcrushed, the furtive, expectant look of the dog whose master has takenthe whip from the rack. I formed my own medical diagnosis upon oneglance at those critical and yet appealing eyes. I believed that he wasstricken with some mortal ailment, that he knew himself to be exposed tosudden death, and that he lived in terror of it. Such was my judgment—afalse one, as the event showed; but I mention it that it may help you torealize the look which I read in his eyes.
My uncle’s welcome was, as I have said, a courteous one, and in an houror so I found myself seated between him and his wife at a comfortabledinner, with curious pungent delicacies upon the table, and a stealthy,quick-eyed Oriental waiter behind his chair. The old couple had comeround to that tragic imitation of the dawn of life when husband andwife, having lost or scattered all those who were their intimates, findthemselves face to face and alone once more, their work done, and theend nearing fast. Those who have reached that stage in sweetness andlove, who can change their winter into a gentle Indian summer, have comeas victors through the ordeal of life. Lady Holden was a small, alertwoman, with a kindly eye, and her expression as she glanced at him was acertificate of character to her husband. And yet, though I read a mutuallove in their glances, I read also a mutual horror, and recognized inher face some reflection of that stealthy fear which I detected in his.Their talk was sometimes merry and sometimes sad, but there was a forcednote in their merriment and a naturalness in their sadness which told methat a heavy heart beat upon either side of me.
We were sitting over our first glass of wine, and the servants had leftthe room, when the conversation took a turn which produced a remarkableeffect upon my host and hostess. I cannot recall what it was whichstarted the topic of the supernatural, but it ended in my showing themthat the abnormal in psychical experiences was a subject to which I had,like many neurologists, devoted a great deal of attention. I concludedby narrating my experiences when, as a member of the Psychical ResearchSociety, I had formed one of a committee of three who spent the night ina haunted house. Our adventures were neither exciting nor convincing,but, such as it was, the story appeared to interest my auditors in aremarkable degree. The
y listened with an eager silence, and I caught alook of intelligence between them which I could not understand. LadyHolden immediately afterwards rose and left the room.
Sir Dominick pushed the cigar-box over to me, and we smoked for somelittle time in silence. That huge bony hand of his was twitching as heraised it with his cheroot to his lips, and I felt that the man’s nerveswere vibrating like fiddle-strings. My instincts told me that he was onthe verge of some intimate confidence, and I feared to speak lest Ishould interrupt it. At last he turned towards me with a spasmodicgesture like a man who throws his last scruple to the winds.
“From the little that I have seen of you it appears to me, Dr.Hardacre,” said he, “that you are the very man I have wanted to meet.”
“I am delighted to hear it, sir.”
“Your head seems to be cool and steady. You will acquit me of any desireto flatter you, for the circumstances are too serious to permit ofinsincerities. You have some special knowledge upon these subjects, andyou evidently view them from that philosophical standpoint which robsthem of all vulgar terror. I presume that the sight of an apparitionwould not seriously discompose you?”
“I think not, sir.”
“Would even interest you, perhaps?”
“Most intensely.”
“As a psychical observer, you would probably investigate it in asimpersonal a fashion as an astronomer investigates a wandering comet?”
“Precisely.”
He gave a heavy sigh.
“Believe me, Dr. Hardacre, there was a time when I could have spoken asyou do now. My nerve was a by-word in India. Even the Mutiny never shookit for an instant. And yet you see what I am reduced to—the mosttimorous man, perhaps, in all this county of Wiltshire. Do not speak toobravely upon this subject, or you may find yourself subjected to aslong-drawn a test as I am—a test which can only end in the madhouse orthe grave.”
I waited patiently until he should see fit to go farther in hisconfidence. His preamble had, I need not say, filled me with interestand expectation.
“For some years, Dr. Hardacre,” he continued, “my life and that of mywife have been made miserable by a cause which is so grotesque that itborders upon the ludicrous. And yet familiarity has never made it moreeasy to bear—on the contrary, as time passes my nerves become more wornand shattered by the constant attrition. If you have no physical fears,Dr. Hardacre, I should very much value your opinion upon this phenomenonwhich troubles us so.”
“For what it is worth my opinion is entirely at your service. May I askthe nature of the phenomenon?”
“I think that your experiences will have a higher evidential value ifyou are not told in advance what you may expect to encounter. You areyourself aware of the quibbles of unconscious cerebration and subjectiveimpressions with which a scientific sceptic may throw a doubt upon yourstatement. It would be as well to guard against them in advance.”
