Every night in the year, four of us sat in the small parlour of the
George at Debenham - the undertaker, and the landlord, and Fettes, and
myself. Sometimes there would be more; but blow high, blow low, come
rain or snow or frost, we four would be each planted in his own
particular armchair. Fettes was an old drunken Scotsman, a man of
education obviously, and a man of some property, since he lived in
idleness. He had come to Debenham years ago, while still young, and by a
mere continuance of living had grown to be an adopted townsman. His
blue camlet cloak was a local antiquity, like the church-spire. His
place in the parlour at the
George, his absence from church, his
old, crapulous, disreputable vices, were all things of course in
Debenham. He had some vague Radical opinions and some fleeting
infidelities, which he would now and again set forth and emphasize with
tottering slaps upon the table. He drank rum - five glasses regularly
every evening; and for the greater portion of his nightly visit to the
George
sat, with his glass in his right hand, in a state of melancholy
alcoholic saturation. We called him the Doctor, for he was supposed to
have some special knowledge of medicine, and had been known upon a
pinch, to set a fracture or reduce a dislocation; but, beyond these
slight particulars, we had no knowledge of his character and
antecedents.
One dark winter night - it had struck nine some time before the landlord joined us - there was a sick man in the
George,
a great neighbouring proprietor suddenly struck down with apoplexy on
his way to Parliament; and the great man's still greater London doctor
had been telegraphed to his bedside. It was the first time that such a
thing had happened in Debenham, for the railway was but newly open, and
we were all proportionately moved by the occurrence.
'He's come,' said the landlord, after he had filled and lighted his pipe.
'He?' said I. 'Who? - not the doctor?'
'Himself,' replied our host.
'What is his name?'
'Dr Macfarlane,' said the landlord.
Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now
nodding over, now staring mazily around him; but at the last word he
seemed to awaken, and repeated the name 'Macfarlane' twice, quietly
enough the first time, but with sudden emotion at the second.
'Yes,' said the landlord, 'that's his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane.'
Fettes became instantly sober: his eyes awoke, his voice became
clear, loud, and steady, his language forcible and earnest. We were all
startled by the transformation, as if a man had risen from the dead.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I am afraid I have not been
paying much attention to your talk. Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?' And
then, when he had heard the landlord out, 'It cannot be, it cannot be,'
he added; 'and yet I would like well to see him face to face.'
'Do you know him, Doctor?' asked the undertaker, with a gasp.
'God forbid!' was the reply. 'And yet the name is a strange one; it were too much to fancy two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?'
'Well,' said the host, 'he's not a young man, to be sure, and his hair is white; but he looks younger than you.'
'He is older, though; years older. But,' with a slap upon the
table, 'it's the rum you see in my face - rum and sin. This man,
perhaps, may have an easy conscience and a good digestion. Conscience!
Hear me speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent Christian,
would you not? But no, not I; I never canted. Voltaire might have canted
if he'd stood in my shoes; but the brains' - with a rattling fillip on
his bald head - 'the brains were clear and active, and I saw and made no
deductions'.
'If you know this doctor,' I ventured to remark, after a
somewhat awful pause, 'I should gather that you do not share the
landlord's good opinion.'
Fettes paid no regard to me.
'Yes,' he said, with sudden decision, 'I must see him face to face.'
There was another pause, and then a door was closed rather sharply on the first floor, and a step was heard upon the stair.
'That's the doctor,' cried the landlord. 'Look sharp, and you can catch him.'
It was but two steps from the small parlour to the door of the old
George
inn; the wide oak staircase landed almost in the street; there was room
for a Turkey rug and nothing more between the threshold and the last
round of the descent; but this little space was every evening
brilliantly lit up, not only by the light upon the stair and the great
signal-lamp below the sign, but by the warm radiance of the bar-room
window. The
George thus brightly advertised itself to passers-by
in the cold street. Fettes walked steadily to the spot, and we, who were
hanging behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them had phrased it,
face to face. Dr Macfarlane was alert and vigorous. His white hair set
off his pale and placid, although energetic, countenance. He was richly
dressed in the finest of broadcloth and the whitest of linen, with a
great gold watchchain, and studs and spectacles of the same precious
material. He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckled with lilac, and
he carried on his arm a comfortable driving-coat of fur. There was no
doubt but he became his years, breathing as he did, of wealth and
consideration; and it was a surprising contrast to see our parlour sot -
bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his old camlet cloak - confront him
at the bottom of the stairs.
