The Heart of Denise, and Other Tales

"I have. You are a strange man, M. De Bac."

M. De Bac frowned, and Brown began to tremble.

"I do not permit you to make observations about me, Mr. Brown."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"Do not do so again. Will you agree to all this? I promise you unexampled prosperity for ten years. At the end of that time I shall want you elsewhere. And you must agree to take a journey with me."

"A long one, sir?" Brown's voice was just a shade satirical.

M. De Bac smiled oddly. "No-in your case I promise a quick passage. These are all the conditions I attach to my gift of six thousand pounds to you."

Brown's amazement did not blind him to the fact of the advantage he had, as he thought, over his visitor. The six thousand pounds were already his, and he had given no promise. With a sudden boldness he spoke out.

"And if I decline?"

"You will return me my money, and my book, and I will go elsewhere."

"The manuscript, yes-but if I refuse to give back the money?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" M. De Bac's mirthless laugh chilled Brown to the bone. "Very good, Brown-but you won't refuse. Sign that like a good fellow," and he flung a piece of paper towards Brown, who saw that it was a promissory note, drawn up in his name, agreeing to pay M. De Bac the sum of six thousand pounds on demand.

"I shall do no such thing," said Brown stoutly.

M. De Bac made no answer, but calmly touched the bell. In a half-minute Simmonds appeared.

"Be good enough to witness Mr. Brown's signature to that document," said De Bac to him, and then fixed his gaze on Brown. There was a moment of hesitation, and then-the publisher signed his name, and Simmonds did likewise as a witness. When the latter had gone, De Bac carefully put the paper by in a letter-case he drew from his vest pocket.

"Your scientific people would call this an exhibition of odic force, Brown-eh?"

Brown made no answer. He was shaking in every limb, and great pearls of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"You see, Brown," continued De Bac, "after all you are a free agent. Either agree to my terms and keep the money, or say you will not, pay me back, receive your note-of-hand, and I go elsewhere with my book. Come-time is precious."

"And from Brown's lips there hissed a low 'I agree.'

"Then that is settled," and De Bac rose from his chair. "There is a little thing more-stretch out your arm like a good fellow-the right arm."

Brown did so; and De Bac placed his forefinger on his wrist, just between what palmists call "the lines of life." The touch was as that of a red-hot iron, and with a quick cry Brown drew back his hand and looked at it. On his wrist was a small red trident, as cleanly marked as if it had been tattooed into the skin. The pain was but momentary; and, as he looked at the mark, he heard De Bac say, "Adieu once more, Brown. I will find my way out-don't trouble to rise." Brown heard him wish Simmonds an affable "Good-day," and he was gone.

CHAPTER III.

"THE MARK OF THE BEAST."

It was early in the spring that Brown published "The Yellow Dragon" – as the collection of tales left with him by De Bac was called-and the success of the book surpassed his wildest expectations. It became the rage. There were the strangest rumours afloat as to its authorship, for no one knew De Bac, and the name of the writer was supposed to be an assumed one. It was written by a clergyman; it was penned by a schoolgirl; it had employed the leisure of a distinguished statesman during his retirement; it was the work of an ex-crowned head. These, and such-like statements, were poured forth one day to be contradicted the next. Wherever the book was noticed it was either with the most extravagant praise or the bitterest rancour. But friend and foe were alike united on one thing-that of ascribing to its unknown author a princely genius. The greatest of the reviews, after pouring on "The Yellow Dragon" the vials of its wrath, concluded with these words of unwilling praise: "There is not a sentence of this book which should ever have been written, still less published; but we do not hesitate to say that, having been written and given to the world, there is hardly a line of this terrible work which will not become immortal-to the misery of mankind."

