The Queen of Hearts

by Wilkie Collins

  BROTHER MORGAN'S STORY of THE DEAD HAND

  WHEN this present nineteenth century was younger by a good many yearsthan it is now, a certain friend of mine, named Arthur Holliday,happened to arrive in the town of Doncaster exactly in the middle of therace-week, or, in other words, in the middle of the month of September.

  He was one of those reckless, rattle-pated, open-hearted, andopen-mouthed young gentlemen who possess the gift of familiarity in itshighest perfection, and who scramble carelessly along the journey oflife, making friends, as the phrase is, wherever they go. His father wasa rich manufacturer, and had bought landed property enough in one ofthe midland counties to make all the born squires in his neighborhoodthoroughly envious of him. Arthur was his only son, possessor inprospect of the great estate and the great business after his father'sdeath; well supplied with money, and not too rigidly looked after duringhis father's lifetime. Report, or scandal, whichever you please, saidthat the old gentleman had been rather wild in his youthful days, andthat, unlike most parents, he was not disposed to be violently indignantwhen he found that his son took after him. This may be true or not. Imyself only knew the elder Mr. Holliday when he was getting on in years,and then he was as quiet and as respectable a gentleman as ever I metwith.

  Well, one September, as I told you, young Arthur comes to Doncaster,having decided all of a sudden, in his hare-brained way, that he wouldgo to the races. He did not reach the town till toward the close ofevening, and he went at once to see about his dinner and bed at theprincipal hotel. Dinner they were ready enough to give him, but as for abed, they laughed when he mentioned it. In the race-week at Doncasterit is no uncommon thing for visitors who have not bespoken apartmentsto pass the night in their carriages at the inn doors. As for the lowersort of strangers, I myself have often seen them, at that full time,sleeping out on the doorsteps for want of a covered place to creepunder. Rich as he was, Arthur's chance of getting a night's lodging(seeing that he had not written beforehand to secure one) was more thandoubtful. He tried the second hotel, and the third hotel, and two of theinferior inns after that, and was met everywhere with the same form ofanswer. No accommodation for the night of any sort was left. All thebright golden sovereigns in his pocket would not buy him a bed atDoncaster in the race-week.

  To a young fellow of Arthur's temperament, the novelty of being turnedaway into the street like a penniless vagabond, at every house where heasked for a lodging, presented itself in the light of a new and highlyamusing piece of experience. He went on with his carpet-bag in his hand,applying for a bed at every place of entertainment for travelers thathe could find in Doncaster, until he wandered into the outskirts of thetown.

  By this time the last glimmer of twilight had faded out, the moon wasrising dimly in a mist, the wind was getting cold, the clouds weregathering heavily, and there was every prospect that it was soon goingto rain!

  The look of the night had rather a lowering effect on young Holliday'sspirits. He began to contemplate the houseless situation in which he wasplaced from the serious rather than the humorous point of view, and helooked about him for another public house to inquire at with somethingvery like downright anxiety in his mind on the subject of a lodging forthe night. The suburban part of the town toward which he had now strayedwas hardly lighted at all, and he could see nothing of the houses as hepassed them, except that they got progressively smaller and dirtier thefurther he went. Down the winding road before him shone the dull gleamof an oil lamp, the one faint lonely light that struggled ineffectuallywith the foggy darkness all round him. He resolved to go on as far asthis lamp, and then, if it showed him nothing in the shape of an inn,to return to the central part of the town, and to try if he could notat least secure a chair to sit down on through the night at one of theprincipal hotels.

  As he got near the lamp he heard voices, and, walking close under it,found that it lighted the entrance to a narrow court, on the wall ofwhich was painted a long hand in faded flesh-color, pointing, with alean forefinger, to this inscription:

  THE TWO ROBINS.

  Arthur turned into the court without hesitation to see what The TwoRobins could do for him. Four or five men were standing together roundthe door of the house, which was at the bottom of the court, facing theentrance from the street. The men were all listening to one other man,better dressed than the rest, who was telling his audience something, ina low voice, in which they were apparently very much interested.

  On entering the passage, Arthur was passed by a stranger with a knapsackin his hand, who was evidently leaving the house.

  "No," said the traveler with the knapsack, turning round and addressinghimself cheerfully to a fat, sly-looking, bald-headed man, with adirty white apron on, who had followed him down the passage, "no, Mr.Landlord, I am not easily scared by trifles; but I don't mind confessingthat I can't quite stand _that_."

  It occurred to young Holliday, the moment he heard these words, that thestranger had been asked an exorbitant price for a bed at The Two Robins,and that he was unable or unwilling to pay it. The moment his back wasturned, Arthur, comfortably conscious of his own well-filled pockets,addressed himself in a great hurry, for fear any other benightedtraveler should slip in and forestall him, to the sly-looking landlordwith the dirty apron and the bald head.

  "If you have got a bed to let," he said, "and if that gentleman who hasjust gone out won't pay your price for it, I will."

  The sly landlord looked hard at Arthur. "Will you, sir?" he asked, in ameditative, doubtful way.

  "Name your price," said young Holliday, thinking that the landlord'shesitation sprang from some boorish distrust of him. "Name your price,and I'll give you the money at once, if you like."

  "Are you game for five shillings?" inquired the landlord, rubbing hisstubby double chin and looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling above him.

