The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Chapter 1 · 1/2

The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Chapter 1

¹The Strange Case Of Dr. ²Jekyll And Mr. ³Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson Contents STORY OF THE DOOR SEARCH FOR MR. ⁴HYDE DR. ⁵JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE THE CAREW MURDER CASE INCIDENT OF THE LETTER INCIDENT OF DR. ⁶LANYON INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW THE LAST NIGHT DR. ⁷LANYON’S NARRATIVE HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE STORY OF THE DOOR Mr. ⁸Utterson the lawyer was 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. ⁹At 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. ¹⁰He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. ¹¹But 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. ¹²“I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” ¹³In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. ¹⁴And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. ¹⁵No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. ¹⁶Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. ¹⁷It 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. ¹⁸His 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. ¹⁹Hence, no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. ²⁰Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. ²¹It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. ²²It 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. ²³For 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. ²⁴It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. ²⁵The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. ²⁶The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. ²⁷Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. ²⁸Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. ²⁹It was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. ³⁰The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. ³¹Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. ³²Mr. ³³Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. ³⁴“Did you ever remark that door?” ³⁵he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd story.” ³⁶“Indeed?” ³⁷said Mr. ³⁸Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what was that?” ³⁹“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. ⁴⁰Enfield: “I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. ⁴¹Street after street and all the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. ⁴²All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. ⁴³Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. ⁴⁴It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. ⁴⁵It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. ⁴⁶I gave a few halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. ⁴⁷He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. ⁴⁸The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. ⁴⁹Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. ⁵⁰But there was one curious circumstance. ⁵¹I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. ⁵²So had the child’s family, which was only natural. ⁵³But the doctor’s case was what struck me. ⁵⁴He was the usual cut and dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. ⁵⁵Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. ⁵⁶I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. ⁵⁷We told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. ⁵⁸If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. ⁵⁹And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could for they were as wild as harpies. ⁶⁰I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ⁶¹‘If you choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. ⁶²No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ⁶³‘Name your figure.’ ⁶⁴Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. ⁶⁵The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. ⁶⁶The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. ⁶⁷I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. ⁶⁸But he was quite easy and sneering. ⁶⁹‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ ⁷⁰So we all set off, the doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. ⁷¹I gave in the cheque myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. ⁷²Not a bit of it. ⁷³The cheque was genuine.” ⁷⁴“Tut-tut!” ⁷⁵said Mr. ⁷⁶Utterson. ⁷⁷“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. ⁷⁸Enfield. ⁷⁹“Yes, it’s a bad story. ⁸⁰For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. ⁸¹Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. ⁸²Black Mail House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. ⁸³Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. ⁸⁴From this he was recalled by Mr. ⁸⁵Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?” ⁸⁶“A likely place, isn’t it?” ⁸⁷returned Mr. ⁸⁸Enfield. ⁸⁹“But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.” ⁹⁰“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” ⁹¹said Mr. ⁹²Utterson. ⁹³“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. ⁹⁴“I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judgment. ⁹⁵You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. ⁹⁶You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. ⁹⁷No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.” ⁹⁸“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer. ⁹⁹“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. ¹⁰⁰Enfield. ¹⁰¹“It seems scarcely a house. ¹⁰²There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. ¹⁰³There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. ¹⁰⁴And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. ¹⁰⁵And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.” ¹⁰⁶The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,” said Mr. ¹⁰⁷Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.” ¹⁰⁸“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield. ¹⁰⁹“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to ask. ¹¹⁰I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.” ¹¹¹“Well,” said Mr. ¹¹²Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. ¹¹³It was a man of the name of Hyde.” ¹¹⁴“Hm,” said Mr. ¹¹⁵Utterson. ¹¹⁶“What sort of a man is he to see?” ¹¹⁷“He is not easy to describe. ¹¹⁸There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. ¹¹⁹I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. ¹²⁰He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. ¹²¹He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. ¹²²No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. ¹²³And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.” ¹²⁴Mr. ¹²⁵Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. ¹²⁶“You are sure he used a key?” ¹²⁷he