Be this as it may, the book sold in tens of thousands, and Brown's fortune was assured. In ten years a man may do many things; but during the ten years that followed the publication of "The Yellow Dragon," Brown did so many things that he astonished "the city," and it takes not a little to do that. It was not alone the marvellous growth of his business-although that advanced by leaps and bounds until it overshadowed all others-it was his wonderful luck on the Stock Exchange. Whatever he touched turned to gold. He was looked upon as the Napoleon of finance. His connection with "The Yellow Dragon" was forgotten when his connection with the yellow sovereign was remembered. He had a palace in Berkshire; another huge pile owned by him overlooked Hyde Park. He was a county member and a cabinet-minister. He had refused a peerage and built a church. Could ambition want more? He had clean forgotten De Bac. From him he had heard no word, received no sign, and he looked upon him as dead. At first, when his eyes fell on the red trident on his wrist, he was wont to shudder all over; but as years went on he became accustomed to the mark, and thought no more of it than if it had been a mole. In personal appearance he was but little changed, except that his hair was thin and grey, and there was a bald patch on the top of his head. His wife had died four years ago, and he was now contemplating another marriage-a marriage that would ally him with a family dating from the Confessor.

Such was John Brown, when we meet him again ten years after De Bac's visit, seated at a large writing-table in his luxurious office. A clerk standing beside him was cutting open the envelopes of the morning's post, and placing the letters one by one before his master. It is our friend Simmonds-still a young man, but bent and old beyond his years, and still on "thirty bob" a week. And the history of Simmonds will show how Brown carried out De Bac's instructions.

When "The Yellow Dragon" came out and business began to expand, Simmonds, having increased work, was ambitious enough to expect a rise in his salary, and addressed his chief on the subject. He was put off with a promise, and on the strength of that promise Simmonds, being no wiser than many of his fellows, married M'ria; and husband and wife managed to exist somehow with the help of the mother-in-law. Then the mother-in-law died, and there was only the bare thirty shillings a week on which to live, to dress, to pay Simmonds' way daily to the city and back, and to feed more than two mouths-for Simmonds was amongst the blessed who have their quivers full. Still the expected increase of pay did not come. Other men came into the business and passed over Simmonds. Brown said they had special qualifications. They had; and John Brown knew Simmonds better than he knew himself. The other men were paid for doing things Simmonds could not have done to save his life; but he was more than useful in his way. A hundred times it was in the mind of the wretched clerk to resign his post and seek to better himself elsewhere. But he had given hostages to fortune. There was M'ria and her children, and M'ria set her face resolutely against risk. They had no reserve upon which to fall back, and it was an option between partial and total starvation. So "Sim," as M'ria called him, held on and battled with the wolf at the door, the wolf gaining ground inch by inch. Then illness came, and debt, and then-temptation. "Sim" fell, as many a better man than he has fallen.

Brown found it out, and saw his opportunity to behave generously, and make his generosity pay. He got a written confession of his guilt from Simmonds, and retained him in his service forever on thirty shillings a week. And Simmonds' life became such as made him envy the lot of a Russian serf, of a Siberian exile, of a negro in the old days of the sugar plantations. He became a slave, a living machine who ground out his daily hours of work; he became mean and sordid in soul, as one does become when hope is extinct. Such was Simmonds as he cut open the envelopes of Brown's letters, and the great man, reading them quickly, endorsed them with terse remarks in blue pencil, for subsequent disposal by his secretary. A sudden exclamation from the clerk, and Brown looked up.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

"Only this, sir," and Simmonds held before Brown's eyes a jet black envelope; and as he gazed at it, his mind travelled back ten years, to that day when he stood on the brink of public infamy and ruin, and De Bac had saved him. For a moment everything faded before Brown's eyes, and he saw himself in a dingy room, with the gaunt figure of the author of "The Yellow Dragon," and the maker of his fortune, before him.

"Shall I open it, sir?" Simmonds' voice reached him as from a far distance, and Brown roused himself with an effort.

"No," he said, "give it to me, and go for the present."

When the bent figure of the clerk had passed out of the room, Brown looked at the envelope carefully. It bore a penny stamp and the impress of the postmark was not legible. The superscription was in white ink, and it was addressed to Mr. John Brown. The "Mr." on the letter irritated Brown, for he was now The Right Hon'ble John Brown, and was punctilious on that score. He was so annoyed that at first he thought of casting the letter unopened into the waste-paper basket beside him, but changed his mind, and tore open the cover. A note-card discovered itself. The contents were brief and to the point:

"Get ready to start. I will call for you at the close of the day. L. De B."