  Arthur nearly laughed in the man's face; but, thinking it prudent tocontrol himself, offered the five shillings as seriously as he could.The sly landlord held out his hand, then suddenly drew it back again.

  "You're acting all fair and aboveboard by me," he said, "and, beforeI take your money, I'll do the same by you. Look here; this is how itstands. You can have a bed all to yourself for five shillings, but youcan't have more than a half share of the room it stands in. Do you seewhat I mean, young gentleman?"

  "Of course I do," returned Arthur, a little irritably. "You mean that itis a double-bedded room, and that one of the beds is occupied?"

  The land lord nodded his head, and rubbed his double chin harder thanever. Arthur hesitated, and mechanically moved back a step or two towardthe door. The idea of sleeping in the same room with a total strangerdid not present an attractive prospect to him. He felt more than halfinclined to drop his five shillings into his pocket and to go out intothe street once more.

  "Is it yes or no?" asked the landlord. "Settle it as quick as you can,because there's lots of people wanting a bed at Doncaster to-nightbesides you."

  Arthur looked toward the court and heard the rain falling heavily inthe street outside. He thought he would ask a question or two before herashly decided on leaving the shelter of The Two Robins.

  "What sort of man is it who has got the other bed?" he inquired. "Is hea gentleman? I mean, is he a quiet, well-behaved person?"

  "The quietest man I ever came across," said the landlord, rubbing hisfat hands stealthily one over the other. "As sober as a judge, and asregular as clock-work in his habits. It hasn't struck nine, not tenminutes ago, and he's in his bed already. I don't know whether thatcomes up to your notion of a quiet man: it goes a long way ahead ofmine, I can tell you."

  "Is he asleep, do you think?" asked Arthur.

  "I know he's asleep," returned the landlord; "and, what's more, he'sgone off so fast that I'll warrant you don't wake him. This way, sir,"said the landlord, speaking over young Holliday's shoulder, as if he wasaddressing some new guest who was approaching the house.

  "Here you are," said Arthur, determined to be befo
rehand with thestranger, whoever he might be. "I'll take the bed." And he handed thefive shillings to the landlord, who nodded, dropped the money carelesslyinto his waistcoat pocket, and lighted a candle.

  "Come up and see the room," said the host of The Two Robins, leading theway to the staircase quite briskly, considering how fat he was.

  They mounted to the second floor of the house. The landlord half openeda door fronting the landing, then stopped, and turned round to Arthur.

  "It's a fair bargain, mind, on my side as well as on yours," hesaid. "You give me five shillings, and I give you in return a clean,comfortable bed; and I warrant, beforehand, that you won't be interferedwith, or annoyed in anyway, by the man who sleeps in the same roomwith you." Saying those words, he looked hard, for a moment, in youngHolliday's face, and then led the way into the room.

  It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would be. Thetwo beds stood parallel with each other, a space of about six feetintervening between them. They were both of the same medium size, andboth had the same plain white curtains, made to draw, if necessary, allround them.

  The occupied bed was the bed nearest the window. The curtains were alldrawn round it except the half curtain at the bottom, on the side of thebed furthest from the window. Arthur saw the feet of the sleeping manraising the scanty clothes into a sharp little eminence, as if he waslying flat on his back. He took the candle, and advanced softly to drawthe curtain--stopped half way, and listened for a moment--then turned tothe landlord.

  "He is a very quiet sleeper," said Arthur. "Yes," said the landlord,"very quiet." Young Holliday advanced with the candle, and looked in atthe man cautiously.

  "How pale he is," said Arthur.

  "Yes," returned the landlord, "pale enough, isn't he?"

  Arthur looked closer at the man. The bedclothes were drawn up tohis chin, and they lay perfectly still over the region of his chest.Surprised and vaguely startled as he noticed this, Arthur stooped downcloser over the stranger, looked at his ashy, parted lips, listenedbreathlessly for an instant, looked again at the strangely still face,and the motionless lips and chest, and turned round suddenly on thelandlord with his own cheeks as pale for the moment as the hollow cheeksof the man on the bed.

  "Come here," he whispered, under his breath. "Come here, for God's sake!The man's not asleep--he is dead."

  "You have found that out sooner than I thought you would," said thelandlord, composedly. "Yes, he's dead, sure enough. He died at fiveo'clock to-day."

  "How did he die? Who is he?" asked Arthur, staggered for the moment bythe audacious coolness of the answer.

  "As to who is he," rejoined the landlord, "I know no more about him thanyou do. There are his books, and letters, and things all sealed up inthat brown paper parcel for the coroner's inquest to open to-morrowor next day. He's been here a week, paying his way fairly enough,and stopping indoors, for the most part, as if he was ailing. My girlbrought him up his tea at five to-day, and as he was pouring of it out,he fell down in a faint, or a fit, or a compound of both, for anything Iknow. We couldn't bring him to, and I said he was dead. And, the doctorcouldn't bring him to, and the doctor said he was dead. And there he is.And the coroner's inquest's coming as soon as it can. And that's as muchas I know about it."

  Arthur held the candle close to the man's lips. The flame still burnedstraight up as steadily as ever. There was a moment of silence, and therain pattered drearily through it against the panes of the window.