inquired at last. ¹²⁸“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself. ¹²⁹“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. ¹³⁰The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. ¹³¹You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. ¹³²If you have been inexact in any point you had better correct it.” ¹³³“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of sullenness. ¹³⁴“But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. ¹³⁵The fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. ¹³⁶I saw him use it not a week ago.” ¹³⁷Mr. ¹³⁸Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. ¹³⁹“Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. ¹⁴⁰“I am ashamed of my long tongue. ¹⁴¹Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again.” ¹⁴²“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. ¹⁴³“I shake hands on that, Richard.” ¹⁴⁴SEARCH FOR MR. ¹⁴⁵HYDE That evening Mr. ¹⁴⁶Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. ¹⁴⁷It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the clock of the neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed. ¹⁴⁸On this night however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business room. ¹⁴⁹There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. ¹⁵⁰Jekyll’s Will and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. ¹⁵¹The will was holograph, for Mr. ¹⁵²Utterson though he took charge of it now that it was made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr. ¹⁵³Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the doctor’s household. ¹⁵⁴This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. ¹⁵⁵It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. ¹⁵⁶And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. ¹⁵⁷Hyde that had swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. ¹⁵⁸It was already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn no more. ¹⁵⁹It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend. ¹⁶⁰“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.” ¹⁶¹With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set forth in the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. ¹⁶²Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding patients. ¹⁶³“If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought. ¹⁶⁴The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr. ¹⁶⁵Lanyon sat alone over his wine. ¹⁶⁶This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. ¹⁶⁷At sight of Mr. ¹⁶⁸Utterson, he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. ¹⁶⁹The geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed on genuine feeling. ¹⁷⁰For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. ¹⁷¹After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably preoccupied his mind. ¹⁷²“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?” ¹⁷³“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. ¹⁷⁴Lanyon. ¹⁷⁵“But I suppose we are. ¹⁷⁶And what of that? ¹⁷⁷I see little of him now.” ¹⁷⁸“Indeed?” ¹⁷⁹said Utterson. ¹⁸⁰“I thought you had a bond of common interest.” ¹⁸¹“We had,” was the reply. ¹⁸²“But it is more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful for me. ¹⁸³He began to go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. ¹⁸⁴Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.” ¹⁸⁵This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. ¹⁸⁶Utterson. ¹⁸⁷“They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” ¹⁸⁸He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he had come to put. ¹⁸⁹“Did you ever come across a _protégé_ of his—one Hyde?” ¹⁹⁰he asked. ¹⁹¹“Hyde?” ¹⁹²repeated Lanyon. ¹⁹³“No. ¹⁹⁴Never heard of him. ¹⁹⁵Since my time.” ¹⁹⁶That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. ¹⁹⁷It was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions. ¹⁹⁸Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to Mr. ¹⁹⁹Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the problem. ²⁰⁰Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone; but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. ²⁰¹Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. ²⁰²He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams. ²⁰³Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! ²⁰⁴there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. ²⁰⁵The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave her screaming. ²⁰⁶And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. ²⁰⁷Hyde. ²⁰⁸If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well examined. ²⁰⁹He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clauses of the will. ²¹⁰At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred. ²¹¹From that time forward, Mr. ²¹²Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. ²¹³In the morning before office hours, at noon when business was plenty and time scarce, at night under the face of the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post. ²¹⁴“If he be Mr. ²¹⁵Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. ²¹⁶Seek.” ²¹⁷And at last his patience was rewarded. ²¹⁸It was a fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps, unshaken by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. ²¹⁹By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. ²²⁰Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. ²²¹Mr. ²²²Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd light footstep drawing near. ²²³In the course of his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. ²²⁴Yet his attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the court. ²²⁵The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. ²²⁶The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. ²²⁷He was small and very plainly dressed and the look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. ²²⁸But he made straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home. ²²⁹Mr. ²³⁰Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. ²³¹“Mr. ²³²Hyde, I think?” ²³³Mr. ²³⁴Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. ²³⁵But his fear was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. ²³⁶What do you want?” ²³⁷“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. ²³⁸“I am an old friend of Dr. ²³⁹Jekyll’s—Mr. ²⁴⁰Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard of my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.” ²⁴¹“You will not find Dr. ²⁴²Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. ²⁴³Hyde, blowing in the key. ²⁴⁴And then suddenly, but still without looking up, “How did you know me?” ²⁴⁵he asked. ²⁴⁶“On your side,” said Mr. ²⁴⁷Utterson “will you do me a favour?” ²⁴⁸“With pleasure,” replied the other. ²⁴⁹“What shall it be?” ²⁵⁰“Will you let me see your face?” ²⁵¹asked