'Macfarlane!' he said somewhat loudly, more like a herald than a friend.
The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth step, as though
the familiarity of the address surprised and somewhat shocked his
dignity.
'Toddy Macfarlane!' repeated Fettes.
The London man almost staggered. He stared for the swiftest of
seconds at the man before him, glanced behind him with a sort of scare,
and then in a startled whisper, 'Fettes!' he said, 'you!'
'Ay,' said the other, 'me! Did you think I was dead too? We are not so easy shut of our acquaintance.'
'Hush, hush!' exclaimed the doctor. 'Hush, hush! this meeting is
so unexpected - I can see you are unmanned. I hardly knew you, I
confess, at first; but I am overjoyed - overjoyed to have this
opportunity. For the present it must be how-d'ye-do and goodbye in one,
for my fly is waiting, and I must not fail the train; but you shall -
let me see - yes - you shall give me your address, and you can count on
early news of me. We must do something for you, Fettes. I fear you are
out at elbows; but we must see to that for auld lang syne, as once we
sang at suppers.'
'Money!' cried Fettes; 'money from you! The money that I had from you is lying where I cast it in the rain.'
Dr Macfarlane had talked himself into some measure of
superiority and confidence, but the uncommon energy of this refusal cast
him back into his first confusion.
A horrible, ugly look came and went across his almost venerable
countenance. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'be it as you please; my last
thought is to offend you. I would intrude on none. I will leave you my
address, however----'
'I do not wish it - I do not wish to know the roof that shelters
you,' interrupted the other. 'I heard your name; I feared it might be
you; I wished to know if after all, there were a God; I know now that
there is none. Begone!'
He still stood in the middle of the rug, between the stair and
the doorway; and the great London physician, in order to escape, would
be forced to step to one side. It was plain that he hesitated before the
thought of this humiliation. White as he was, there was a dangerous
glitter in his spectacles; but while he still paused uncertain, he
became aware that the driver of his fly was peering in from the street
at this unusual scene and caught a glimpse at the same time of our
little body from the parlour, huddled by the corner of the bar. The
presence of so many witnesses decided him at once to flee. He crouched
together, brushing on the wainscot, and made a dart like a serpent,
striking for the door. But his tribulation was not yet entirely at an
end, for even as he was passing Fettes clutched him by the arm and these
words came in a whisper, and yet painfully distinct, 'Have you seen it
again?'
The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with a sharp,
throttling cry; he dashed his questioner across the open space, and,
with his hands over his head, fled out of the door like a detected
thief. Before it had occurred to one of us to make a movement, the fly
was already rattling toward the station. The scene was over like a
dream, but the dream had left proofs and traces of its passage. Next day
the servant found the find gold spectacles broken on the threshold, and
that very night we were all standing breathless by the bar-room window,
and Fettes at our side, sober, pale, and resolute in look.
'God protect us, Mr Fettes!' said the landlord, coming first
into possession of his customary senses. 'What in the universe is all
this? These are strange things you have been saying.'
Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in succession in the
face. 'See if you can hold your tongues,' said he. 'That man Macfarlane
is not safe to cross; those that have done so already have repented it
too late.'
And then, without so much as finishing his third glass, far less
waiting for the other two, he bade us goodbye and went forth, under the
lamp of the hotel, into the black night.
We three turned to our places in the parlour, with the big red
fire and four clear candles; and as we recapitulated what had passed the
first chill of our surprise soon changed into a glow of curiosity. We
sat late; it was the latest session I have known in the old
George.
Each man, before we parted, had his theory that he was bound to prove;
and none of us had any nearer business in this world than to track out
the past of our condemned companion, and surprise the secret that he
shared with the great London doctor. It is no great boast, but I believe
I was a better hand at worming out a story than either of my fellows at
the
George; and perhaps there is now no other man alive who could narrate to you the following foul and unnatural events.