  "If you haven't got nothing more to say to me," continued the landlord,"I suppose I may go. You don't expect your five shillings back, do you?There's the bed I promised you, clean and comfortable. There's the manI warranted not to disturb you, quiet in this world forever. If you'refrightened to stop alone with him, that's not my lookout. I've kept mypart of the bargain, and I mean to keep the money. I'm not Yorkshiremyself, young gentleman, but I've lived long enough in these parts tohave my wits sharpened, and I shouldn't wonder if you found out the wayto brighten up yours next time you come among us."

  With these words the landlord turned toward the door, and laughed tohimself softly, in high satisfaction at his own sharpness.

  Startled and shocked as he was, Arthur had by this time sufficientlyrecovered himself to feel indignant at the trick that had been played onhim, and at the insolent manner in which the landlord exulted in it.

  "Don't laugh," he said sharply, "till you are quite sure you have gotthe laugh against me. You shan't have the five shillings for nothing, myman. I'll keep the bed."

  "Will you?" said the landlord. "Then I wish you a good night's rest."With that brief farewell he went out and shut the door after him.

  A good night's rest! The words had hardly been spoken, the door hadhardly been closed, before Arthur half repented the hasty words that hadjust escaped him. Though not naturally over-sensitive, and not wantingin courage of the moral as well as the physical sort, the presence ofthe dead man had an instantaneously chilling effect on his mind when hefound himself alone in the room--alone, and bound by his own rash wordsto stay there till the next morning. An older man would have thoughtnothing of those words, and would have acted, without reference to them,as his calmer sense suggested. But Arthur was too young to treat theridicule even of his inferiors with contempt--too young not to fear themomentary humiliation of falsifying his own foolish boast more than hefeared the trial of watching out the long night in the same chamber withthe dead.

  "It is but a few hours," he thought to himself, "and I can get away thefirst thing in the morning."

  He was looking toward the occupied bed as that idea passed through hismind, and the sharp, angular eminence made in the clothes by the deadman's upturned feet again caught his eye. He advanced and drew thecurtains, purposely abstaining, as he did so, from looking at the faceof the corpse, lest he might unnerve himself at the outset by fasteningsome ghastly impression of it on his mind. He drew the curtain verygently, and sighed involuntarily as he closed it.

  "Poor fellow," he said, almost as sadly as if he had known the man. "Ah!poor fellow!"

  He went next to the window. The night was black, and he could seenothing from it. The rain still pattered heavily against the glass. Heinferred, from hearing it, that the window was at the back of the house,remembering that the front was sheltered from the weather by the courtand the buildings over it.

  While he was still standing at the window--for even the dreary rainwas a relief, because of the sound it made; a relief, also, becauseit moved, and had some faint suggestion, in consequence, of life andcompanionship in it--while he was standing at the window, and lookingvacantly into the black darkness outside, he heard a distant churchclock strike ten. Only ten! How was he to pass the time till the housewas astir the next morning?

  Under any other circumstances he would have gone down to thepublic-house parlor, would have called for his grog, and would havelaughed and talked with the company assembled as familiarly as if he hadknown them all his life. But the very thought of whiling away the timein this manner was now distasteful to him. The new situation in which hewas placed seemed to have altered him to himself already. Thus farhis life had been the common, trifling, prosaic, surface-life of aprosperous young man, with no troubles to conquer and no trials to face.He had lost no relation whom he loved, no friend whom he treasured.Till this night, what share he had of the immortal inheritance that isdivided among us all had lain dormant within him. Till this night, Deathand he had not once met, even in thought.

  He took a few turns up and down the room, then stopped. The noisemade by his boots on the poorly-carpeted floor jarred on his ear. Hehesitated a little, and ended by taking the boots off, and walkingbackward and forward noiselessly.

  All desire to sleep or to rest had left him. The bare thought of lyingdown on the unoccupied bed instantly drew the picture on his mind of adreadful mimicry of the position of the dead man. Who was he? What wasthe story of his past life? Poor he must have been, or he would not havestopped at such a place as the T
wo Robins Inn; and weakened, probably,by long illness, or he could hardly have died in the manner whichthe landlord had described. Poor, ill, lonely--dead in a strangeplace--dead, with nobody but a stranger to pity him. A sad story; truly,on the mere face of it, a very sad story.

  While these thoughts were passing through his mind, he had stoppedinsensibly at the window, close to which stood the foot of the bed withthe closed curtains. At first he looked at it absently; then he becameconscious that his eyes were fixed on it; and then a perverse desiretook possession of him to do the very thing which he had resolved not todo up to this time--to look at the dead man.

  He stretched out his hand toward the curtains, but checked himself inthe very act of undrawing them, turned his back sharply on the bed, andwalked toward the chimney-piece, to see what things were placed on it,and to try if he could keep the dead man out of his mind in that way.

  There was a pewter inkstand on the chimney-piece, with some mildewedremains of ink in the bottle. There were two coarse china ornaments ofthe commonest kind; and there was a square of embossed card, dirty andfly-blown, with a collection of wretched riddles printed on it, in allsorts of zigzag directions, and in variously colored inks. He tookthe card and went away to read it at the table on which the candle wasplaced, sitting down with his back resolutely turned to the curtainedbed.