the lawyer. ²⁵²Mr. ²⁵³Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. ²⁵⁴“Now I shall know you again,” said Mr. ²⁵⁵Utterson. ²⁵⁶“It may be useful.” ²⁵⁷“Yes,” returned Mr. ²⁵⁸Hyde, “it is as well we have met; and _à propos_, you should have my address.” ²⁵⁹And he gave a number of a street in Soho. ²⁶⁰“Good God!” ²⁶¹thought Mr. ²⁶²Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of the will?” ²⁶³But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address. ²⁶⁴“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?” ²⁶⁵“By description,” was the reply. ²⁶⁶“Whose description?” ²⁶⁷“We have common friends,” said Mr. ²⁶⁸Utterson. ²⁶⁹“Common friends,” echoed Mr. ²⁷⁰Hyde, a little hoarsely. ²⁷¹“Who are they?” ²⁷²“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer. ²⁷³“He never told you,” cried Mr. ²⁷⁴Hyde, with a flush of anger. ²⁷⁵“I did not think you would have lied.” ²⁷⁶“Come,” said Mr. ²⁷⁷Utterson, “that is not fitting language.” ²⁷⁸The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house. ²⁷⁹The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. ²⁸⁰Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. ²⁸¹Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental perplexity. ²⁸²The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely solved. ²⁸³Mr. ²⁸⁴Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing and fear with which Mr. ²⁸⁵Utterson regarded him. ²⁸⁶“There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. ²⁸⁷“There _is_ something more, if I could find a name for it. ²⁸⁸God bless me, the man seems hardly human! ²⁸⁹Something troglodytic, shall we say? ²⁹⁰or can it be the old story of Dr. ²⁹¹Fell? ²⁹²or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? ²⁹³The last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.” ²⁹⁴Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men; map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure enterprises. ²⁹⁵One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for the fanlight, Mr. ²⁹⁶Utterson stopped and knocked. ²⁹⁷A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door. ²⁹⁸“Is Dr. ²⁹⁹Jekyll at home, Poole?” ³⁰⁰asked the lawyer. ³⁰¹“I will see, Mr. ³⁰²Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. ³⁰³“Will you wait here by the fire, sir? ³⁰⁴or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?” ³⁰⁵“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. ³⁰⁶This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. ³⁰⁷But tonight there was a shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. ³⁰⁸He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr. ³⁰⁹Jekyll was gone out. ³¹⁰“I saw Mr. ³¹¹Hyde go in by the old dissecting room door, Poole,” he said. ³¹²“Is that right, when Dr. ³¹³Jekyll is from home?” ³¹⁴“Quite right, Mr. ³¹⁵Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. ³¹⁶“Mr. ³¹⁷Hyde has a key.” ³¹⁸“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole,” resumed the other musingly. ³¹⁹“Yes, sir, he does indeed,” said Poole. ³²⁰“We have all orders to obey him.” ³²¹“I do not think I ever met Mr. ³²²Hyde?” ³²³asked Utterson. ³²⁴“O, dear no, sir. ³²⁵He never _dines_ here,” replied the butler. ³²⁶“Indeed we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes by the laboratory.” ³²⁷“Well, good-night, Poole.” ³²⁸“Good-night, Mr. ³²⁹Utterson.” ³³⁰And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. ³³¹“Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! ³³²He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. ³³³Ah, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, _pede claudo_, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault.” ³³⁴And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. ³³⁵His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided. ³³⁶And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. ³³⁷“This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. ³³⁸Things cannot continue as they are. ³³⁹It turns me cold to think of this creature stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening! ³⁴⁰And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of the will, he may grow impatient to inherit. ³⁴¹Ah, I must put my shoulder to the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” ³⁴²For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear as transparency, the strange clauses of the will. ³⁴³DR. ³⁴⁴JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. ³⁴⁵Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. ³⁴⁶This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. ³⁴⁷Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. ³⁴⁸Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. ³⁴⁹To this rule, Dr. ³⁵⁰Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. ³⁵¹Utterson a sincere and warm affection. ³⁵²“I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. ³⁵³“You know that will of yours?” ³⁵⁴A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. ³⁵⁵“My poor Utterson,” said he, “you are unfortunate in such a client. ³⁵⁶I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. ³⁵⁷O, I know he’s a good fellow—you needn’t frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. ³⁵⁸I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.” ³⁵⁹“You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. ³⁶⁰“My will? ³⁶¹Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle sharply. ³⁶²“You have told me so.” ³⁶³“Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. ³⁶⁴“I have been learning something of young Hyde.” ³⁶⁵The large handsome face of Dr. ³⁶⁶Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. ³⁶⁷“I do not care to hear more,” said he. ³⁶⁸“This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop.” ³⁶⁹“What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson. ³⁷⁰“It can make no change. ³⁷¹You do not understand my position,” returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. ³⁷²“I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one. ³⁷³It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.” ³⁷⁴“Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. ³⁷⁵Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it.” ³⁷⁶“My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. ³⁷⁷I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy; it is not as bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. ³⁷⁸Hyde. ³⁷⁹I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.” ³⁸⁰Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. ³⁸¹“I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to his feet. ³⁸²“Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope,” continued the doctor, “there is one point I should like you to understand. ³⁸³I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. ³⁸⁴I