“What shall I do, then?”
“I will tell you. Would you mind following me this way?” He led me outof the dining-room and down a long passage until we came to a terminaldoor. Inside there was a large bare room fitted as a laboratory, withnumerous scientific instruments and bottles. A shelf ran along one side,upon which there stood a long line of glass jars containing pathologicaland anatomical specimens.
“You see that I still dabble in some of my old studies,” said SirDominick. “These jars are the remains of what was once a most excellentcollection, but unfortunately I lost the greater part of them when myhouse was burned down in Bombay in ‘92. It was a most unfortunate affairfor me—in more ways than one. I had examples of many rare conditions,and my splenic collection was probably unique. These are the survivors.”
I glanced over them, and saw that they really were of a very great valueand rarity from a pathological point of view: bloated organs, gapingcysts, distorted bones, odious parasites—a singular exhibition of theproducts of India.
“There is, as you see, a small settee here,” said my host. “It was farfrom our intention to offer a guest so meagre an accommodation, butsince affairs have taken this turn, it would be a great kindness uponyour part if you would consent to spend the night in this apartment. Ibeg that you will not hesitate to let me know if the idea should be atall repugnant to you.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “it is most acceptable.”
“My own room is the second on the left, so that if you should feel thatyou are in need of company a call would always bring me to your side.”
“I trust that I shall not be compelled to disturb you.”
“It is unlikely that I shall be asleep. I do not sleep much. Do nothesitate to summon me.”
And so with this agreement we joined Lady Holden in the drawing-room andtalked of lighter things.
It was no affectation upon my part to say that the prospect of mynight’s adventure was an agreeable one. I have no pretence to greaterphysical courage than my neighbours, but familiarity with a subject robsit of those vague and undefined terrors which are the most appalling tothe imaginative mind. The human brain is capable of only one strongemotion at a time, and if it be filled with curiosity or scientificenthusiasm, there is no room for fear. It is true that I had my uncle’sassurance that he had himself originally taken this point of view, but Ireflected that the breakdown of his nervous system might be due to hisforty years in India as much as to any psychical experiences which hadbefallen him. I at least was sound in nerve and brain, and it was withsomething of the pleasurable thrill of anticipation with which thesportsman takes his position beside the haunt of his game that I shutthe laboratory door behind me, and partially undressing, lay down uponthe rug-covered settee.
It was not an ideal atmosphere for a bedroom. The air was heavy withmany chemical odours, that of methylated spirit predominating. Nor werethe decorations of my chamber very sedative. The odious line of glassjars with their relics of disease and suffering stretched in front of myvery eyes. There was no blind to the window, and a three-quarter moonstreamed its white light into the room, tracing a silver square withfiligree lattices upon the opposite wall. When I had extinguished mycandle this one bright patch in the midst of the general gloom hadcertainly an eerie and discomposing aspect. A rigid and absolute silencereigned throughout the old house, so that the low swish of the branchesin the garden came softly and soothingly to my ears. It may have beenthe hypnotic lullaby of this gentle susurrus, or it may have been theresult of my tiring day, but after many dozings and many efforts toregain my clearness of perception, I fell at last into a deep anddreamless sleep.
I was awakened by some sound in the room, and I instantly raised myselfupon my elbow on the couch. Some hours had passed, for the square patchupon the wall had slid downwards and sideways until it lay obliquely atthe end of my bed. The rest of the room was in deep shadow. At first Icould see nothing, presently, as my eyes became accustomed to the faintlight, I was aware, with a thrill which all my scientific absorptioncould not entirely prevent, that something was moving slowly along theline of the wall. A gentle, shuffling sound, as of soft slippers, cameto my ears, and I dimly discerned a human figure walking stealthily fromthe direction of the door. As it emerged into the patch of moonlight Isaw very clearly what it was and how it was employed. It was a man,short and squat, dressed in some sort of dark-grey gown, which hungstraight from his shoulders to his feet. The moon shone upon the side ofhis face, and I saw that it was chocolate-brown in colour, with a ballof black hair like a woman’s at the back of his head. He walked slowly,and his eyes were cast upwards towards the line of bottles whichcontained those gruesome remnants of humanity. He seemed to examine eachjar with attention, and then to pass on to the next. When he had come tothe end of the line, immediately opposite my bed, he stopped, faced me,threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and vanished from mysight.