  He read the first riddle, the second, the third, all in one corner ofthe card, then turned it round impatiently to look at another. Beforehe could begin reading the riddles printed here the sound of the churchclock stopped him.

  Eleven.

  He had got through an hour of the time in the room with the dead man.

  Once more he looked at the card. It was not easy to make out the lettersprinted on it in consequence of the dimness of the light which thelandlord had left him--a common tallow candle, furnished with a pair ofheavy old-fashioned steel snuffers. Up to this time his mind had beentoo much occupied to think of the light. He had left the wick of thecandle unsnuffed till it had risen higher than the flame, and had burnedinto an odd pent-house shape at the top, from which morsels of thecharred cotton fell off from time to time in little flakes. He took upthe snuffers now and trimmed the wick. The light brightened directly,and the room became less dismal.

  Again he turned to the riddles, reading them doggedly and resolutely,now in one corner of the card, now in another. All his efforts,however, could not fix his attention on them. He pursued his occupationmechanically, deriving no sort of impression from what he was reading.It was as if a shadow from the curtained bed had got between his mindand the gayly printed letters--a shadow that nothing could dispel. Atlast he gave up the struggle, threw the card from him impatiently, andtook to walking softly up and down the room again.

  The dead man, the dead man, the _hidden_ dead man on the bed!

  There was the one persistent idea still haunting him. Hidden! Was itonly the body being there, or was it the body being there _concealed,_that was preying on his mind? He stopped at the window with that doubtin him, once more listening to the pattering rain, once more looking outinto the black darkness.

  Still the dead man!

  The darkness forced his mind back upon itself, and set his memoryat work, reviving with a painfully vivid distinctness the momentaryimpression it had received from his first sight of the corpse. Beforelong the face seemed to be hovering out in the middle of the darkness,confronting him through the window, with the paleness whiter--withthe dreadful dull line of light between the imperfectly-closed eyelidsbroader than he had seen it--with the parted lips slowly droppingfurther and further away from each other--with the features growinglarger and moving closer, till they seemed to fill the window, and tosilence the rain, and to shut out the night.

  The sound of a voice shouting below stairs woke him suddenly from thedream of his own distempered fancy. He recognized it as the voice of thelandlord.

  "Shut up at twelve, Ben," he heard it say. "I'm off to bed."

  He wiped away the damp that had gathered on his forehead, reasoned withhimself for a little while, and resolved to shake his mind free ofthe ghastly counterfeit which still clung to it by forcing himselfto confront, if it was only for a moment, the solemn reality. Withoutallowing himself an instant to hesitate, he parted the curtains at thefoot of the bed, and looked through.

  There was the sad, peaceful, white face, with the awful mystery ofstillness on it, laid back upon the pillow. No stir, no change there! Heonly looked at it for a moment before he closed the curtains again, butthat moment steadied him, calmed him, restored him--mind and body--tohimself. He returned to his old occupation of walking up and down theroom, persevering in it this time till the clock struck again.

  Twelve.

  As the sound of the clock-bell died away, it was succeeded by theconfused noise downstairs of the drinkers in the taproom leaving thehouse. The next sound, after an interval of silence, was caused by thebarring of the door and the closing of the shutters at the back of theinn. Then the silence followed again, and was disturbed no more.

  He was alone now--absolutely, hopelessly alone with the dead man tillthe next morning.

  The wick of the candle wanted trimming again. He took up the snuffers,but paused suddenly on the very point of using them, and lookedattentively at the candle--then back, over his shoulder, at thecurtained bed--then again at the candle. It had been lighted for thefirst time to show him the way upstairs, and three parts of it, atleast, were already consumed. In another hour it would be burned out.In another hour, unless he called at once to the man who had shut up theinn for a fresh candle, he would be left in the dark.

  Strongly as his mind had been affected since he had entered the room,his unreasonable dread of encountering ridicule and of exposing hiscourage to suspicion had not altogether lost its influence over him evenyet.

  He lingered irresolutely by the table, waiting till he could prevail onhimself to open the door, and call from the landing, to the man who hadshut up the inn. In his present hesitating frame of mind, it was akind of relief to gain a few moments only by engaging in the triflingoccupation of snuffing the candle. His hand trembled a little, and thesnuffers were heavy and awkward to use. When he closed them on the wick,he closed them a hair-breadth too low. In an instant the candle was out,and the room was plunged in pitch darkness.

  The one impression which the absence of light immediately produced onhis mind was distrust of the curtained bed--distrust which shapeditself into no distinct idea, but which was powerful enough, in its veryvagueness, to bind him down to his chair, to make his heart beat fast,and to set him listening intently. No sound stirred in the room, but thefamiliar sound of the rain against the window, louder and sharper nowthan he had heard it yet.

  Still the vague distrust, the inexpressible dread possessed him, andkept him in his chair. He had put his carpet-bag on the table when hefirst entered the room, and he now took the key from his pocket, reachedout his hand softly, opened the bag, and groped in it for his travelingwriting-case, in which he knew that there was a small store of matches.When he had got one of the matches he waited before he struck it on thecoarse wooden table, and listened intently again without knowing why.Still there was no sound in the room but the steady, ceaseless rattlingsound of the rain.

  He lighted the candle again without another moment of delay, and, on theinstant of its burning up, the first object in the room that his eyessought for was the curtained bed.

