V
THE LETTER OF ADVICE
"Do you know, Austin," said Villiers, as the two friends were pacingsedately along Piccadilly one pleasant morning in May, "do you know Iam convinced that what you told me about Paul Street and the Herbertsis a mere episode in an extraordinary history? I may as well confessto you that when I asked you about Herbert a few months ago I had justseen him."
"You had seen him? Where?"
"He begged of me in the street one night. He was in the most pitiableplight, but I recognized 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 hadbeen 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."
"And what has become of his wife?"
"Ah, that's what I should like to know, and I mean to find her sooneror later. I know a man named Clarke, a dry fellow, in fact a man ofbusiness, but shrewd enough. You understand my meaning; not shrewd inthe mere business sense of the word, but a man who really knowssomething about men and life. Well, I laid the case before him, and hewas evidently impressed. He said it needed consideration, and asked meto come again in the course of a week. A few days later I receivedthis 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 youconsulted me the other night, and my advice to you is this. Throw theportrait into the fire, blot out the story from your mind. Never giveit another thought, Villiers, or you will be sorry. You will think, nodoubt, that I am in possession of some secret information, and to acertain extent that is the case. But I only know a little; I am like atraveller who has peered over an abyss, and has drawn back in terror.What I know is strange enough and horrible enough, but beyond myknowledge there are depths and horrors more frightful still, moreincredible than any tale told of winter nights about the fire. I haveresolved, and nothing shall shake that resolve, to explore no whitfarther, and if you value your happiness you will make the samedetermination.
"Come and see me by all means; but we will talk on more cheerful topicsthan this."
Austin folded the letter methodically, and returned it to Villiers.
"It is certainly an extraordinary letter," he said, "what does he meanby the portrait?"
"Ah! I forgot to tell you I have been to Paul Street and have made adiscovery."
Villiers told his story as he had told it to Clarke, and Austinlistened in silence. He seemed puzzled.
"How very curious that you should experience such an unpleasantsensation in that room!" he said at length. "I hardly gather that itwas 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 atevery breath some deadly fume, which seemed to penetrate to every nerveand bone and sinew of my body. I felt racked from head to foot, myeyes began to grow dim; it was like the entrance of death."
"Yes, yes, very strange certainly. You see, your friend confesses thatthere is some very black story connected with this woman. Did younotice 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 amere 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 agood deal of indifference, till I showed him the portrait. It was thenthat he was seized with the attack of which I spoke. He lookedghastly, I assure you."
"Then he must have seen the woman before. But there might be anotherexplanation; it might have been the name, and not the face, which wasfamiliar to him. What do you think?"
"I couldn't say. To the best of my belief it was after turning theportrait in his hands that he nearly dropped from the chair. The name,you know, was written on the back."
"Quite so. After all, it is impossible to come to any resolution in acase like this. I hate melodrama, and nothing strikes me as morecommonplace and tedious than the ordinary ghost story of commerce; butreally, Villiers, it looks as if there were something very queer at thebottom of all this."
The two men had, without noticing it, turned up Ashley Street, leadingnorthward from Piccadilly. It was a long street, and rather a gloomyone, but here and there a brighter taste had illuminated the darkhouses with flowers, and gay curtains, and a cheerful paint on thedoors. Villiers glanced up as Austin stopped speaking, and looked atone 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 pleasantesthouses of the season, so I have heard. I haven't been there myself,but I've met several men who have, and they tell me it's uncommonlyjovial."
"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, butafter all, who she is is of little consequence. She is a very wealthywoman, there's no doubt of that, and some of the best people have takenher up. I hear she has some wonderful claret, really marvellous wine,which must have cost a fabulous sum. Lord Argentine was telling meabout it; he was there last Sunday evening. He assures me he has nevertasted such a wine, and Argentine, as you know, is an expert. By theway, 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 youthink she said? 'About a thousand years, I believe.' Lord Argentinethought she was chaffing him, you know, but when he laughed she saidshe was speaking quite seriously and offered to show him the jar. Ofcourse, he couldn't say anything more after that; but it seems ratherantiquated 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 awhile."
It was a room furnished richly, yet oddly, where every jar and bookcaseand table, and every rug and jar and ornament seemed to be a thingapart, preserving each its own individuality.
"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 around the room from cupboard to cupboard, from shelf toshelf, in search of some new oddity. His eyes fell at last on an oddchest, pleasantly and quaintly carved, which stood in a dark corner ofthe 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 onthe 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 ofmine. What has become of him? I haven't heard his name mentioned forsome 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?"
"I don't know. He was an intimate friend of mine, and a thoroughlygood fellow. He used to come here and talk to me for hours, and he wasone 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 eighteenmonths ago he was feeling rather overworked, and partly at mysuggestion he went off on a sort of roving expedition, with no verydefinite end or aim about it. I believe New York was to be his firstport, but I never heard from him. Three months ago I got this book,with a very civil letter from an English doctor practising at BuenosAyres, stating that he had attended the late Mr. Meyrick during hisillness, and that the deceased had expressed an earnest wish that theenclosed packet should be sent to me after his death. That was all."
"And haven't you written for f
urther particulars?"
"I have been thinking of doing so. You would advise me to write to thedoctor?"
"Certainly. And what about the book?"
"It was sealed up when I got it. I don't think the doctor had seen it."
"It is something very rare? Meyrick was a collector, perhaps?"
"No, I think not, hardly a collector. Now, what do you think of theseAinu jugs?"
"They are peculiar, but I like them. But aren't you going to show mepoor Meyrick's legacy?"
"Yes, yes, to be sure. The fact is, it's rather a peculiar sort ofthing, and I haven't shown it to any one. I wouldn't say anythingabout 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 poorfriend Meyrick."
Villiers turned to the first page, it was blank; the second bore abrief inscription, which he read:
Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus est; lucetnocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique personatur: audiuntur etcantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum per oram maritimam.
On the third page was a design which made Villiers start and look up atAustin; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window. Villiers turnedpage after page, absorbed, in spite of himself, in the frightfulWalpurgis Night of evil, strange monstrous evil, that the dead artisthad set forth in hard black and white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrsand Aegipans danced before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, thedance on the mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in greenvineyards, by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a worldbefore which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder. Villierswhirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough, but the pictureon 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 sure of it. Poor Meyrick! He is one more chapter inher history."
"But what do you think of the designs?"
"They are frightful. Lock the book up again, Austin. If I were you Iwould burn it; it must be a terrible companion even though it be in achest."
"Yes, they are singular drawings. But I wonder what connection therecould be between Meyrick and Mrs. Herbert, or what link between her andthese designs?"
"Ah, who can say? It is possible that the matter may end here, and weshall never know, but in my own opinion this Helen Vaughan, or Mrs.Herbert, is only the beginning. She will come back to London, Austin;depend on it, she will come back, and we shall hear more about herthen. I doubt it will be very pleasant news."