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“The doctor is busy,” Poole said.
On the 15th, Utterson tried again, and was again refused. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.
There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s appearance. He had his death-warrant[26] written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect.
“Yes,” he thought; “he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear.”
And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.
“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away.”
“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”
But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice. “I am quite done with that person; and this person is dead for me.”
“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, “Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we cannot make others.”
“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask Dr. Jekyll.”
“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.
“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn everything. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot forget this accursed topic, then, in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear it.”
As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable.
“I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. And you can do but one thing, Utterson, to respect my silence.”
Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled; and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole life of his were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness.
A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed[27], and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend.
“PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread,” so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents.
“I have buried one friend today,” he thought: “what if this should cost me another?”
And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.”
Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll. But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible.
Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe.
From that day forth, Utterson did not desire the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. So Utterson fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits.
Incident at the Window
It happened on Sunday. Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, their way lay once again through the by-street; and they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.
“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde.”
“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?”
“I can imagine,” returned Enfield. “And by the way, this is a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did.”
“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “We may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good.”
The court was very cool and a little damp. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and Dr. Jekyll himself was sitting close beside it, taking the air with infinite sadness, like some disconsolate prisoner.
“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I hope you are better.”
“I am very low[28], Utterson,” replied the doctor, drearily, “very low. It will not last long, thank God.”
“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out. This is my cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr. Jekyll. Come, now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us.”
“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”
“Why then,” said the lawyer, “the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”
“That is just what I was about to propose,” returned the doctor with a smile. His words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of abject terror and despair. The two gentlemen saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, they traversed the by-street. They were both pale; and there was a horror in their eyes.
“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.
But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on in silence.
The Last Night
Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.
“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”
“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”
“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time[29], and tell me plainly what you want.”
“You know the doctor’s ideas, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”
“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid of?”
“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, “and I can bear it no more.”
The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face.
Poole sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor.
“I can bear it no more,” he repeated.
“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”
“I think there’s been foul play[30],” said Poole, hoarsely.
“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, frightened and irritated. “What foul play? What does this mean?”
“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me and see for yourself?”
Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and coat. He observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler’s face.
It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. His face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.
“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.”
“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.
Thereupon the servant knocked; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?”
“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”
The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in her arms.
“What, what? Why are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Your master won’t like it.”
“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.
Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted up her voice and now wept loudly.
“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity. “And now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy[31], “reach me a candle.”
And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back-garden.
“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And, sir, if by any chance he asks you in, don’t go.”
Mr. Utterson collected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building and through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.
“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called.
A voice answered from within:
“Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said complainingly.
“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor.
“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “was that my master’s voice?”
“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale.
“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master’s made away with; he was made, away with eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God. But who’s in there instead of him, and why it stays there, we don’t know, Mr. Utterson!”
“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? That’s not reasonable.”
“Well, Mr. Utterson, I’ll try to persuade you,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it, or whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. Master used to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the meals left there was taken when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent to all the chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. He wants this drug, sir, I don’t know why.”
“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.
Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer carefully examined. Its contents ran thus:
“Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. M. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.”
“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “Why do you have it open?”
“The man at M.’s was angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt,” returned Poole.
“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the lawyer.
“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But I’ve seen him!”
“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”
“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. The cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have served him long enough. And then…”
The man paused and passed his hand over his face.
“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I begin to understand. Your master, Poole, is seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug! There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, but it is plain and natural.”
“Sir,” said the butler, “that creature was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master” here he looked round him and began to whisper— “is a tall man, and this was a dwarf.”
Utterson attempted to protest.
“O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I cannot recognize him? I saw him every morning of my life! No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”
“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain[32]. I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive. I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”
“Ah Mr. Utterson, that’s a good idea!” cried the butler.
“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to do it?”
“Why, you and me,” was the reply.
“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer.
“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.”
The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it.
“Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”
“Yes, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.
“It is well, then, that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both think more than we have said.
This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”
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