know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. ³⁸⁵But I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. ³⁸⁶I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.” ³⁸⁷“I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer. ³⁸⁸“I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here.” ³⁸⁹Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. ³⁹⁰“Well,” said he, “I promise.” ³⁹¹THE CAREW MURDER CASE Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. ³⁹²The details were few and startling. ³⁹³A maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone upstairs to bed about eleven. ³⁹⁴Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. ³⁹⁵It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. ³⁹⁶Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. ³⁹⁷And as she so sat she became aware of an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. ³⁹⁸When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. ³⁹⁹It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. ⁴⁰⁰Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr. ⁴⁰¹Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. ⁴⁰²He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. ⁴⁰³And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. ⁴⁰⁴The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. ⁴⁰⁵Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. ⁴⁰⁶And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. ⁴⁰⁷At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. ⁴⁰⁸It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police. ⁴⁰⁹The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. ⁴¹⁰The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. ⁴¹¹A purse and gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. ⁴¹²Utterson. ⁴¹³This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. ⁴¹⁴“I shall say nothing till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. ⁴¹⁵Have the kindness to wait while I dress.” ⁴¹⁶And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. ⁴¹⁷As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. ⁴¹⁸“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. ⁴¹⁹I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew.” ⁴²⁰“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” ⁴²¹And the next moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. ⁴²²“This will make a deal of noise,” he said. ⁴²³“And perhaps you can help us to the man.” ⁴²⁴And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. ⁴²⁵Mr. ⁴²⁶Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. ⁴²⁷“Is this Mr. ⁴²⁸Hyde a person of small stature?” ⁴²⁹he inquired. ⁴³⁰“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him,” said the officer. ⁴³¹Mr. ⁴³²Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.” ⁴³³It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. ⁴³⁴A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. ⁴³⁵Utterson beheld a marvelous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. ⁴³⁶The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. ⁴³⁷The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s officers, which may at times assail the most honest. ⁴³⁸As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. ⁴³⁹This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling. ⁴⁴⁰An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. ⁴⁴¹She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. ⁴⁴²Yes, she said, this was Mr. ⁴⁴³Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, but he had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. ⁴⁴⁴“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you who this person is,” he added. ⁴⁴⁵“This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard.” ⁴⁴⁶A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. ⁴⁴⁷“Ah!” ⁴⁴⁸said she, “he is in trouble! ⁴⁴⁹What has he done?” ⁴⁵⁰Mr. ⁴⁵¹Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. ⁴⁵²“He don’t seem a very popular character,” observed the latter. ⁴⁵³“And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us.” ⁴⁵⁴In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. ⁴⁵⁵Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. ⁴⁵⁶A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many piles and agreeable in colour. ⁴⁵⁷At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. ⁴⁵⁸From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end of a green cheque book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. ⁴⁵⁹A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completed his gratification. ⁴⁶⁰“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. ⁴⁶¹Utterson: “I have him in my hand. ⁴⁶²He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque book. ⁴⁶³Why, money’s life to the man. ⁴⁶⁴We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills.” ⁴⁶⁵This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. ⁴⁶⁶Hyde had numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. ⁴⁶⁷Only on one point were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. ⁴⁶⁸INCIDENT OF THE LETTER It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. ⁴⁶⁹Utterson found his way to Dr. ⁴⁷⁰Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or dissecting rooms. ⁴⁷¹The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. ⁴⁷²It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. ⁴⁷³At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. ⁴⁷⁴Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. ⁴⁷⁵It was a large room fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. ⁴⁷⁶The fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. ⁴⁷⁷Jekyll, looking deathly sick. ⁴⁷⁸He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. ⁴⁷⁹“And now,” said Mr. ⁴⁸⁰Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have heard the news?” ⁴⁸¹The doctor shuddered. ⁴⁸²“They were crying it in the square,” he said. ⁴⁸³“I heard them in my dining-room.” ⁴⁸⁴“One word,” said the lawyer. ⁴⁸⁵“Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. ⁴⁸⁶You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?” ⁴⁸⁷“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. ⁴⁸⁸I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. ⁴⁸⁹It is all at an end. ⁴⁹⁰And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.” ⁴⁹¹The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. ⁴⁹²“You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I hope you may be right. ⁴⁹³If it came to a trial, your name might appear.” ⁴⁹⁴“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. ⁴⁹⁵But there is one thing on which you may advise me. ⁴⁹⁶I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. ⁴⁹⁷I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.” ⁴⁹⁸“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” ⁴⁹⁹asked the lawyer. ⁵⁰⁰“No,” said the