In his young days Fettes studied medicine in the schools of
Edinburgh. He had talent of a kind, the talent that picks up swiftly
what it hears and readily retails it for its own. He worked little at
home; but he was civil, attentive, and intelligent in the presence of
his masters. They soon picked him out as a lad who listened closely and
remembered well; nay, strange as it seemed to me when I first heard it,
he was in those days well favoured, and pleased by his exterior. There
was, at that period, a certain extramural teacher of anatomy, whom I
shall here designate by the letter K. His name was subsequently too well
known. The man who bore it skulked through the streets of Edinburgh in
disguise, while the mob that applauded at the execution of Burke called
loudly for the blood of his employer. But Mr K---- was then at the top
of his vogue; he enjoyed a popularity due partly to his own talent and
address, partly to the incapacity of his rival, the university
professor. The students, at least, swore by his name, and Fettes
believed himself, and was believed by others, to have laid the
foundations of success when he had acquired the favour of this
meteorically famous man. Mr K---- was a
bon vivant as well as an
accomplished teacher; he liked a sly allusion no less than a careful
preparation. In both capacities Fettes enjoyed and deserved his notice,
and by the second year of his attendance he held the half-regular
position of second demonstrator or sub-assistant in his class.
In this capacity, the charge of the theatre and lecture-room
devolved in particular upon his shoulders. He had to answer for the
cleanliness of the premises and the conduct of the other students, and
it was a part of his duty to supply, receive, and divide the various
subjects. It was with a view to this last - at that time very delicate -
affair that he was lodged by Mr K---- in the same wynd, and at last in
the same building, with the dissecting-rooms. Here, after a night of
turbulent pleasures, his hand still tottering, his sight still misty and
confused, he would be called out of bed in the black hours before the
winter dawn by the unclean and desperate interlopers who supplied the
table. He would open the door to these men, since infamous throughout
the land. He would help them with their tragic burthen, pay them their
sordid price, and remain alone, when they were gone, with the unfriendly
relics of humanity. From such a scene he would return to snatch another
hour or two of slumber, to repair the abuses of the night, and refresh
himself for the labours of the day.
Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions of a
life thus passed among the ensigns of mortality. His mind was closed
against all general considerations. He was incapable of interest in the
fate and fortunes of another, the slave of his own desires and low
ambitions. Cold, light, and selfish in the last resort, he had that
modicum of prudence, miscalled morality, which keeps a man from
inconvenient drunkenness or punishable theft. He coveted, besides, a
measure of consideration from his masters and his fellow-pupils, and he
had no desire to fail conspicuously in the external parts of life. Thus
he made it his pleasure to gain some distinction in his studies, and day
after day rendered unimpeachable eye-service to his employer, Mr K----.
For his day of work he indemnified himself by nights of roaring,
blackguardly enjoyment; and when that balance had been struck, the organ
that he called his conscience declared itself content.
The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him as well as
to his master. In that large and busy class, the raw material of the
anatomists kept perpetually running out; and the business thus rendered
necessary was not only unpleasant in itself, but threatened dangerous
consequences to all who were concerned. It was the policy of Mr K---- to
ask no questions in his dealings with the trade. 'They bring the boy,
and we pay the price,' he used to say, dwelling on the alliteration -
quid pro quo.
And, again, and somewhat profanely, 'Ask no questions,' he would tell
his assistants, 'for conscience sake.' There was no understanding that
the subjects were provided by the crime of murder. Had that idea been
broached to him in words, he would have recoiled in horror; but the
lightness of his speech upon so grave a matter was, in itself, an
offence against good manners, and a temptation to the men with whom he
dealt. Fettes, for instance, had often remarked to himself upon the
singular freshness of the bodies. He had been struck again and again by
the hang-dog, abominable looks of the ruffians who came to him before
the dawn; and, putting things together clearly in his private thoughts,
he perhaps attributed a meaning too immoral and too categorical to the
unguarded counsels of his master. He understood his duty, in short, to
have three branches: to take what was brought to pay the price, and to
avert the eye from any evidence of crime.
One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply to
the test. He had been awake all night with a racking toothache - pacing
his room like a caged beast or throwing himself in fury on his bed - and
had fallen at last into that profound, uneasy slumber that so often
follows on a night of pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth
angry repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright
moonshine: it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty; the town had not yet
awakened, but an indefinable stir already preluded the noise and
business of the day. The ghouls had come later than usual, and they
seemed more than usually eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep,
lighted them upstairs. He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a
dream; and as they stripped the sack from their sad merchandise he
leaned dozing, with his shoulder propped against the wall; he had to
shake himself to find the men their money. As he did so his eyes lighted
on the dead face. He started; he took two steps nearer, with the candle
raised.