  Just before the light had been put out he had looked in that direction,and had seen no change, no disarrangement of any sort in the folds ofthe closely-drawn curtains.

  When he looked at the bed now, he saw hanging over the side of it a longwhite hand.

  It lay perfectly motionless midway on the side of the bed, where thecurtain at the head and the curtain at the foot met. Nothing more wasvisible. The clinging curtains hid everything but the long white hand.

  He stood looking at it, unable to stir, unable to call out--feelingnothing, knowing nothing--every faculty h
e possessed gathered up andlost in the one seeing faculty. How long that first panic held him henever could tell afterward. It might have been only for a moment--itmight have been for many minutes together. How he got to thebed--whether he ran to it headlong, or whether he approached it slowly;how he wrought himself up to unclose the curtains and look in, he neverhas remembered, and never will remember to his dying day. It is enoughthat he did go to the bed, and that he did look inside the curtains.

  The man had moved. One of his arms was outside the clothes; his face wasturned a little on the pillow; his eyelids were wide open. Changed as toposition and as to one of the features, the face was otherwise fearfullyand wonderfully unaltered. The dead paleness and the dead quiet were onit still.

  One glance showed Arthur this--one glance before he flew breathlessly tothe door and alarmed the house.

  The man whom the landlord called "Ben" was the first to appear on thestairs. In three words Arthur told him what had happened, and sent himfor the nearest doctor.

  I, who tell you this story, was then staying with a medical friend ofmine, in practice at Doncaster, taking care of his patients for himduring his absence in London; and I, for the time being, was the nearestdoctor. They had sent for me from the inn when the stranger was takenill in the afternoon, but I was not at home, and medical assistancewas sought for elsewhere. When the man from The Two Robins rang thenight-bell, I was just thinking of going to bed. Naturally enough, I didnot believe a word of his story about "a dead man who had come to lifeagain." However, I put on my hat, armed myself with one or two bottlesof restorative medicine, and ran to the inn, expecting to find nothingmore remarkable, when I got there, than a patient in a fit.

  My surprise at finding that the man had spoken the literal truth wasalmost, if not quite, equaled by my astonishment at finding myself faceto face with Arthur Holliday as soon as I entered the bedroom. It wasno time then for giving or seeking explanations. We just shook handsamazedly, and then I ordered everybody but Arthur out of the room, andhurried to the man on the bed.

  The kitchen fire had not been long out. There was plenty of hot waterin the boiler, and plenty of flannel to be had. With these, with mymedicines, and with such help as Arthur could render under my direction,I dragged the man literally out of the jaws of death. In less than anhour from the time when I had been called in, he was alive and talkingin the bed on which he had been laid out to wait for the coroner'sinquest.

  You will naturally ask me what had been the matter with him, and I mighttreat you, in reply, to a long theory, plentifully sprinkled with whatthe children call hard words. I prefer telling you that, in this case,cause and effect could not be satisfactorily joined together by anytheory whatever. There are mysteries in life and the conditions of itwhich human science has not fathomed yet; and I candidly confess to youthat, in bringing that man back to existence, I was, morally speaking,groping haphazard in the dark. I know (from the testimony of the doctorwho attended him in the afternoon) that the vital machinery, so faras its action is appreciable by our senses, had, in this case,unquestionably stopped, and I am equally certain (seeing that Irecovered him) that the vital principle was not extinct. When I add thathe had suffered from a long and complicated illness, and that his wholenervous system was utterly deranged, I have told you all I really knowof the physical condition of my dead-alive patient at the Two RobinsInn.

  When he "came to," as the phrase goes, he was a startling object to lookat, with his colorless face, his sunken cheeks, his wild black eyes, andhis long black hair. The first question he asked me about himself whenhe could speak made me suspect that I had been called in to a man in myown profession. I mentioned to him my surmise, and he told me that I wasright.

  He said he had come last from Paris, where he had been attached toa hospital; that he had lately returned to England, on his way toEdinburgh, to continue his studies; that he had been taken ill onthe journey; and that he had stopped to rest and recover himself atDoncaster. He did not add a word about his name, or who he was, and ofcourse I did not question him on the subject. All I inquired when heceased speaking was what branch of the profession he intended to follow.

  "Any branch," he said, bitterly, "which will put bread into the mouth ofa poor man."

  At this, Arthur, who had been hitherto watching him in silent curiosity,burst out impetuously in his usual good-humored way:

  "My dear fellow" (everybody was "my dear fellow" with Arthur), "now youhave come to life again, don't begin by being down-hearted about yourprospects. I'll answer for it I can help you to some capital thing inthe medical line, or, if I can't, I know my father can."

  The medical student looked at him steadily.

  "Thank you," he said, coldly; then added, "May I ask who your fatheris?"

  "He's well enough known all about this part of the country," repliedArthur. "He is a great manufacturer, and his name is Holliday."

  My hand was on the man's wrist during this brief conversation. Theinstant the name of Holliday was pronounced I felt the pulse under myfingers flutter, stop, go on suddenly with a bound, and beat afterwardfor a minute or two at the fever rate.

  "How did you come here?" asked the stranger, quickly, excitably,passionately almost.

  Arthur related briefly what had happened from the time of his firsttaking the bed at the inn.

