One evening,
however, after Rachel had come home, her mother heard a noise which sounded like
suppressed weeping in the girl’s room, and on going in found her lying, half
undressed, upon the bed, evidently in the greatest distress. As soon as she saw her
mother, she exclaimed, “Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest with
Helen?” Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to make
inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said --
Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the fire. When
his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had interrupted
him at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of
horror. “My God!” he had exclaimed, “think, think what you are saying. It is too
incredible, too monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where men
and women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall down under
sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips,
not such things as this. There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror.
Why, man, if such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.”
But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
“Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad sunlight; they saw
her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she was not there.”
Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and again his mind
shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of such awful, unspeakable
elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh. Before him stretched
the long dim vista of the green causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it;
he saw the swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the two figures moved
toward him. One was Rachel, but the other?
Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the account, as he
had written it in his book, he had placed the inscription:
ET DIABOLUS INCARNATE EST. ET HOMO FACTUS EST.
The City of Resurrections
“HERBERT! Good God! Is it possible?”
“Yes, my name’s Herbert. I think I know your face, too, but I don’t remember your
name. My memory is very queer.”
“Don’t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?”
“So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn’t think I was begging of an old
college friend. Good-night.”
“My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but we won’t
go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a little way? But how in
heaven’s name have you come to this pass, Herbert?”
“It’s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear it if you like.”
“Come on, then. Take my arm, you don’t seem very strong.”
The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty, evil-looking
rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a man about town, trim,
glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from his restaurant after an
excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an ingratiating little flask of Chianti,
and, in that frame of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment
by the door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those mysterious
incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem in every quarter and
every hour. Villiers prided himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and
byways of London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity
which was worthy of more serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post
surveying the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only
to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula: “London has
been called the city of encounters; it is more than that, it is the city of Resurrections,”
when these reflections were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow,
and a deplorable appeal for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and with a
sudden shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat
stilted fancies. There, close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and
disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend
Charles Herbert, who had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had
been merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since Villiers had seen
Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled
with a certain inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged
him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations
outside the restaurant.
They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by stared in
astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed man with an
unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led the way to
an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question.
“How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would succeed
to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit you? Surely not?”
“No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s death; he died a year
after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me, and I mourned his death sincerely
enough. But you know what young men are; a few months later I came up to town and
went a good deal into society.
however, after Rachel had come home, her mother heard a noise which sounded like
suppressed weeping in the girl’s room, and on going in found her lying, half
undressed, upon the bed, evidently in the greatest distress. As soon as she saw her
mother, she exclaimed, “Ah, mother, mother, why did you let me go to the forest with
Helen?” Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to make
inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said --
Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the fire. When
his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his story, Clarke had interrupted
him at a point a little subsequent to this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of
horror. “My God!” he had exclaimed, “think, think what you are saying. It is too
incredible, too monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where men
and women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall down under
sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange fortunes for many a year; but not this, Phillips,
not such things as this. There must be some explanation, some way out of the terror.
Why, man, if such a case were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.”
But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:
“Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad sunlight; they saw
her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she was not there.”
Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and again his mind
shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of such awful, unspeakable
elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in human flesh. Before him stretched
the long dim vista of the green causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it;
he saw the swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the two figures moved
toward him. One was Rachel, but the other?
Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the account, as he
had written it in his book, he had placed the inscription:
ET DIABOLUS INCARNATE EST. ET HOMO FACTUS EST.
The City of Resurrections
“HERBERT! Good God! Is it possible?”
“Yes, my name’s Herbert. I think I know your face, too, but I don’t remember your
name. My memory is very queer.”
“Don’t you recollect Villiers of Wadham?”
“So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn’t think I was begging of an old
college friend. Good-night.”
“My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but we won’t
go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a little way? But how in
heaven’s name have you come to this pass, Herbert?”
“It’s a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear it if you like.”
“Come on, then. Take my arm, you don’t seem very strong.”
The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty, evil-looking
rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a man about town, trim,
glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had emerged from his restaurant after an
excellent dinner of many courses, assisted by an ingratiating little flask of Chianti,
and, in that frame of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment
by the door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those mysterious
incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem in every quarter and
every hour. Villiers prided himself as a practised explorer of such obscure mazes and
byways of London life, and in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity
which was worthy of more serious employment. Thus he stood by the lamp-post
surveying the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity known only
to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the formula: “London has
been called the city of encounters; it is more than that, it is the city of Resurrections,”
when these reflections were suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow,
and a deplorable appeal for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and with a
sudden shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat
stilted fancies. There, close beside him, his face altered and disfigured by poverty and
disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend
Charles Herbert, who had matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had
been merry and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since Villiers had seen
Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man with grief and dismay, mingled
with a certain inquisitiveness as to what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged
him down to such a doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely speculations
outside the restaurant.
They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by stared in
astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed man with an
unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing this, Villiers led the way to
an obscure street in Soho. Here he repeated his question.
“How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would succeed
to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father disinherit you? Surely not?”
“No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s death; he died a year
after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me, and I mourned his death sincerely
enough. But you know what young men are; a few months later I came up to town and
went a good deal into society.
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