'God Almighty!' he cried. 'That is Jane Galbraith!'
The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer the door.
'I know her, I tell you,' he continued. 'She was alive and
hearty yesterday. It's impossible she can be dead; it's impossible you
should have got this body fairly.'
'Sure, sir, you're mistaken entirely,' said one of the men.
But the other looked Fettes darkly in the eyes, and demanded the money on the spot.
It was impossible to misconceive the threat or to exaggerate the
danger. The lad's heart failed him. He stammered some excuses, counted
out the sum, and saw his hateful visitors depart. No sooner were they
gone than he hastened to confirm his doubts. By a dozen unquestionable
marks he identified the girl he had jested with the day before. He saw,
with horror, marks upon her body that might well betoken violence. A
panic seized him, and he took refuge in his room. There he reflected at
length over the discovery that he had made; considered soberly the
bearing of Mr K----'s instructions and the danger to himself of
interference in so serious a business, and at last, in sore perplexity,
determined to wait for the advice of his immediate superior, the class
assistant.
This was a young doctor, Wolfe Macfarlane, a high favourite
among all the reckless students, clever, dissipated, and unscrupulous to
the last degree. He had travelled and studied abroad. His manners were
agreeable and a little forward. He was an authority on the stage,
skilful on the ice or the links with skate or golf-club; he dressed with
nice audacity, and, to put the finishing touch upon his glory, he kept a
gig and a strong trotting-horse. With Fettes he was on terms of
intimacy; indeed their relative positions called for some community of
life; and when subjects were scarce the pair would drive far into the
country in Macfarlane's gig, visit and desecrate some lonely graveyard,
and return before dawn with their booty to the door of the
dissecting-room.
On that particular morning Macfarlane arrived somewhat earlier
than his wont. Fettes heard him, and met him on the stairs, told him his
story, and showed him the cause of his alarm. Macfarlane examined the
marks on her body.
'Yes', he said with a nod, 'it looks fishy.'
'Well, what should I do?' asked Fettes.
'Do?' repeated the other. 'Do you want to do anything? Least said
soonest mended, I should say.''
'Someone else might recognize her,' objected Fettes. 'She was as well known as the Castle Rock.'
'We'll hope not,' said Macfarlane, 'and if anybody does - well,
you didn't, don't you see, and there's an end. The fact is, this has
been going on too long. Stir up the mud, and you'll get K---- into the
most unholy trouble; you'll be in a shocking box yourself. So will I, if
you come to that. I should like to know how any one of us would look,
or what the devil we should have to say for ourselves, in any Christian
witness-box. For me, you know there's one thing certain - that,
practically speaking, all our subjects have been murdered.'
'Macfarlane!' cried Fettes.
'Come now!' sneered the other. 'As if you hadn't suspected it yourself!'
'Suspecting is one thing----'
'And proof another. Yes, I know; and I'm as sorry as you are
this should have come here,' tapping the body with his cane. 'The next
best thing for me is not to recognize it; and,' he added coolly, 'I
don't. You may, if you please. I don't dictate, but I think a man of the
world would do as I do; and I may add, I fancy that is what K---- would
look for at our hands. The question is, Why did he choose us two for
his assistants? And I answer, because he didn't want old wives.'
This was the tone of all others to affect the mind of a lad like
Fettes. He agreed to imitate Macfarlane. The body of the unfortunate
girl was duly dissected, and no one remarked or appeared to recognize
her.
One afternoon, when his day's work was over, Fettes dropped into
a popular tavern and found Macfarlane sitting with a stranger. This was
a small man, very pale and dark, with coal-black eyes. The cut of his
features gave a promise of intellect and refinement which was but feebly
realized in his manners, for he proved, upon a nearer acquaintance,
coarse, vulgar, and stupid. He exercised, however, a very remarkable
control over Macfarlane; issued orders like the Great Bashaw; became
inflamed at the least discussion or delay, and commented rudely on the
servility with which he was obeyed. This most offensive person took a
fancy to Fettes on the spot, plied him with drinks, and honoured him
with unusual confidences on his past career. If a tenth part of what he
confessed were true, he was a very loathsome rogue; and the lad's vanity
was tickled by the attention of so experienced a man.