other. ⁵⁰¹“I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. ⁵⁰²I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed.” ⁵⁰³Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s selfishness, and yet relieved by it. ⁵⁰⁴“Well,” said he, at last, “let me see the letter.” ⁵⁰⁵The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. ⁵⁰⁶Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. ⁵⁰⁷The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. ⁵⁰⁸“Have you the envelope?” ⁵⁰⁹he asked. ⁵¹⁰“I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. ⁵¹¹But it bore no postmark. ⁵¹²The note was handed in.” ⁵¹³“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” ⁵¹⁴asked Utterson. ⁵¹⁵“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. ⁵¹⁶“I have lost confidence in myself.” ⁵¹⁷“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. ⁵¹⁸“And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?” ⁵¹⁹The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth tight and nodded. ⁵²⁰“I knew it,” said Utterson. ⁵²¹“He meant to murder you. ⁵²²You had a fine escape.” ⁵²³“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!” ⁵²⁴And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. ⁵²⁵On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. ⁵²⁶“By the bye,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?” ⁵²⁷But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; “and only circulars by that,” he added. ⁵²⁸This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. ⁵²⁹Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. ⁵³⁰The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition. ⁵³¹Shocking murder of an M.P.” ⁵³²That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. ⁵³³It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. ⁵³⁴It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. ⁵³⁵Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. ⁵³⁶Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. ⁵³⁷The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. ⁵³⁸But the room was gay with firelight. ⁵³⁹In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards, was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of London. ⁵⁴⁰Insensibly the lawyer melted. ⁵⁴¹There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. ⁵⁴²Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. ⁵⁴³Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. ⁵⁴⁴Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? ⁵⁴⁵and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? ⁵⁴⁶The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he could scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. ⁵⁴⁷Utterson might shape his future course. ⁵⁴⁸“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said. ⁵⁴⁹“Yes, sir, indeed. ⁵⁵⁰It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,” returned Guest. ⁵⁵¹“The man, of course, was mad.” ⁵⁵²“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. ⁵⁵³“I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. ⁵⁵⁴But there it is; quite in your way: a murderer’s autograph.” ⁵⁵⁵Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. ⁵⁵⁶“No sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.” ⁵⁵⁷“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer. ⁵⁵⁸Just then the servant entered with a note. ⁵⁵⁹“Is that from Dr. ⁵⁶⁰Jekyll, sir?” ⁵⁶¹inquired the clerk. ⁵⁶²“I thought I knew the writing. ⁵⁶³Anything private, Mr. ⁵⁶⁴Utterson?” ⁵⁶⁵“Only an invitation to dinner. ⁵⁶⁶Why? ⁵⁶⁷Do you want to see it?” ⁵⁶⁸“One moment. ⁵⁶⁹I thank you, sir;” and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. ⁵⁷⁰“Thank you, sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting autograph.” ⁵⁷¹There was a pause, during which Mr. ⁵⁷²Utterson struggled with himself. ⁵⁷³“Why did you compare them, Guest?” ⁵⁷⁴he inquired suddenly. ⁵⁷⁵“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped.” ⁵⁷⁶“Rather quaint,” said Utterson. ⁵⁷⁷“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest. ⁵⁷⁸“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master. ⁵⁷⁹“No, sir,” said the clerk. ⁵⁸⁰“I understand.” ⁵⁸¹But no sooner was Mr. ⁵⁸²Utterson alone that night, than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. ⁵⁸³“What!” ⁵⁸⁴he thought. ⁵⁸⁵“Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” ⁵⁸⁶And his blood ran cold in his veins. ⁵⁸⁷INCIDENT OF DR. ⁵⁸⁸LANYON Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. ⁵⁸⁹Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. ⁵⁹⁰Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. ⁵⁹¹From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. ⁵⁹²Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. ⁵⁹³The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. ⁵⁹⁴Hyde. ⁵⁹⁵Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. ⁵⁹⁶Jekyll. ⁵⁹⁷He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. ⁵⁹⁸He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. ⁵⁹⁹On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. ⁶⁰⁰On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. ⁶⁰¹“The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” ⁶⁰²On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. ⁶⁰³The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. ⁶⁰⁴Lanyon’s. ⁶⁰⁵There 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. ⁶⁰⁶He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. ⁶⁰⁷The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind. ⁶⁰⁸It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. ⁶⁰⁹“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.” ⁶¹⁰And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill looks, it was with an air of great firmness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. ⁶¹¹“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. ⁶¹²It is a question of weeks. ⁶¹³Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. ⁶¹⁴I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away.” ⁶¹⁵“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. ⁶¹⁶“Have you seen him?” ⁶¹⁷But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. ⁶¹⁸“I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. ⁶¹⁹Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice. ⁶²⁰“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead.” ⁶²¹“Tut, tut!” ⁶²²said Mr. ⁶²³Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, “Can’t I do anything?” ⁶²⁴he inquired. ⁶²⁵“We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.” ⁶²⁶“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.” ⁶²⁷“He will not see me,” said the lawyer. ⁶²⁸“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. ⁶²⁹“Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. ⁶³⁰I cannot tell you. ⁶³¹And 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 keep clear of this accursed topic, then