For a moment Brown was puzzled, then the remembrance of his old compact with De Bac came to him. He fairly laughed. To think that he, The Right Hon'ble John Brown, the richest man in England, and one of the most powerful, should be written to like that! Ordered to go somewhere he did not even know! Addressed like a servant! The cool insolence of the note amused Brown first, and then he became enraged. He tore the note into fragments and cast it from him. "Curse the madman," he said aloud, "I'll give him in charge if he annoys me." A sudden twinge in his right wrist made him hurriedly look at the spot. There was a broad pink circle, as large as a florin, around the mark of the trident, and it smarted and burned as the sting of a wasp. He ran to a basin of water and dipped his arm in to the elbow; but the pain became intolerable, and, finally, ordering his carriage, he drove home. That evening there was a great civic banquet in the city, and amongst the guests was The Right Hon'ble John Brown.

All through the afternoon he had been in agony with his wrist, but towards evening the pain ceased as suddenly as it had come on, and Brown attended the banquet, a little pale and shaken, but still himself. On Brown's right hand sat the Bishop of Browboro', on his left a most distinguished scientist, and amongst the crowd of waiters was Simmonds, who had hired himself out for the evening to earn an extra shilling or so to eke out his miserable subsistence. The man of science had just returned from Mount Atlas, whither he had gone to observe the transit of Mercury, and had come back full of stories of witchcraft. He led the conversation in that direction, and very soon the Bishop, Brown, and himself were engaged in the discussion of diablerie. The Bishop was a learned and a saintly man, and was a "believer"; the scientist was puzzled by what he had seen, and Brown openly scoffed.

"Look here!" and pulling back his cuff, he showed the red mark on his wrist to his companions, "if I were to tell you how that came here, you would say the devil himself marked me."

"I confess I am curious," said the scientist; and the Bishop fixed an inquiring gaze upon Brown. Simmonds was standing behind, and unconsciously drew near. Then the man, omitting many things, told the history of the mark on his wrist. He left out much, but he told enough to make the scientist edge his chair a little further from him, and a look of grave compassion, not untinged with scorn, to come into the eyes of the Bishop. As Brown came to the end of his story he became unnaturally excited, he raised his voice, and, with a sudden gesture, held his wrist close to the Bishop's face. "There!" he said, "I suppose you would say the devil did that?"

And as the Bishop looked, a voice seemed to breathe in his ear: "And he caused all … to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads." It was as if his soul was speaking to him and urging him to say the words aloud. He did not; but with a pale face gently put aside Brown's hand. "I do not know, Mr. Brown-but I think you are called upon for a speech."

It was so; and, after a moment's hesitation, Brown rose. He was a fluent speaker, and the occasion was one with which he was peculiarly qualified to deal. He began well; but as he went on those who looked upon him saw that he was ghastly pale, and that the veins stood out on his high forehead in blue cords. As he spoke he made some allusion to those men who have risen to eminence from an obscure position. He spoke of himself as one of these, and then began to tell the story of "The Devil's Manuscript," as he called it, with a mocking look at the Bishop. As he went on he completely lost command over himself, and the story of the manuscript became the story of his life. He concealed nothing, he passed over nothing. He laid all his sordid past before his hearers with a vivid force. His listeners were astonished into silence; perhaps curiosity kept them still. But, as the long tale of infamy went on, some, in pity for the man, and believing him struck mad, tried to stop him, but in vain. He came at last to the incident of the letter, and told how De Bac was to call for him to-night. "The Bishop of Browboro'," he said with a jarring laugh, "thought De Bac was the fiend himself," but he (Brown) knew better; he-he stopped, and, with a half-inarticulate cry, began to back slowly from the table, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the room. And now a strange thing happened. There was not a man in the room who had the power to move or to speak; they were as if frozen to their seats; as if struck into stone. Some were able to follow Brown's glance, but could see nothing. All were able to see that in Brown's face was an awful fear, and that he was trying to escape from a horrible presence which was moving slowly towards him, and which was visible to himself alone. Inch by inch Brown gave way, until he at last reached the wall, and stood with his back to it, with his arms spread out, in the position of one crucified. His face was marble white, and a dreadful terror and a pitiful appeal shone in his eyes. His blue lips were parted as of one in the dolors of death.