'I'm a pretty bad fellow myself,' the stranger remarked, 'but
Macfarlane is the boy - Toddy Macfarlane I call him. Toddy, order your
friend another glass.' Or it might be, 'Toddy, you jump up and shut the
door.' 'Toddy hates me,' he said again. 'Oh, yes, Toddy, you do!'
'Don't you call me that confounded name,' growled Macfarlane.
'Hear him! Did you ever see the lads play knife? He would like to do that all over my body,' remarked the stranger.
'We medicals have a better way than that,' said Fettes. 'When we dislike a dead friend of ours, we dissect him.'
Macfarlane looked up sharply, as though this jest was scarcely to his mind.
The afternoon passed. Gray, for that was the stranger's name,
invited Fettes to join them at dinner, ordered a feast so sumptuous that
the tavern was thrown in commotion, and when all was done commanded
Macfarlane to settle the bill. It was late before they separated; the
man Gray was incapably drunk. Macfarlane, sobered by his fury, chewed
the cud of the money he had been forced to squander and the slights he
had been obliged to swallow. Fettes, with various liquors singing in his
head, returned home with devious footsteps and a mind entirely in
abeyance. Next day Macfarlane was absent from the class, and Fettes
smiled to himself as he imagined him still squiring the intolerable Gray
from tavern to tavern. As soon as the hour of liberty had struck he
posted from place to place in quest of his last night's companions. He
could find them, however, nowhere; so returned early to his rooms, went
early to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.
At four in the morning he was awakened by the well-known signal.
Descending to the door, he was filled with astonishment to find
Macfarlane with his gig, and in the gig one of those long and ghastly
packages with which he was so well acquainted.
'What?' he cried. 'Have you been out alone? How did you manage?'
But Macfarlane silenced him roughly, bidding him turn to
business. When they had got the body upstairs and laid it on the table,
Macfarlane made at first as if he were going away. Then he paused and
seemed to hesitate; and then, 'You had better look at the face,' said
he, in tones of some constraint. 'You had better,' he repeated, as
Fettes only stared at him in wonder.
'But where, and how, and when did you come by it?' cried the other.
'Look at the face,' was the only answer.
Fettes was staggered; strange doubts assailed him. He looked
from the young doctor to the body, and then back again. At last, with a
start, he did as he was bidden. He had almost expected the sight that
met his eyes, and yet the shock was cruel. To see, fixed in the rigidity
of death and naked on that coarse layer of sack-cloth, the man whom he
had left well-clad and full of meat and sin upon the threshold of a
tavern, awoke, even in the thoughtless Fettes, some of the terrors of
the conscience. It was a
cras tibi which re-echoed in his soul,
that two whom he had known should have come to lie upon these icy
tables. Yet these were only secondary thoughts. His first concern
regarded Wolfe. Unprepared for a challenge so momentous, he knew not how
to look his comrade in the face. He durst not meet his eye, and he had
neither words nor voice at his command.
It was Macfarlane himself who made the first advance. He came up
quietly behind and laid his hand gently but firmly on the other's
shoulder.
'Richardson,' said he, 'may have the head.'
Now Richardson was a student who had long been anxious for that
portion of the human subject to dissect. There was no answer, and the
murderer resumed: 'Talking of business, you must pay me; your accounts,
you see, must tally.'
Fettes found a voice, the ghost of his own: 'Pay you!' he cried, 'Pay you for that?'
'Why, yes, of course you must. By all means and on every
possible account, you must,' returned the other. 'I dare not give it for
nothing, you dare not take it for nothing; it would compromise us both.
This is another case like Jane Galbraith's. The more things are wrong
the more we must act as if all were right. Where does old K---- keep his
money?'
'There,' answered Fettes hoarsely, pointing to a cupboard in the corner.
'Give me the key, then,' said the other, calmly, holding out his hand.
There was an instant's hesitation, and the die was cast.
Macfarlane could not suppress a nervous twitch, the infinitesimal mark
of an immense relief, as he felt the key between his fingers. He opened
the cupboard, brought out pen and ink and a paper-book that stood in one
compartment, and separated from the funds in a drawer a sum suitable to
the occasion.
'Now, look here,' he said, 'there is the payment made - first
proof of your good faith: first step to your security. You have now to
clinch it by a second. Enter the payment in your book, and then you for
your part may defy the devil.'
