Masters of the Novella

by Delphi Classics

  ‘He may be home in half an hour, there’s no knowing; but I daresay he will. I’ll send him out to the Hope Farm directly he comes in. It’s that good-looking young woman, Holman’s daughter, that’s ill, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would be a pity if she was to go. She’s an only child, isn’t she? I’ll get up, and smoke a pipe in the surgery, ready for the governor’s coming home. I might go to sleep if I went to bed again.’

  ‘Thank you, you’re a good fellow!’ and I rode back almost as quickly as I came. It was a brain fever. The doctor said so, when he came in the early summer morning. I believe we had come to know the nature of the illness in the night-watches that had gone before. As to hope of ultimate recovery, or even evil prophecy of the probable end, the cautious doctor would be entrapped into neither. He gave his directions, and promised to come again; so soon, that this one thing showed his opinion of the gravity of the case.

  By God’s mercy she recovered, but it was a long, weary time first. According to previously made plans, I was to have gone home at the beginning of August. But all such ideas were put aside now, without a word being spoken. I really think that I was necessary in the house, and especially necessary to the minister at this time; my father was the last man in the world, under such circumstances, to expect me home.

  I say, I think I was necessary in the house. Every person (1 had almost said every creature, for all the dumb beasts seemed to know and love Phillis) about the place went grieving and sad, as though a cloud was over the sun. They did their work, each striving to steer clear of the temptation to eye-service, in fulfilment of the trust reposed in them by the minister. For the day after Phillis had been taken ill, he had called all the men employed on the farm into the empty barn; and there he had entreated their prayers for his only child; and then and there he had told them of his present incapacity for thought about any other thing in this world but his little daughter, lying nigh unto death, and he had asked them to go on with their daily labours as best they could, without his direction. So, as I say, these honest men did their work to the best of their ability, but they slouched along with sad and careful faces, coming one by one in the dim mornings to ask news of the sorrow that overshadowed the house; and receiving Betty’s intelligence, always rather darkened by passing through her mind, with slow shakes of the head, and a dull wistfulness of sympathy. But, poor fellows, they were hardly fit to be trusted with hasty messages, and here my poor services came in. One time I was to ride hard to Sir William Bentinck’s, and petition for ice out of his ice-house, to put on Phillis’s head. Another it was to Eltham I must go, by train, horse, anyhow, and bid the doctor there come for a consultation, for fresh symptoms had appeared, which Mr Brown, of Hornby, considered unfavourable. Many an hour have I sate on the window-seat, half-way up the stairs, close by the old clock, listening in the hot stillness of the house for the sounds in the sick-room. The minister and I met often, but spoke together seldom. He looked so old — so old! He shared the nursing with his wife; the strength that was needed seemed to be given to them both in that day. They required no one else about their child. Every office about her was sacred to them; even Betty only went into the room for the most necessary purposes. Once I saw Phillis through the open door; her pretty golden hair had been cut off long before; her head was covered with wet cloths, and she was moving it backwards and forwards on the pillow, with weary, never-ending motion, her poor eyes shut, trying in the old accustomed way to croon out a hymn tune, but perpetually breaking it up into moans of pain. Her mother sate by her, tearless, changing the cloths upon her head with patient solicitude. I did not see the minister at first, but there he was in a dark corner, down upon his knees, his hands clasped together in passionate prayer. Then the door shut, and I saw no more. One day he was wanted; and I had to summon him. Brother Robinson and another minister, hearing of his ‘trial’, had come to see him. I told him this upon the stair-landing in a whisper. He was strangely troubled.

  ‘They will want me to lay bare my heart. I cannot do it. Paul, stay with me. They mean well; but as for spiritual help at such a time — it is God only, God only, who can give it.

  So I went in with him. They were two ministers from the neighbourhood; both older than Ebenezer Holman; but evidently inferior to him in education and worldly position. I thought they looked at me as if I were an intruder, but remembering the minister’s words I held my ground, and took up one of poor Phillis’s books (of which I could not read a word) to have an ostensible occupation. Presently I was asked to ‘engage in prayer’, and we all knelt down; Brother Robinson ‘leading’, and quoting largely as I remember from the Book of Job. He seemed to take for his text, if texts are ever taken for prayers,

  ‘Behold thou hast instructed many; but now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest, it toucheth thee and thou art troubled.’ When we others rose up, the minister continued for some minutes on his knees. Then he too got up, and stood facing us, for a moment, before we all sate down in conclave. After a pause Robinson began, —