I have said that he threw up his hands, but I should have said his arms,for as he assumed that attitude of despair I observed a singularpeculiarity abou
t his appearance. He had only one hand! As the sleevesdrooped down from the upflung arms I saw the left plainly, but the rightended in a knobby and unsightly stump. In every other way his appearancewas so natural, and I had both seen and heard him so clearly, that Icould easily have believed that he was an Indian servant of SirDominick’s who had come into my room in search of something. It was onlyhis sudden disappearance which suggested anything more sinister to me.As it was I sprang from my couch, lit a candle, and examined the wholeroom carefully. There were no signs of my visitor, and I was forced toconclude that there had really been something outside the normal laws ofNature in his appearance. I lay awake for the remainder of the night,but nothing else occurred to disturb me.
I am an early riser, but my uncle was an even earlier one, for I foundhim pacing up and down the lawn at the side of the house. He ran towardsme in his eagerness when he saw me come out from the door.
“Well, well!” he cried. “Did you see him?”
“An Indian with one hand?”
“Precisely.”
“Yes, I saw him”—and I told him all that occurred. When I had finished,he led the way into his study.
“We have a little time before breakfast,” said he. “It will suffice togive you an explanation of this extraordinary affair—so far as I canexplain that which is essentially inexplicable. In the first place, whenI tell you that for four years I have never passed one single night,either in Bombay, aboard ship, or here in England without my sleep beingbroken by this fellow, you will understand why it is that I am a wreckof my former self. His programme is always the same. He appears by mybedside, shakes me roughly by the shoulder, passes from my room into thelaboratory, walks slowly along the line of my bottles, and thenvanishes. For more than a thousand times he has gone through the sameroutine.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants his hand.”
“His hand?”
“Yes, it came about in this way. I was summoned to Peshawur for aconsultation some ten years ago, and while there I was asked to look atthe hand of a native who was passing through with an Afghan caravan. Thefellow came from some mountain tribe living away at the back of beyondsomewhere on the other side of Kaffiristan. He talked a bastard Pushtoo,and it was all I could do to understand him. He was suffering from asoft sarcomatous swelling of one of the metacarpal joints, and I madehim realize that it was only by losing his hand that he could hope tosave his life. After much persuasion he consented to the operation, andhe asked me, when it was over, what fee I demanded. The poor fellow wasalmost a beggar, so that the idea of a fee was absurd, but I answered injest that my fee should be his hand, and that I proposed to add it to mypathological collection.
“To my surprise he demurred very much to the suggestion, and heexplained that according to his religion it was an all-important matterthat the body should be reunited after death, and so make a perfectdwelling for the spirit. The belief is, of course, an old one, and themummies of the Egyptians arose from an analogous superstition. Ianswered him that his hand was already off, and asked him how heintended to preserve it. He replied that he would pickle it in salt andcarry it about with him. I suggested that it might be safer in mykeeping than in his, and that I had better means than salt forpreserving it. On realizing that I really intended to carefully keep it,his opposition vanished instantly. ‘But remember, sahib,’ said he, ‘Ishall want it back when I am dead.’ I laughed at the remark, and so thematter ended. I returned to my practice, and he no doubt in the courseof time was able to continue his journey to Afghanistan.
“Well, as I told you last night, I had a bad fire in my house at Bombay.Half of it was burned down, and, among other things, my pathologicalcollection was largely destroyed. What you see are the poor remains ofit. The hand of the hillman went with the rest, but I gave the matter noparticular thought at the time. That was six years ago.
“Four years ago—two years after the fire—I was awakened one night by afurious tugging at my sleeve. I sat up under the impression that myfavourite mastiff was trying to arouse me. Instead of this, I saw myIndian patient of long ago, dressed in the long grey gown which was thebadge of his people. He was holding up his stump and lookingreproachfully at me. He then went over to my bottles, which at that timeI kept in my room, and he examined them carefully, after which he gave agesture of anger and vanished. I realized that he had just died, andthat he had come to claim my promise that I should keep his limb insafety for him.
“Well, there you have it all, Dr. Hardacre. Every night at the same hourfor four years this performance has been repeated. It is a simple thingin itself, but it has worn me out like water dropping on a stone. It hasbrought a vile insomnia with it, for I cannot sleep now for theexpectation of his coming. It has poisoned my old age and that of mywife, who has been the sharer in this great trouble. But there is thebreakfast gong, and she will be waiting impatiently to know how it faredwith you last night. We are both much indebted to you for yourgallantry, for it takes something from the weight of our misfortune whenwe share it, even for a single night, with a friend, and it reassures usas to our sanity, which we are sometimes driven to question.”