The next few seconds were for Fettes an agony of thought; but in
balancing his terrors it was the most immediate that triumphed. Any
future difficulty seemed almost welcome if he could avoid a present
quarrel with Macfarlane. He set down the candle which he had been
carrying all the time, and with a steady hand entered the date, the
nature, and the amount of the transaction.
'And now,' said Macfarlane, 'it's only fair that you should
pocket the lucre. I've had my share already. By-the-by, when a man of
the world falls into a bit of luck, has a few shillings extra in his
pocket - I'm ashamed to speak of it, but there's a rule of conduct in
the case. No treating, no purchase of expensive class-books, no squaring
of old debts; borrow, don't lend.'
'Macfarlane,' began Fettes, still somewhat hoarsely, 'I have put my neck in a halter to oblige you.'
'To oblige me?' cried Wolfe. 'Oh, come! You did, as near as I
can see the matter, what you downright had to do in self-defence.
Suppose I got into trouble, where would you be? This second little
matter flows clearly from the first. Mr Gray is the continuation of Miss
Galbraith. You can't begin and then stop. If you begin, you must keep
on beginning; that's the truth. No rest for the wicked.'
A horrible sense of blackness and the treachery of fate seized hold upon the soul of the unhappy student.
'My God!' he cried, 'but what have I done? and when did I begin?
To be made a class assistant - in the name of reason, where's the harm
in that? Service wanted the position; Service might have got it. Would
he have been where
I am now?'
'My dear fellow,' said Macfarlane, 'what a boy you are! What harm
has come to you? What harm
can
come to you if you hold your tongue? Why, man, do you know what this
life is? There are two squads of us - the lions and the lambs. If you're
a lamb, you'll come to lie upon these tables like Gray or Jane
Galbraith; if you're a lion, you'll live and drive a horse like me, like
K----, like all the world with any wit or courage. You're staggered at
the first. But look at K----! My dear fellow, you're clever, you have
pluck. I like you, and K---- likes you. You were born to lead the hunt;
and I tell you, on my honour and my experience of life, three days from
now you'll laugh at all these scarecrows like a high-school boy at a
farce.'
And with that Macfarlane took his departure and drove off up the
wynd in his gig to get under cover before daylight. Fettes was thus
left alone with his regrets. He saw the miserable peril in which he
stood involved. He saw, with inexpressible dismay, that there was no
limit to his weakness, and that, from concession to concession, he had
fallen from the arbiter of Macfarlane's destiny to his paid and helpless
accomplice. He would have given the world to have been a little braver
at the time, but it did not occur to him that he might still be brave.
The secret of Jane Galbraith and the cursed entry in the day-book closed
his mouth.
Hours passed; the class began to arrive; the members of the
unhappy Gray were dealt out to one and to another, and received without
remark. Richardson was made happy with the head; and before the hour of
freedom rang Fettes trembled with exultation to perceive how far they
had already gone toward safety.
For two days he continued to watch, with increasing joy, the dreadful process of disguise.
On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance. He had been
ill, he said; but he made up for lost time by the energy with which he
directed the students. To Richardson in particular he extended the most
valuable assistance and advice, and that student, encouraged by the
praise of the demonstrator, burned high with ambitious hopes, and saw
the medal already in his grasp.
Before the week was out Macfarlane's prophecy had been
fulfilled. Fettes had outlived his terrors and had forgotten his
baseness. He began to plume himself upon his courage, and had so
arranged the story in his mind that he could look back on these events
with an unhealthy pride. Of his accomplice he saw but little. They met,
of course, in the business of the class; they received their orders
together from Mr K----. At times they had a word or two in private, and
Macfarlane was from first to last particularly kind and jovial. But it
was plain that he avoided any reference to their common secret; and even
when Fettes whispered to him that he had cast in his lot with the lions
and forsworn the lambs, he only signed to him smilingly to hold his
peace.
At length an occasion arose which threw the pair once more into a
closer union. Mr K---- was again short of subjects; pupils were eager,
and it was a part of this teacher's pretensions to be always well
supplied. At the same time there came the news of a burial in the rustic
graveyard of Glencorse. Time has little changed the place in question.
It stood then, as now, upon a crossroad, out of call of human
habitations, and buried fathom deep in the foliage of six cedar trees.