in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear it.” ⁶³²As 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, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. ⁶³³The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. ⁶³⁴“I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never meet. ⁶³⁵I 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. ⁶³⁶You must suffer me to go my own dark way. ⁶³⁷I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. ⁶³⁸If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. ⁶³⁹I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” ⁶⁴⁰Utterson 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 with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. ⁶⁴¹So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. ⁶⁴²A week afterwards Dr. ⁶⁴³Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. ⁶⁴⁴The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, 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. ⁶⁴⁵“PRIVATE: for the hands of G. ⁶⁴⁶Utterson ALONE, and in case of his predecease _to be destroyed unread_,” so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. ⁶⁴⁷“I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this should cost me another?” ⁶⁴⁸And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. ⁶⁴⁹Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. ⁶⁵⁰Henry Jekyll.” ⁶⁵¹Utterson could not trust his eyes. ⁶⁵²Yes, 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 bracketed. ⁶⁵³But 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. ⁶⁵⁴Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? ⁶⁵⁵A 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. ⁶⁵⁶It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. ⁶⁵⁷He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. ⁶⁵⁸He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse. ⁶⁵⁹Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. ⁶⁶⁰The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. ⁶⁶¹Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. ⁶⁶²INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. ⁶⁶³Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. ⁶⁶⁴Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. ⁶⁶⁵“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. ⁶⁶⁶We shall never see more of Mr. ⁶⁶⁷Hyde.” ⁶⁶⁸“I hope not,” said Utterson. ⁶⁶⁹“Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?” ⁶⁷⁰“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield. ⁶⁷¹“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. ⁶⁷²Jekyll’s! ⁶⁷³It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did.” ⁶⁷⁴“So you found it out, did you?” ⁶⁷⁵said Utterson. ⁶⁷⁶“But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. ⁶⁷⁷To 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.” ⁶⁷⁸The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. ⁶⁷⁹The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. ⁶⁸⁰Jekyll. ⁶⁸¹“What! ⁶⁸²Jekyll! ⁶⁸³Jekyll!” ⁶⁸⁴he cried. ⁶⁸⁵“I trust you are better.” ⁶⁸⁶“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor drearily, “very low. ⁶⁸⁷It will not last long, thank God.” ⁶⁸⁸“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. ⁶⁸⁹“You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. ⁶⁹⁰Enfield and me. ⁶⁹¹(This is my cousin—Mr. ⁶⁹²Enfield—Dr. ⁶⁹³Jekyll.) ⁶⁹⁴Come now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us.” ⁶⁹⁵“You are very good,” sighed the other. ⁶⁹⁶“I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. ⁶⁹⁷But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. ⁶⁹⁸Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.” ⁶⁹⁹“Why, then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.” ⁷⁰⁰“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the doctor with a smile. ⁷⁰¹But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. ⁷⁰²They 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. ⁷⁰³In silence, too, they traversed the by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. ⁷⁰⁴Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. ⁷⁰⁵They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. ⁷⁰⁶“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. ⁷⁰⁷Utterson. ⁷⁰⁸But Mr. ⁷⁰⁹Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once more in silence. ⁷¹⁰THE LAST NIGHT Mr. ⁷¹¹Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole. ⁷¹²“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” ⁷¹³he cried; and then taking a second look at him, “What ails you?” ⁷¹⁴he added; “is the doctor ill?” ⁷¹⁵“Mr. ⁷¹⁶Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.” ⁷¹⁷“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. ⁷¹⁸“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.” ⁷¹⁹“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts himself up. ⁷²⁰Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. ⁷²¹Mr. ⁷²²Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.” ⁷²³“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. ⁷²⁴What are you afraid of?” ⁷²⁵“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.” ⁷²⁶The 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. ⁷²⁷Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. ⁷²⁸“I can bear it no more,” he repeated. ⁷²⁹“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. ⁷³⁰Try to tell me what it is.” ⁷³¹“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely. ⁷³²“Foul play!” ⁷³³cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. ⁷³⁴“What foul play! ⁷³⁵What does the man mean?” ⁷³⁶“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me and see for yourself?” ⁷³⁷Mr. ⁷³⁸Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow. ⁷³⁹It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. ⁷⁴⁰The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. ⁷⁴¹It seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. ⁷⁴²Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. ⁷⁴³He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. ⁷⁴⁴The square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. ⁷⁴⁵Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, 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. ⁷⁴⁶But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken. ⁷⁴⁷“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.” ⁷⁴⁸“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer. ⁷⁴⁹Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?” ⁷⁵⁰“It’s all right,” said Poole. ⁷⁵¹“Open the door.” ⁷⁵²The 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. ⁷⁵³At the sight of Mr. ⁷⁵⁴Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out “Bless God! ⁷⁵⁵it’s Mr. ⁷⁵⁶Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in her arms. ⁷⁵⁷“What, what? ⁷⁵⁸Are you all here?” ⁷⁵⁹said the lawyer peevishly. ⁷⁶⁰“Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.” ⁷⁶¹“They’re