This was the curious narrative which Sir Dominick confided to me—a storywhich to many would have appeared to be a grotesque impossibility, butwhich, after my experience of the night before, and my previousknowledge of such things, I was prepared to accept as an absolute fact.I thought deeply over the matter, and brought the whole range of myreading and experience to bear upon it. After breakfast, I surprised myhost and hostess by announcing that I was returning to London by thenext train.
“My dear doctor,” cried Sir Dominick in great distress, “you make mefeel that I have been guilty of a gross breach of hospitality inintruding this unfortunate matter upon you. I should have borne my ownburden.”
“It is, indeed, that matter which is taking me to London,” I answered;“but you are mistaken, I assure you, if you think that my experience oflast night was an unpleasant one to me. On the contrary, I am about toask your permission to return in the evening and spend one more night inyour laboratory. I am very eager to see this visitor once again.”
My uncle was exceedingly anxious to know what I was about to do, but myfears of raising false hopes prevented me from telling him. I was backin my own consulting-room a little after luncheon, and was confirming mymemory of a passage in a recent book upon occultism which had arrestedmy attention when I read it.
“In the case of earth-bound spirits,” said my authority, “some onedominant idea obsessing them at the hour of death is sufficient to holdthem to this material world. They are the amphibia of this life and ofthe next, capable of passing from one to the other as the turtle passesfrom land to water. The causes which may bind a soul so strongly to alife which its body has abandoned are any violent emotion. Avarice,revenge, anxiety, love, and pity have all been known to have thiseffect. As a rule it springs from some unfulfilled wish, and when thewish has been fulfilled the material bond relaxes. There are many casesupon record which show the singular persistence of these visitors, andalso their disappearance when their wishes have been fulfilled, or insome cases when a reasonable compromise has been effected.”
“_A reasonable compromise effected_”—those were the words which I hadbrooded over all the morning, and which I now verified in the original.No actual atonement could be made here—but a reasonable compromise! Imade my way as fast as a train could take me to the Shadwell Seamen’sHospital, where my old friend Jack Hewett was house-surgeon. Withoutexplaining the situation I made him understand exactly what it was thatI wanted.
“A brown man’s hand!” said he, in amazement. “What in the world do youwant that for?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you some day. I know that your wards are full ofIndians.”
“I should think so. But a hand——” He thought a little and then struck abell.
“Travers,” said he to a student-dresser, “what became of the hands
ofthe Lascar which we took off yesterday? I mean the fellow from the EastIndia Dock who got caught in the steam winch.”
“They are in the _post-mortem_ room, sir.”
“Just pack one of them in antiseptics and give it to Dr. Hardacre.”
And so I found myself back at Rodenhurst before dinner with this curiousoutcome of my day in town. I still said nothing to Sir Dominick, but Islept that night in the laboratory, and I placed the Lascar’s hand inone of the glass jars at the end of my couch.
So interested was I in the result of my experiment that sleep was out ofthe question. I sat with a shaded lamp beside me and waited patientlyfor my visitor. This time I saw him clearly from the first. He appearedbeside the door, nebulous for an instant, and then hardening into asdistinct an outline as any living man. The slippers beneath his greygown were red and heelless, which accounted for the low, shuffling soundwhich he made as he walked. As on the previous night he passed slowlyalong the line of bottles until he paused before that which containedthe hand. He reached up to it, his whole figure quivering withexpectation, took it down, examined it eagerly, and then, with a facewhich was convulsed with fury and disappointment, he hurled it down onthe floor. There was a crash which resounded through the house, and whenI looked up the mutilated Indian had disappeared. A moment later my doorflew open and Sir Dominick rushed in.
“You are not hurt?” he cried.
“No—but deeply disappointed.”
He looked in astonishment at the splinters of glass, and the brown handlying upon the floor.
“Good God!” he cried. “What is this?”
I told him my idea and its wretched sequel. He listened intently, butshook his head.
“It was well thought of,” said he, “but I fear that there is no sucheasy end to my sufferings. But one thing I now insist upon. It is thatyou shall never again upon any pretext occupy this room. My fears thatsomething might have happened to you—when I heard that crash—have beenthe most acute of all the agonies which I have undergone. I will notexpose myself to a repetition of it.”