  "I am indebted to Mr. Holliday's son, then, for the help that has savedmy life," said the medical student, speaking to himself, with a singularsarcasm in his voice. "Come here!"

  He held out, as he spoke, his long, white, bony right hand.

  "With all my heart," said Arthur, taking his hand cordially. "I mayconfess it now," he continued, laughing, "upon my honor, you almostfrightened me out of my wits."

  The stranger did not seem to listen. His wild black eyes were fixed witha look of eager interest on Arthur's face, and his long bony fingerskept tight hold of Arthur's hand. Young Holliday, on his side, returnedthe gaze, amazed and puzzled by the medical student's odd language andmanners. The two faces were close together; I looked at them, and, to myamazement, I was suddenly impressed by the sense of a likeness betweenthem--not in features or complexion, but solely in expression. It musthave been a strong likeness, or I should certainly not have found itout, for I am naturally slow at detecting resemblances between faces.

  "You have saved my life," said the strange man, still looking hard inArthur's face, still holding tightly by his hand. "If you had been myown brother, you could not have done more for me than that."

  He laid a singularly strong emphasis on those three words "my ownbrother," and a change passed over his face as he pronounced them--achange that no language of mine is competent to describe.

  "I hope I have not done being of service to you yet," said Arthur. "I'llspeak to my father as soon as I get home."

  "You seem to be fond and proud of your father," said the medicalstudent. "I suppose, in return, he is fond and proud of you?"

  "Of course he is," answered Arthur, laughing. "Is there anythingwonderful in that? Isn't _your_ father fond--"

  The stranger suddenly dropped young Holliday's hand and turned his faceaway.

  "I beg your pardon," said Arthur. "I hope I have not unintentionallypained you. I hope you have not lost your father?"

  "I can't well lose what I have never had," retorted the medical student,with a harsh mocking laugh.

  "What you have never had!"

  The strange man suddenly caught Arthur's hand again, suddenly lookedonce more hard in his face.

  "Yes," he said, with a repetition of the bitter laugh. "You havebrought a poor devil back into the world who has no business there. Do Iastonish you? Well, I have a fancy of my own for telling you what men inmy situation generally keep a secret. I have no name and no father. Themerciful law of society tells me I am nobody's son! Ask your father ifhe will be my father too, and help me on in life with the family name."

  Arthur looked at me more puzzled than ever.

  I signed to him to say nothing
, and then laid my fingers again on theman's wrist. No. In spite of the extraordinary speech that he had justmade, he was not, as I had been disposed to suspect, beginning to getlight-headed. His pulse, by this time, had fallen back to a quiet,slow beat, and his skin was moist and cool. Not a symptom of fever oragitation about him.

  Finding that neither of us answered him, he turned to me, and begantalking of the extraordinary nature of his case, and asking my adviceabout the future course of medical treatment to which he ought tosubject himself. I said the matter required careful thinking over, andsuggested that I should send him a prescription a little later. He toldme to write it at once, as he would most likely be leaving Doncaster inthe morning before I was up. It was quite useless to represent to himthe folly and danger of such a proceeding as this. He heard me politelyand patiently, but held to his resolution, without offering any reasonsor explanations, and repeated to me that, if I wished to give him achance of seeing my prescription, I must write it at once.

  Hearing this, Arthur volunteered the loan of a traveling writing-case,which he said he had with him, and, bringing it to the bed, shook thenote-paper out of the pocket of the case forthwith in his usual carelessway. With the paper there fell out on the counterpane of the bed asmall packet of sticking-plaster, and a little water-color drawing of alandscape.

  The medical student took up the drawing and looked at it. His eye fellon some initials neatly written in cipher in one corner. He startedand trembled; his pale face grew whiter than ever; his wild black eyesturned on Arthur, and looked through and through him.

  "A pretty drawing," he said, in a remarkably quiet tone of voice.

  "Ah! and done by such a pretty girl," said Arthur. "Oh, such a prettygirl! I wish it was not a landscape--I wish it was a portrait of her!"

  "You admire her very much?"

  Arthur, half in jest, half in earnest, kissed his hand for answer.

  "Love at first sight," said young Holliday, putting the drawing awayagain. "But the course of it doesn't run smooth. It's the old story.She's monopolized, as usual; trammeled by a rash engagement to some poorman who is never likely to get money enough to marry her. It was luckyI heard of it in time, or I should certainly have risked a declarationwhen she gave me that drawing. Here, doctor, here is pen, ink, and paperall ready for you."

  "When she gave you that drawing? Gave it? gave it?"

  He repeated the words slowly to himself, and suddenly closed his eyes. Amomentary distortion passed across his face, and I saw one of his handsclutch up the bedclothes and squeeze them hard. I thought he was goingto be ill again, and begged that there might be no more talking. Heopened his eyes when I spoke, fixed them once more searchingly onArthur, and said, slowly and distinctly:

  "You like her, and she likes you. The poor man may die out of your way.Who can tell that she may not give you herself as well as her drawing,after all?"

  Before young Holliday could answer he turned to me, and said in awhisper: "Now for the prescription." From that time, though he spoke toArthur again, he never looked at him more.