The silence was profound.

There were strong men there; men who had faced and overcome dangers, who had held their lives in their hands, who had struggled against desperate odds and won; but there was not a man who did not now feel weak, powerless, helpless as a child before that invisible, advancing terror that Brown alone could see. They could move no hand to aid, lift no voice to pray. All they could do was to wait in that dreadful silence and to watch. Time itself seemed to stop. It was as if the stillness had lasted for hours.

Suddenly Brown's face, so white before, flushed a crimson purple, and with a terrible cry he fell forwards on the polished woodwork of the floor.

As he fell it seemed as if the weight which held all still was on the moment removed, and they were free. With scared faces they gathered around the fallen man and raised him. He was quite dead; but on his forehead, where there was no mark before, was the impress of a red trident.

A man, evidently one of the waiters, who had forced his way into the group, laid his finger on the mark and looked up at the Bishop. There was an unholy exultation in his face as he met the priest's eyes, and said:

"He's marked twice-curse him!"

UNDER THE ACHILLES

O Charity! thy mysteryDoth cover many things.

"Now, don't break hup the 'appy 'ome!"

"Move those wite mice o' yourn hon, then, 'stead o' sittin' like a hitalian monkey hon a bloomin' barrel horgan."

A hansom had hacked into a green Atlas in Piccadilly Circus, at the point where Regent Street and Piccadilly meet. From his height of vantage the omnibus driver threw a sarcasm at the cabman, and Jehu, instead of attending to business, lifted his head to fling back an answer. The sorrel in the hansom likewise lifted his head, stood on his hind legs, and then, plunging sideways on to the pavement, locked the wheels of the two conveyances together, completely stopping the roadway. It was not a good time for a thing of this kind to happen. It was Piccadilly Circus, just after the big furnaces of the theatres had let out their red-hot contents. The molten stream was hissing through the streets, boiling in the throbbing Circus. Such a crowd was there, too, as no city besides may show; but London need not plume itself on this. Here, in that hour, when the past of one day was becoming the present of another, assembled together the good and the bad. The honest father of a family, with a pure wife or daughter on his arm, jostled the soiled dove in her jewelled shame. Here were gathered the men whose lives by daylight were white, those who trod the primrose path, and the workers of the nation; gilded infamy, tawdry sin, joy and sorrow, shame and innocence, vice blacker than night, more hideous than despair. Above blazed the electric stars of the Monico and the Criterion. A stream of fire marked Coventry Street. To the right the lamp glare terminated abruptly in Waterloo Place, leaving the moon and the lonely Park together. From all the great arteries, through Shaftesbury Avenue, through Coventry Street, through the Haymarket, the toilers of the night beat up to the roaring Circus, and it was full. I, a derelict of humanity, was there. In the crowd that fought and elbowed its way for room-it was a crowd all elbows-I was the first to reach the hansom. There were two occupants: a man who lay back with a scared face, and a woman who laughed as she attempted to step out. It was as daylight, and the rush of an awful recollection came to me-God help me! It was my wife! My hand stretched out to aid fell to my side; but, as I staggered back, the brute in the hansom plunged yet more violently than before. There was an alarmed cry, a swaying motion, and the cab turned over slowly, like a foundering ship. I could not control myself. I sprang forward, and lifting the woman from the cab placed her on the pavement. There was a bit of a cheer, and before I knew it she thrust her purse into my hand.

"Take this, man, and-"

I waited to hear no more; a sudden frightened look came into her eyes, and I turned and fled up Piccadilly. Some fool cried "Stop thief!" Some other one took up the cry. In a moment every one was running. I ran with the crowd, my hand still clenched tightly on the purse, which seemed to burn into it. It was too well dressed a crowd to run far. Opposite Hatchett's it tired, and public attention was engaged by an altercation, which ended in a fight, between a bicyclist and a policeman. I had sense enough left to pull up and slacken my pace to a fast walk. I went straight on. It did not matter to me where I went. If I had the pluck I should have killed myself long ago. It takes a lot of pluck to kill one's self. Five years had gone since Mary passed out of my life. Five years! It was six years ago that I, Richard Manning of the Bengal Cavalry, had cut for hearts, and turned up-the deuce! What right had I to blame her? Whose fault was it? I asked this question aloud to myself, and a wretch selling matches answered:

"Most your hown, guv'nor: buy a box o' matches to warm yer bones with a smoke-honly a penny!"