He allowed me, however, to spend the remainder of that night where Iwas, and I lay there worrying over the problem and lamenting my ownfailure. With the first light of morning there was the Lascar’s handstill lying upon the floor to remind me of my fiasco. I lay looking atit—and as I lay suddenly an idea flew like a bullet through my head andbrought me quivering with excitement out of my couch. I raised the grimrelic from where it had fallen. Yes, it was indeed so. The hand was the_left_ hand of the Lascar.
By the first train I was on my way to town, and hurried at once to theSeamen’s Hospital. I remembered that both hands of the Lascar had beenamputated, but I was terrified lest the precious organ which I was insearch of might have been already consumed in the crematory. My suspensewas soon ended. It had still been preserved in the _post-mortem_ room.And so I returned to Rodenhurst in the evening with my missionaccomplished and the material for a fresh experiment.
But Sir Dominick Holden would not hear of my occupying the laboratoryagain. To all my entreaties he turned a deaf ear. It offended his senseof hospitality, and he could no longer permit it. I left the hand,therefore, as I had done its fellow the night before, and I occupied acomfortable bedroom in another portion of the house, some distance fromthe scene of my adventures.
But in spite of that my sleep was not destined to be uninterrupted. Inthe dead of night my host burst into my room, a lamp in his hand. Hishuge gaunt figure was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown, and his wholeappearance might certainly have seemed more formidable to a weak-nervedman than that of the Indian of the night before. But it was not hisentrance so much as his expression which amazed me. He had turnedsuddenly younger by twenty years at the least. His eyes were shining,his features radiant, and he waved one hand in triumph over his head. Isat up astounded, staring sleepily at this extraordinary visitor. Buthis words soon drove the sleep from my eyes.
“We have done it! We have succeeded!” he shouted. “My dear Hardacre, howcan I ever in this world repay you?”
“You don’t mean to say that it is all right?”
“Indeed I do. I was sure that you would not mind being awakened to hearsuch blessed news.”
“Mind! I should think not indeed. But is it really certain?”
“I have no doubt whatever upon the point. I owe you such a debt, my dearnephew, as I have never owed a man before, and never expected to. Whatcan I possibly do for you that is commensurate? Providence must havesent you to my rescue. You have saved both my reason and my life, foranother six months of this must have seen me either in a cell or acoffin. And my wife—it was wearing her out before my eyes. Never could Ihave believed that any human being could have lifted this burden offme.” He seized my hand and wrung it in his bony grip.
“It was only an experiment—a forlorn hope—but I am delighted from myheart that it has succeeded. But how do you know that it is all right?Have you seen something?”
He seated himself at the foot of my bed.
“I have seen enough,” said he. “It satisfies me that I shall be troubledno more. What has passed is easily told. You know that at a certain hourthis creature always comes to me. To-night he arrived at the usual time,and aroused me with even more violence than is his custom. I can onlysurmise that his disappointment of last night increased the bitternessof his anger against me. He looked angrily at me, and then went on hisusual round. But in a few minutes I saw him, for the first time sincethis persecution began, return to my chamber. He was smiling. I saw thegleam of his white teeth through the dim light. He stood facing me atthe end of my bed, and three times he made the low Eastern salaam whichis their solemn leave-taking. And the third time that he bowed he raisedhis arms over his head, and I saw his _two_ hands outstretched in theair. So he vanished, and, as I believe, for ever.”
* * * * *
So that is the curious experience which won me the affection and thegratitude of my celebrated uncle, the famous Indian surgeon. Hisanticipations were realized, and never again was he disturbed by thevisits of the restless hillman in search of his lost member. SirDominick and Lady Holden spent a very happy old age, unclouded, so faras I know, by any trouble, and they finally died during the greatinfluenza epidemic within a few weeks of each other. In his lifetime healways turned to me for advice in everything which concerned thatEnglish life of which he knew so little; and I aided him also in thepurchase and development of his estates. It was no great surprise to me,therefore, that I found myself eventually promoted over the heads offive exasperated cousins, and changed in a single day from ahard-working country doctor into the head of an important Wiltshirefamily. I at least have reason to bless the memory of the man with thebrown hand, and the day when I was fortunate enough to relieveRodenhurst of his unwelcome presence.