The cries of the sheep upon the neighbouring hills, the streamlets upon
either hand, one loudly singing among pebbles, the other dripping
furtively from pond to pond, the stir of the wind in mountainous old
flowering chestnuts, and once in seven days the voice of the bell and
the old tunes of the precentor, were the only sounds that disturbed the
silence around the rural church. The Resurrection Man - to use a by-name
of the period - was not to be deterred by any of the sanctities of
customary piety. It was part of his trade to despise and desecrate the
scrolls and trumpets of old tombs, the paths worn by the feet of
worshippers and mourners, and the offerings and the inscriptions of
bereaved affection. To rustic neighbourhoods, where love is more than
commonly tenacious, and where some bonds of blood or fellowship unite
the entire society of a parish, the body-snatcher, far from being
repelled by natural respect, was attracted by the ease and safety of the
task. To bodies that had been laid in earth, in joyful expectation of a
far different awakening, there came that hasty, lamp-lit,
terror-haunted resurrection of the spade and mattock. The coffin was
forced, the cerements torn, and the melancholy relics, clad in
sackcloth, after being rattled for hours on moonless by-ways, were at
length exposed to uttermost indignities before a class of gaping boys.
Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying lamb, Fettes and
Macfarlane were to be let loose upon a grave in that green and quiet
resting-place. The wife of a farmer, a woman who had lived for sixty
years, and been known for nothing but good butter and a godly
conversation, was to be rooted from her grave at midnight and carried,
dead and naked, to that far-away city that she had always honoured with
her Sunday best; the place beside her family was to be empty till the
crack of doom; her innocent and almost venerable members to be exposed
to that last curiosity of the anatomist.
Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in cloaks
and furnished with a formidable bottle. It rained without remission - a
cold, dense, lashing rain. Now and again there blew a puff of wind, but
these sheets of falling water kept it down. Bottle and all, it was a sad
and silent drive as far as Penicuik, where they were to spend the
evening. They stopped once, to hide their implements in a thick bush not
far from the churchyard, and once again at the Fisher's Tryst, to have a
toast before the kitchen fire and vary their nips of whisky with a
glass of ale. When they reached their journey's end the gig was housed,
the horse was fed and comforted, and the two young doctors in a private
room sat down to the best dinner and the best wine the house afforded.
The lights, the fire, the beating rain upon the window, the cold,
incongruous work that lay before them, added zest to their enjoyment of
the meal. With every glass their cordiality increased. Soon Macfarlane
handed a little pile of gold to his companion.
'A compliment,' he said. 'Between friends these little d----d accommodations ought to fly like pipe-lights.'
Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the sentiment to the
echo. 'You are a philosopher,' he cried. 'I was an ass till I knew you.
You and K---- between you, by the Lord Harry! but you'll make a man of
me.'
'Of course we shall,' applauded Macfarlane. 'A man? I tell you,
it required a man to back me up the other morning. There are some big,
brawling, forty-year-old cowards who would have turned sick at the look
of the d----d thing; but not you - you kept your head. I watched you.'
'Well, and why not?' Fettes thus vaunted himself. 'It was no
affair of mine. There was nothing to gain on the one side but
disturbance, and on the other I could count on your gratitude, don't you
see?' And he slapped his pocket till the gold pieces rang.
Macfarlane somehow felt a certain touch of alarm at these
unpleasant words. He may have regretted that he had taught his young
companion so successfully, but he had no time to interfere, for the
other noisily continued in this boastful strain:
'The great thing is not to be afraid. Now, between you and me, I
don't want to hang - that's practical; but for all cant, Macfarlane, I
was born with a contempt. Hell, God, Devil, right, wrong, sin, crime,
and all the old gallery of curiosities - they may frighten boys, but men
of the world, like you and me, despise them. Here's to the memory of
Gray!'
It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig, according to
order, was brought round to the door with both lamps brightly shining,
and the young men had to pay their bill and take the road. They
announced that they were bound for Peebles, and drove in that direction
till they were clear of the last houses of the town; then, extinguishing
the lamps, returned upon their course, and followed a by-road toward
Glencorse. There was no sound but that of their own passage, and the
incessant, strident pouring of the rain. It was pitch dark; here and
there a white gate or a white stone in the wall guided them for a short
space across the night; but for the most part it was at a foot pace, and
almost groping, that they picked their way through that resonant
blackness to their solemn and isolated destination. In the sunken woods
that traverse the neighbourhood of the burying-ground the last glimmer
failed them, and it became necessary to kindle a match and reillumine
one of the lanterns of the gig. Thus, under the dripping trees, and
environed by huge and moving shadows, they reached the scene of their
unhallowed labours.