  When I had written the prescription, he examined it, approved of it, andthen astonished us both by abruptly wishing us good-night. I offered tosit up with him, and he shook his head. Arthur offered to sit up withhim, and he said, shortly, with his face turned away, "No." I insistedon having somebody left to watch him. He gave way when he found I wasdetermined, and said he would accept the services of the waiter at theinn.

  "Thank you both," he said, as we rose to go. "I have one last favor toask--not of you, doctor, for I leave you to exercise your professionaldiscretion, but of Mr. Holliday." His eyes, while he spoke, still restedsteadily on me, and never once turned toward Arthur. "I beg that Mr.Holliday will not mention to any one, least of all to his father, theevents that have occurred and the words that have passed in this room. Ientreat him to bury me in his memory as, but for him, I might have beenburied in my grave. I cannot give my reason for making this strangerequest. I can only implore him to grant it."

  His voice faltered for the first time, and he hid his face on thepillow. Arthur, completely bewildered, gave the required pledge. I tookyoung Holliday away with me immediately afterward to the house of myfriend, determining to go back to the inn and to see the medical studentagain before he had left in the morning.

  I returned to the inn at eight o'clock, purposely abstaining from wakingArthur, who was sleeping off the past night's excitement on one of myfriend's sofas. A suspicion had occurred to me, as soon as I was alonein my bedroom, which made me resolve that Holliday and the strangerwhose life he had saved should not meet again, if I could prevent it.

  I have already alluded to certain reports or scandals which I knew ofrelating to the early life of Arthur's father. While I was thinking, inmy bed, of what had passed at the inn; of the change in the student'spulse when he heard the name of Holliday; of the resemblance ofexpression that I had discovered between his face and Arthur's; of theemphasis he had laid on those three words, "my own brother," and of hisincomprehensible acknowledgment of his own illegitimacy--while I wasthinking of these things, the reports I have mentioned suddenly flewinto my mind, and linked themselves fast to the chain of my previousreflections. Something within me whispered, "It is best that those twoyoung men should not meet again." I felt it before I slept; I feltit when I woke; and I went as I told you, alone to the inn the nextmorning.

  I had missed my only opportunity of seeing my nameless patient again. Hehad been gone nearly an hour when I inquired for him.

  I have now told you everything that I know for certain in relation tothe man whom I brought back to life in the double-bedded room of theinn at Doncaster. What I have next to add is matter for inference andsurmise, and is not, strictly speaking, matter of fact.

  I have to tell you, first, that the medical student turned out to bestrangely and unaccountably right in assuming it as more than probablethat Arthur Holliday would marry the young lady who had given him thewater-color drawing of the landscape. That marriage took place a littlemore than a year after the events occurred which I have just beenrelating.

  The young couple came to live in the neighborhood in which I was thenestablished in practice. I was present at the wedding, and was rathersurprised to find that Arthur was singularly reserved with me, bothbefore and after his marriage, on the subject of the young lady's priorengagement. He only referred to it once when we were alone, merelytelling me, on that occasion, that his wife had done all that honor andduty required of her in the matter, and that the engagement had beenbroken off with the full approval of her parents. I never heard morefrom him than this. For three years he and his wife lived togetherhappily. At the expiration of that time the symptoms of a seriousillness first declared themselves in Mrs. Arthur Holliday. It turned outto be a long, lingering, hopeless malady. I attended her throughout. Wehad been great friends when she was well, and we became more attached toeach other than ever when she was ill. I had many long and interestingconversations with her in the intervals when she suffered least. Theresult of one of those conversations I may briefly relate, leaving youto draw any inferences from it that you please.

  The interview to which I refer occurred shortly before her death.

  I called one evening as usual, and found her alone, with a look in hereyes which told me she had been crying. She only informed me at firstthat she had been depressed in spirits, but by little and little shebecame more communicative, and confessed to me that she had been lookingover some old letters which had been addressed to her, before she hadseen Arthur, by a man to whom she had been engaged to be married. Iasked her how the engagement came to be broken off. She replied that ithad not been broken off, but that it had died out in a very mysteriousway. The person to whom she was engaged--her first love, she calledhim--was very poor, and there was no immediate prospect of their beingmarried. He followed my profession, and went abroad to study. They hadcorresponded regularly until the time when, as she believed, he hadreturned to England. From that peri
od she heard no more of him. He wasof a fretful, sensitive temperament, and she feared that she might haveinadvertently done or said something to offend him. However that mightbe, he had never written to her again, and after waiting a year she hadmarried Arthur. I asked when the first estrangement had begun, and foundthat the time at which she ceased to hear anything of her first loverexactly corresponded with the time at which I had been called in to mymysterious patient at The Two Robins Inn.

  A fortnight after that conversation she died. In course of time Arthurmarried again. Of late years he has lived principally in London, and Ihave seen little or nothing of him.

  I have some years to pass over before I can approach to anything likea conclusion of this fragmentary narrative. And even when that laterperiod is reached, the little that I have to say will not occupy yourattention for more than a few minutes.

  One rainy autumn evening, while I was still practicing as a countrydoctor, I was sitting alone, thinking over a case then under my charge,which sorely perplexed me, when I heard a low knock at the door of myroom.

  "Come in," I cried, looking up curiously to see who wanted me.