all afraid,” said Poole. ⁷⁶²Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her voice and now wept loudly. ⁷⁶³“Hold your tongue!” ⁷⁶⁴Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. ⁷⁶⁵“And now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” ⁷⁶⁶And then he begged Mr. ⁷⁶⁷Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden. ⁷⁶⁸“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. ⁷⁶⁹I want you to hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. ⁷⁷⁰And see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.” ⁷⁷¹Mr. ⁷⁷²Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. ⁷⁷³Here 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. ⁷⁷⁴“Mr. ⁷⁷⁵Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear. ⁷⁷⁶A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said complainingly. ⁷⁷⁷“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. ⁷⁷⁸Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor. ⁷⁷⁹“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. ⁷⁸⁰Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s voice?” ⁷⁸¹“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look. ⁷⁸²“Changed? ⁷⁸³Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. ⁷⁸⁴“Have I been twenty years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? ⁷⁸⁵No, 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; and _who’s_ in there instead of him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. ⁷⁸⁶Utterson!” ⁷⁸⁷“That is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my man,” said Mr. ⁷⁸⁸Utterson, biting his finger. ⁷⁸⁹“Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. ⁷⁹⁰Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? ⁷⁹¹That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend itself to reason.” ⁷⁹²“Well, Mr. ⁷⁹³Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it yet,” said Poole. ⁷⁹⁴“All this last week (you must know) him, or it, 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. ⁷⁹⁵It was sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. ⁷⁹⁶We’ve had nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. ⁷⁹⁷Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. ⁷⁹⁸Every 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. ⁷⁹⁹This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir, whatever for.” ⁸⁰⁰“Have you any of these papers?” ⁸⁰¹asked Mr. ⁸⁰²Utterson. ⁸⁰³Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. ⁸⁰⁴Its contents ran thus: “Dr. ⁸⁰⁵Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. ⁸⁰⁶Maw. ⁸⁰⁷He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. ⁸⁰⁸In the year 18—, Dr. ⁸⁰⁹J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. ⁸¹⁰He now begs them to search with most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at once. ⁸¹¹Expense is no consideration. ⁸¹²The importance of this to Dr. ⁸¹³J. can hardly be exaggerated.” ⁸¹⁴So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. ⁸¹⁵“For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.” ⁸¹⁶“This is a strange note,” said Mr. ⁸¹⁷Utterson; and then sharply, “How do you come to have it open?” ⁸¹⁸“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt,” returned Poole. ⁸¹⁹“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” ⁸²⁰resumed the lawyer. ⁸²¹“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” ⁸²²he said. ⁸²³“I’ve seen him!” ⁸²⁴“Seen him?” ⁸²⁵repeated Mr. ⁸²⁶Utterson. ⁸²⁷“Well?” ⁸²⁸“That’s it!” ⁸²⁹said Poole. ⁸³⁰“It was this way. ⁸³¹I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. ⁸³²It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. ⁸³³He looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. ⁸³⁴It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. ⁸³⁵Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? ⁸³⁶If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? ⁸³⁷I have served him long enough. ⁸³⁸And then...” ⁸³⁹The man paused and passed his hand over his face. ⁸⁴⁰“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. ⁸⁴¹Utterson, “but I think I begin to see daylight. ⁸⁴²Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! ⁸⁴³There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms.” ⁸⁴⁴“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. ⁸⁴⁵My master”—here he looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf.” ⁸⁴⁶Utterson attempted to protest. ⁸⁴⁷“O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? ⁸⁴⁸Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? ⁸⁴⁹No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. ⁸⁵⁰Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. ⁸⁵¹Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.” ⁸⁵²“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. ⁸⁵³Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much as 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.” ⁸⁵⁴“Ah, Mr. ⁸⁵⁵Utterson, that’s talking!” ⁸⁵⁶cried the butler. ⁸⁵⁷“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to do it?” ⁸⁵⁸“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply. ⁸⁵⁹“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.” ⁸⁶⁰“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.” ⁸⁶¹The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it. ⁸⁶²“Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?” ⁸⁶³“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler. ⁸⁶⁴“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. ⁸⁶⁵“We both think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. ⁸⁶⁶This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?” ⁸⁶⁷“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. ⁸⁶⁸“But if you mean, was it Mr. ⁸⁶⁹Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! ⁸⁷⁰You see, it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? ⁸⁷¹You have not forgot, sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? ⁸⁷²But that’s not all. ⁸⁷³I don’t know, Mr. ⁸⁷⁴Utterson, if you ever met this Mr. ⁸⁷⁵Hyde?” ⁸⁷⁶“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.” ⁸⁷⁷“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your marrow kind of cold and thin.” ⁸⁷⁸“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. ⁸⁷⁹Utterson. ⁸⁸⁰“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. ⁸⁸¹“Well, when that masked thing like a monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. ⁸⁸²O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. ⁸⁸³Utterson; I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I give you my bible-word it was Mr. ⁸⁸⁴Hyde!” ⁸⁸⁵“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. ⁸⁸⁶“My fears incline to the same point. ⁸⁸⁷Evil, I fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. ⁸⁸⁸Ay truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s room. ⁸⁸⁹Well, let our name be vengeance. ⁸⁹⁰Call