They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful with
the spade; and they had scarce been twenty minutes at their task before
they were rewarded by a dull rattle on the coffin lid. At the same
moment Macfarlane, having hurt his hand upon a stone, flung it
carelessly above his head. The grave, in which they now stood almost to
the shoulders, was close to the edge of the plateau of the graveyard;
and the gig lamp had been propped, the better to illuminate their
labours, against a tree, and on the immediate verge of the steep bank
descending to the stream. Chance had taken a sure aim with the stone.
Then came a clang of broken glass; night fell upon them; sounds
alternately dull and ringing announced the bounding of the lantern down
the bank, and its occasional collision with the trees. A stone or two,
which it had dislodged in its descent, rattled behind it into the
profundities of the glen; and then silence, like night, resumed its
sway; and they might bend their hearing to its utmost pitch, but naught
was to be heard except the rain, now marching to the wind, now steadily
falling over miles of open country.
They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task that they
judged it wisest to complete it in the dark. The coffin was exhumed and
broken open; the body inserted in the dripping sack and carried between
them to the gig; one mounted to keep it in its place, and the other,
taking the horse by the mouth, groped along by wall and bush until they
reached the wider road by the Fisher's Tryst. Here was a faint, diffused
radiancy, which they hailed like daylight; by that they pushed the
horse to a good pace and began to rattle along merrily in the direction
of the town.
They had both been wetted to the skin during their operations,
and now, as the gig jumped among the deep ruts, the thing that stood
propped between them fell now upon one and now upon the other. At every
repetition of the horrid contact each instinctively repelled it with
greater haste; and the process, natural although it was, began to tell
upon the nerves of the companions. Macfarlane made some ill-favoured
jest about the farmer's wife, but it came hollowly from his lips, and
was allowed to drop in silence. Still their unnatural burthen bumped
from side to side; and now the head would be laid, as if in confidence,
upon their shoulders, and now the drenching sackcloth would flap icily
about their faces. A creeping chill began to possess the soul of Fettes.
He peered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow larger than at first.
All over the countryside, and from every degree of distance, the farm
dogs accompanied their passage with tragic ululations; and it grew and
grew upon his mind that some unnatural miracle had been accomplished,
that some nameless change had befallen the dead body, and that it was in
fear of their unholy burden that the dogs were howling.
'For God's sake,' said he, making a great effort to arrive at speech, 'for God's sake, let's have a light!'
Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; for
though he made no reply, he stopped the horse, passed the reins to his
companion, got down, and proceeded to kindle the remaining lamp. They
had by that time got no further than the cross-road down to Auchendinny.
The rain still poured as though the deluge were returning, and it was
no easy matter to make a light in such a world of wet and darkness. When
at last the flickering blue flame had been transferred to the wick and
began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of misty brightness
round the gig, it became possible for the two young men to see each
other and the thing they had along with them. The rain had moulded the
rough sacking to the outlines of the body underneath; the head was
distinct from the trunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something at
once spectral and human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly comrade of
their drive.
For some time Macfarlane stood motionless, holding up the lamp. A
nameless dread was swathed, like a wet sheet, about the body, and
tightened the white skin upon the face of Fettes; a fear that was
meaningless, a horror of what could not be, kept mounting to his brain.
Another beat of the watch, and he had spoken. But his comrade
forestalled him.
'That is not a woman,' said Macfarlane, in a hushed voice.
'It was a woman when we put her in,' whispered Fettes.
'Hold that lamp,' said the other. 'I must see her face.'
And as Fettes took the lamp his companion untied the fastenings
of the sack and drew down the cover from the head. The light fell very
clear upon the dark, well-moulded features and smooth-shaven cheeks of a
too familiar countenance, often beheld in dreams of both of these young
men. A wild yell rang up into the night; each leaped from his own side
into the roadway; the lamp fell, broke, and was extinguished; and the
horse, terrified by this unusual commotion, bounded and went off toward
Edinburgh at a gallop, bearing along with it, sole occupant of the gig,
the body of the dead and long-dissected Gray.
- or watch it below