  ‘We grieve for you, Brother Holman, for your trouble is great. But we would fain have you remember you are as a light set on a hill; and the congregations are looking at you with watchful eyes. We have been talking as we came along on the two duties required of you in this strait; Brother Hodgson and me. And we have resolved to exhort you on these two points. First, God has given you the opportunity of showing forth an example of resignation.’ Poor Mr Holman visibly winced at this word. I could fancy how he had tossed aside such brotherly preachings in his happier moments; but now his whole system was unstrung, and ‘resignation’ seemed a term which presupposed that the dreaded misery of losing Phillis was inevitable. But good stupid Mr Robinson went on. ‘We hear on all sides that there are scarce any hopes of your child’s recovery; and it may be well to bring you to mind of Abraham; and how he was willing to kill his only child when the Lord commanded. Take example by him, Brother Holman. Let us hear you say, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”’

  There was a pause of expectancy. I verily believe the minister tried to feel it; but he could not. Heart of flesh was too strong. Heart of stone he had not.

  ‘I will say it to my God, when He gives me strength, — when the day comes,’ he spoke at last.

  The other two looked at each other, and shook their heads. I think the reluctance to answer as they wished was not quite unexpected. The minister went on ‘There are vet’ he said, as if to himself. ‘God has given me a great heart for hoping, and I will not look forward beyond the hour.’ Then turning more to them, — and speaking louder, he added: ‘Brethren, God will strengthen me when the time comes, when such resignation as you speak of is needed. Till then I cannot feel it; and what I do not feel I will not express; using words as if they were a charm.’ He was getting chafed, I could see. He had rather put them out by these speeches of his; but after a short time and some more shakes of the head, Robinson began again, —

  ‘Secondly, we would have you listen to the voice of the rod, and ask yourself for what sins this trial has been laid upon you; whether you may not have been too much given up to your farm and your cattle; whether this world’s learning has not puffed you up to vain conceit and neglect of the things of God; whether you have not made an idol of your daughter?’

  ‘I cannot answer — I will not answer’.’ exclaimed the minister. ‘My sins I confess to God. But if they were scarlet (and they are so in His sight),’ he added, humbly, ‘I hold with Christ that afflictions are not sent by God in wrath as penalties for sin.’

  ‘Is that orthodox, Brother Robinson?’ asked the third minister, in a deferential tone of inquiry.

  Despite the minister’s injunction not to leave him, I thought matters were getting so serious that a little homely interruption would be more to the purpose than my continued presence, and I went round to the kitchen to ask for Betty’s help.

  ‘‘Od rot ‘em!’ said she; ‘the
y’re always a-coming at ill-convenient times; and they have such hearty appetites, they’ll make nothing of what would have served master and you since our poor lass has been ill. I’ve but a bit of cold beef in th’ house; but I’ll do some ham and eggs, and that ‘ll rout ’em from worrying the minister. They’re a deal quieter after they’ve had their victual. Last time as old Robinson came, he was very reprehensible upon master’s learning, which he couldn’t compass to save his life, so he needn’t have been afeard of that temptation, and used words long enough to have knocked a body down; but after me and missus had given him his fill of victual, and he’d had some good ale and a pipe, he spoke just like any other man, and could crack a joke with me.’

  Their visit was the only break in the long weary days and nights. I do not mean that no other inquiries were made. I believe that all the neighbours hung about the place daily till they could learn from some out-comer how Phillis Holman was. But they knew better than to come up to the house, for the August weather was so hot that every door and window was kept constantly open, and the least sound outside penetrated all through. I am sure the cocks and hens had a sad time of it; for Betty drove them all into an empty barn, and kept them fastened up in the dark for several days, with very little effect as regarded their crowing and clacking. At length came a sleep which was the crisis, and from which she wakened up with a new faint life. Her slumber had lasted many, many hours. We scarcely dared to breathe or move during the time; we had striven to hope so long, that we were sick at heart, and durst not trust in the favourable signs: the even breathing, the moistened skin, the slight return of delicate colour into the pale, wan lips. I recollect stealing out that evening in the dusk, and wandering down the grassy lane, under the shadow of the over-arching elms to the little bridge at the foot of the hill, where the lane to the Hope Farm joined another road to Hornby. On the low parapet of that bridge I found Timothy Cooper, the stupid, half-witted labourer, sitting, idly throwing bits of mortar into the brook below. He just looked up at me as I came near, but gave me no greeting either by word or gesture. He had generally made some sign’ of recognition to me, but this time I thought he was sullen at being dismissed. Nevertheless I felt as if it would be a relief to talk a little to some one, and I sate down by him. While I was thinking how to begin, he yawned weariedly.

  ‘You are tired, Tim?’ said I.

  ‘Ay,’ said he. ‘But I reckon I may go home now.’ ‘Have you been sitting here long?’

  ‘Welly all day long. Leastways sin’ seven i’ th’ morning.’ ‘Why, what in the world have you been doing?’ ‘Nought.’