I looked up with a start. I was opposite the Naval and Military. Once I belonged there. The very thought made me mad again, and I cursed aloud in the bitterness of my heart.

"Drunk as a fly," remarked the match-seller to the public at large, indicating me with a handful of matchboxes.

Opposite Apsley House I was alone. All the big crowd on the pavement had died away, only the street seemed full of flashing lights.

Surely some one called Dick? I stopped, but for a second only. I must be getting out of my mind, I thought, as I hurried on again. A few steps brought me to Hyde Park Corner. A few more brought me close to the foot of the Achilles, and, without knowing what I was doing, I sank into a seat. One must rest somewhere, and I was dead beat. The long shadow of the statue fell over me, clothing me in darkness. It fell beyond too, on to the walk, and the huge black silhouette stretched even unto the trees. A portion of my seat was in moonlight, and the muffled rumble of carriage wheels reached my ears from the road in front. It might have been fancy; but I saw a dark figure glide past the moonlit road into the shadow behind me. Some poor wretch-some pariah of the streets as lost as I. I wonder if any of the three-volume novelists ever felt the sensation of being absolutely stone broke. Nothing but these words "stone broke" can describe it. I am not going to try and paint a picture of my condition. I was stone broke, and Mary-the very air was full of Marys!

Mechanically I opened the purse I still held in my hand, and looked at its contents. I don't know why I did this. I remember once shooting a stag, and when I came up to it, I found the poor beast in its mortal agony trying to nibble the heather-it was nibbling the heather. And here I was, wounded to death, looking at the contents of a Russian leather purse with idle curiosity. It was heavy with gold-her gold-Mary's. Damn her! she ruined my life. I flung the purse from me, and it made a black arc in the moonlight, ere it fell with a little clash beyond. I saw the gold as it rolled on the gravel walk in red splashes of light. Ruined my life? Did Mary do this? The old, old story-"the woman gave me and I did eat." Of course Mary ruined my life. Had I anything to do with the wreck of hers? If so, I had committed worse than murder-I had killed a soul. I put my hot head between my hands and tried to think it out; I would think it all out to-night, and give my verdict for or against myself. If against me, then I knew how to die at last. It would not be as at that other time, when my courage failed me. The bitterness of death was already past. I would go over what had been, balance each little grain, measure forth each atom, and the end would be-the end.

It needed no effort. The past came up of itself before me. Five years of soldiering in Afghanistan, the heights of Cherasiab, the march to Candahar, a medal, a clasp, a mention in dispatches. This was good. Then came that staff appointment at Simla, and the downward path. Life was so easy, so pleasant. I was always gregarious, fond of my fellow-creatures, easy-going; and as each day passed I slipped down lower and lower. There were other deeps to come, of which I then knew not. A lot of conscience was rubbed out of me by that time. Mrs. Cantilivre must answer for that. There again: the blame on the woman! But when a society belle makes up her mind to form a man, she takes a lot of the nap off the fine feelings. I tried to pull up once or twice, but the effort was beyond me. I drifted back again. Things that were formerly looked upon by me as luxuries became necessaries; I developed a taste for gambling, and got into debt. Pace of this kind could not last long. There came a day when I got ill, and then came furlough. A long spell of leave, with a load of debt on my shoulders; but my creditors were, to do them justice, very patient. The voyage gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect, and the folly of the past came before me vividly. I would bury the past, have done with Myra Cantilivre, and start afresh. England again! Words cannot describe the feelings that stirred me when I saw the Eddystone, with the big waves lashing about it. Arriving on Sunday, I had to spend the afternoon in Plymouth, and saw Drake looking out over the sea. All the old fire was warming back in my heart. There was time to mend all yet: when I got back I meant to win the cherry ribbon and bronze star-no more flirtation under the deodars for me-I would soldier again.