Bradshaw.” ⁸⁹¹The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous. ⁸⁹²“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. ⁸⁹³“This suspense, I know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an end of it. ⁸⁹⁴Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. ⁸⁹⁵If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. ⁸⁹⁶Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door. ⁸⁹⁷We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.” ⁸⁹⁸As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. ⁸⁹⁹“And now, Poole, let us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the way into the yard. ⁹⁰⁰The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. ⁹⁰¹The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. ⁹⁰²London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor. ⁹⁰³“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better part of the night. ⁹⁰⁴Only when a new sample comes from the chemist, there’s a bit of a break. ⁹⁰⁵Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an enemy to rest! ⁹⁰⁶Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it! ⁹⁰⁷But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr. ⁹⁰⁸Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?” ⁹⁰⁹The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll. ⁹¹⁰Utterson sighed. ⁹¹¹“Is there never anything else?” ⁹¹²he asked. ⁹¹³Poole nodded. ⁹¹⁴“Once,” he said. ⁹¹⁵“Once I heard it weeping!” ⁹¹⁶“Weeping? ⁹¹⁷how that?” ⁹¹⁸said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of horror. ⁹¹⁹“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. ⁹²⁰“I came away with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.” ⁹²¹But now the ten minutes drew to an end. ⁹²²Poole disinterred the axe from under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night. ⁹²³“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” ⁹²⁴He paused a moment, but there came no reply. ⁹²⁵“I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute force!” ⁹²⁶“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!” ⁹²⁷“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” ⁹²⁸cried Utterson. ⁹²⁹“Down with the door, Poole!” ⁹³⁰Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. ⁹³¹A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. ⁹³²Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet. ⁹³³The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. ⁹³⁴There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London. ⁹³⁵Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and still twitching. ⁹³⁶They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on his back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. ⁹³⁷He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer. ⁹³⁸“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish. ⁹³⁹Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the body of your master.” ⁹⁴⁰The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper storey at one end and looked upon the court. ⁹⁴¹A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of stairs. ⁹⁴²There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. ⁹⁴³All these they now thoroughly examined. ⁹⁴⁴Each closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood long unopened. ⁹⁴⁵The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance. ⁹⁴⁶Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive. ⁹⁴⁷Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. ⁹⁴⁸“He must be buried here,” he said, hearkening to the sound. ⁹⁴⁹“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. ⁹⁵⁰It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust. ⁹⁵¹“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer. ⁹⁵²“Use!” ⁹⁵³echoed Poole. ⁹⁵⁴“Do you not see, sir, it is broken? ⁹⁵⁵much as if a man had stamped on it.” ⁹⁵⁶“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” ⁹⁵⁷The two men looked at each other with a scare. ⁹⁵⁸“This is beyond me, Poole,” said the lawyer. ⁹⁵⁹“Let us go back to the cabinet.” ⁹⁶⁰They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awestruck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. ⁹⁶¹At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented. ⁹⁶²“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over. ⁹⁶³This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the very sugar in the cup. ⁹⁶⁴There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in his own hand with startling blasphemies. ⁹⁶⁵Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary horror. ⁹⁶⁶But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in. ⁹⁶⁷“This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole. ⁹⁶⁸“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same tones. ⁹⁶⁹“For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a start, and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with it?” ⁹⁷⁰he said. ⁹⁷¹“You may say that!” ⁹⁷²said Poole. ⁹⁷³Next they turned to the business table. ⁹⁷⁴On the desk, among the neat array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. ⁹⁷⁵Utterson. ⁹⁷⁶The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. ⁹⁷⁷The first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. ⁹⁷⁸He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet. ⁹⁷⁹“My head goes round,” he said. ⁹⁸⁰“He has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.” ⁹⁸¹He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand and dated at the top. ⁹⁸²“O Poole!” ⁹⁸³the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here this day. ⁹⁸⁴He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he must be still alive, he must have fled! ⁹⁸⁵And then, why fled? ⁹⁸⁶and how? ⁹⁸⁷and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? ⁹⁸⁸O, we must be careful. ⁹⁸⁹I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe.” ⁹⁹⁰“Why don’t you read it, sir?” ⁹⁹¹asked Poole. ⁹⁹²“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. ⁹⁹³“God grant I have no cause for it!” ⁹⁹⁴And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows: “My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. ⁹⁹⁵Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of “Your unworthy and unhappy friend, “HENRY JEKYLL.” ⁹⁹⁶“There was a third enclosure?” ⁹⁹⁷asked Utterson. ⁹⁹⁸“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places. ⁹⁹⁹The lawyer put it in his pocket. ¹⁰⁰⁰“I would say nothing of this paper. ¹⁰⁰¹If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. ¹⁰⁰²It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.” ¹⁰⁰³They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which this mystery was now to be explained. ¹⁰⁰⁴DR. ¹⁰⁰⁵LANYON’S NARRATIVE On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. ¹⁰⁰⁶I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. ¹⁰⁰⁷The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the

1 / 2