  ‘Why have you been sitting here, then?’

  ‘T’ keep carts off.’ He was up now, stretching himself, and shaking his lubberly limbs.

  ‘Carts! what carts?’

  ‘Carts as might ha’ wakened yon wench! It’s Hornby market day. I reckon yo’re no better nor a half-wit yoursel’.’ He cocked his eye at me as if he were gauging my intellect.

  ‘And have you been sitting here all day to keep the lane quiet?’

  ‘Ay. I’ve nought else to do. Th’ minister has turned me adrift. Have yo’ heard how th’ lass is faring to-night?’

  ‘They hope she’ll waken better for this long sleep. Good night to you, and God bless you, Timothy,’ said I.

  He scarcely took any notice of my words, as he lumbered across a Stile that led to his cottage. Presently I went home to the farm. Phillis had Stirred, had Spoken two or three faint words. Her mother was with her, dropping nourishment into her scarce conscious mouth. The rest of the household were summoned to evening prayer for the first time for many days. It was a return to the daily habits of happiness and health. But in these silent days our very lives had been an unspoken prayer. Now we met in the house-place, and looked at each other with strange recognition of the thankfulness on all our faces. We knelt down; we waited for the minister’s voice. He did not begin as usual. He could not; he was choking. Presently we heard the strong man’s sob. Then old John turned round on his knees, and said, —

  ‘Minister, I reckon we have blessed the Lord wi’ all our souls, though we’ve ne’er talked about it; and maybe He’ll not need spoken words this night. God bless us all, and keep our Phillis safe from harm! Amen.’ Old John’s impromptu prayer was all we had that night.

  ‘Our Phillis,’ as he called her, grew better day by day from that time. Not quickly; I sometimes grew desponding, and feared that she would never be what she had been before; no more she has, in some ways.

  I seized an early opportunity to tell the minister about Timothy Cooper’s unsolicited watch on the bridge during the long Summer’s day.

  ‘God forgive me!’ said the minister. ‘I have been too proud in my own conceit. The first steps I take out of this house shall be to Cooper’s cottage.’

  I need hardly say Timothy was reinstated in his place on the farm; and I have often since admired the patience with which his master tried to teach him how to do the easy work which was henceforward carefully adjusted to his capacity. Phillis was carried down-stairs, and lay for hour after hour quite silent on the great sofa, drawn up under the windows of the house-place. She seemed always the same, gentle, quiet, and sad. Her energy did not return with her bodily strength. It was sometimes pitiful to see her parents’ vain endeavours to rouse her to interest. One day the minister brought her a set of blue ribbons, reminding her with a tender smile of a former conversation in which she had owned to a love of such feminine vanities. She spoke gratefully to him, but when he was gone she laid them on one side, and languidly shut her eyes. Another time I saw her mother bring her the Latin and Italian books that she had been so fond of before her illness — or, rather, before Holdsworth had gone away. That was worst of all. She turned her face to the wall, and cried as soon as her mother’s back was turned. Betty was laying the cloth for the early dinner. Her sharp eyes saw the state of the case.

  ‘Now, Phillis!’ said she, coming up to the sofa; ‘we ha’ done a’ we can for you, and th’ doctors has done a’ they can for you, and I think the Lord has done a’ He can for you, and more than you deserve, too, if you don’t do something for yourself. If I were you, I’d rise up and snuff the moon, sooner than break your father’s and your mother’s hearts wi’ watching and waiting till it pleases you to fight your own way back to cheerfulness. There, I never favoured long preachings, and I’ve said my say.’

  A day or two after Phillis asked me, when we were alone, if I thought my father and mother would allow her to go and stay with them for a couple of months. She blushed a little as she faltered out her wish for change of thought and scene.

  ‘Only for a short time, Paul. Then — we will go back to the peace of the old days. I know we shall; I can, and I will!’

  THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE by Robert Louis Stevenson

  This famous novella was first published in 1886. It tells the story of a London lawyer named Gabriel John Utterson who investigates strange occurrences between his old friend, Dr Henry Jekyll, and the misanthropic Edward Hyde. The story is commonly associated with the mental condition called a “split personality”, where the same person has at least two distinct personalities. In this case, the two personalities in Dr Jekyll are apparently good and evil, with completely opposite views of morality. Due to the novel’s fame, the phrase “Jekyll and Hyde” has become a part of everyday speech. The novella was an immediate success and it is one of Stevenson’s most popular works.

  Title page of the first edition

  CONTENTS

  STORY OF THE DOOR

  SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

  DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

  THE CAREW MURDER CASE

  INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

  INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

  INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

  THE LAST NIGHT

  DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

  HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

  STORY OF THE DOOR

  Mr. Utterson the lawyer w
as a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

  No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.