  After a momentary delay, the lock moved, and a long, white, bony handstole round the door as it opened, gently pushing it over a fold in thecarpet which hindered it from working freely on the hinges. The handwas followed by a man whose face instantly struck me with a very strangesensation. There was something familiar to me in the look of him, andyet it was also something that suggested the idea of change.

  He quietly introduced himself as "Mr. Lorn," presented to me someexcellent professional recommendations, and proposed to fill the place,then vacant, of my assistant. While he was speaking I noticed it assingular that we did not appear to be meeting each other like strangers,and that, while I was certainly startled at seeing him, he did notappear to be at all startled at seeing me.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I thought I had met with himbefore. But there was something in his face, and something in my ownrecollections--I can hardly say what--which unaccountably restrained mefrom speaking and which as unaccountably attracted me to him at once,and made me feel ready and glad to accept his proposal.

  He took his assistant's place on that very day. We got on together as ifwe had been old friends from the first; but, throughout the whole timeof his residence in my house, he never volunteered any confidences onthe subject of his past life, and I never approached the forbidden topicexcept by hints, which he resolutely refused to understand.

  I had long had a notion that my patient at the inn might have been anatural son of the elder Mr. Holliday's, and that he might also havebeen the man who was engaged to Arthur's first wife. And now anotheridea occurred to me, that Mr. Lorn was the only person in existence whocould, if he chose, enlighten me on both those doubtful points. But henever did choose, and I was never enlightened. He remained with metill I removed to London to try my fortune there as a physician for thesecond time, and then he went his way and I went mine, and we have neverseen one another since.

  I can add no more. I may have been right in my suspicion, or I may havebeen wrong. All I know is that, in those days of my country practice,when I came home late, and found my assistant asleep, and woke him, heused to look, in coming to, wonderfully like the stranger at Doncasteras he raised himself in the bed on that memorable night.

  THE SIXTH DAY

  AN oppressively mild temperature, and steady, soft, settled rain--dismalweather for idle people in the country. Miss Jessie, after lookinglongingly out of the window, resigned herself to circumstances, and gaveup all hope of a ride. The gardener, the conservatory, the rabbits,the raven, the housekeeper, and, as a last resource, even the neglectedpiano, were all laid under contribution to help her through the time. Itwas a long day, but thanks to her own talent for trifling, she contrivedto occupy it pleasantly enough.

  Still no news of my son. The time was getting on now, and it was surelynot unreasonable to look for some tidings of him.

  To-day Morgan and I both finished our third and last stories. Icorrected my brother's contribution with no very great difficulty onthis occasion, and numbered it Nine. My own story came next, and wasthus accidentally distinguished as the last of the series--Number Ten.When I dropped the two corresponding cards into the bowl, the thoughtthat there would be now no more to add seemed to quicken my prevailingsense of anxiety on the subject of George's return. A heavy depressionhung upon my spirits, and I went out desperately in the rain to shake mymind free of oppressing influences by dint of hard bodily exercise.

  The number drawn this evening was Three. On the production of thecorresponding manuscript it proved to be my turn to read again.

  "I can promise you a little variety to-night," I said, addressing ourfair guest, "if I can promise nothing else. This time it is not a storyof my own writing that I am about to read, but a copy of a very curiouscorrespondence which I found among my professional papers."

  Jessie's countenance fell. "Is there no story in it?" she asked, ratherdiscontentedly.

  "Certainly there is a story in it," I replied--"a story of a muchlighter kind than any we have yet read, and which may, on that account,prove acceptable, by way of contrast and relief, even if it fails toattract you by other means. I obtained the original correspondence, Imust tell you, from the office of the Detective Police of London."

  Jessie's face brightened. "That promises something to begin with," shesaid.

  "Some years since," I continued, "there was a desire at headquarters toincrease the numbers and efficiency of the Detective Police, and Ihad the honor of being one of the persons privately consulted on thatoccasion. The chief obstacle to the plan proposed lay in the difficultyof finding new recruits. The ordinary rank and file of the police ofLondon are sober, trustworthy, and courageous men, but as a body theyare sadly wanting in intelligence. Knowing this, the authorities tookinto consideration a scheme, which looked plausible enough on paper, foravailing themselves of the services of that proverbially sharp classof men, the experienced clerks in attorney's offices. Among the personswhose advice was sought on this point, I was the only one whodissented from the arrangement proposed. I felt certain that the reallyexperienced clerks intrusted with conducting private investigationsand hunting up lost evidence, were too well paid and too independentlysituated in their various offices to care about entering the ranks ofthe Detective Police, and submitting themselves to the rigid disciplineof Scotland Yard, and I ventured to predict that the inferior clerksonly, whose discretion was not to be trusted, would prove to be the menwho volunteered for detective employment. My advice was not taken andthe experiment of enlisting the clerks was tried in two or three cases.I was naturally interested in the result, and in due course of time Iapplied for information in the right quarter. In reply, the originals ofthe letters of which I am now about to read the copies were sent to me,with an intimation that the correspondence in this particular instanceoffered a fair specimen of the results of the experiment in the othercases. The letters amused me, and I obtained permission to copy thembefore I sent them back. You will now hear, therefore, by his ownstatement, how a certain attorney's clerk succeeded in conducting a verydelicate investigation, and how the regular members of the DetectivePolice contrived to help him through his first experiment."