Chapter 6

The Tortures Of Hell

There is no punishment that men can devise so terrible in its effects as remorse. Physical tortures cannot last longer than a certain period without wearing out the body, but remorse is a monster which feeds upon itself and, little by little, gains possession of the whole inner life, making outward things hateful to the sight. It was this feeling that Adrian experienced after he had surrendered his liberty to gain safety in the body of Dr. Roversmire. The memory of his crime was constantly with him, reminding him at every moment of the day that his soul was held in the bondage of an alien body, and that, even if Philip Trevanna recovered, he would be powerless to break the chain which fettered him. The deed, once done, could not be recalled, and, of his own free will, he had entered into a prison from which nothing short of a miracle could release him.

As the days went slowly by he strove mightily to adapt himself to the dreary, monotonous life which he was now leading. Roversmire had indeed been able to draw entertainment from his stores of knowledge, his vast experience, and his power of releasing his soul from his body whenever earthly things grew too irksome to him, but Adrian, having lived all his life in a frivolous world, had not a well-stored mind to draw upon, consequently being debarred by his strange position from his ordinary pleasures he did not know how to employ his time. Furthermore, the memory of his folly stung him sharply, and the forced inaction of the life of seclusion, to which he was now condemned, made his tortured soul writhe in its new dwelling-place with a hideous sense of impotence and weariness.

Day by day the papers informed him of the progress which Philip Trevanna was making towards recovery, and the astonishment excited by his own strange disappearance, but he was powerless to come forward, explain the circumstances of the affair, and resume his place among his fellow-men. He had sinned in permitting his temper to lead him to so nearly kill a human being, and this was his punishment—this dreary life of forced inaction, of agonising remorse, and of terrible self-reproach. Truly he was paying dearly for the one mad act of his life, and to his mind the punishment appeared immeasurably severe to the magnitude of the crime. Had Philip Trevanna died, he would have accepted his terrible situation with sullen apathy, looking upon it as a fit reward for taking the life of a fellow-man, but seeing that his friend was recovering, that the crime was unpremeditated, and that Trevanna had provoked him beyond all powers of endurance, it seemed bitterly hard that he should have to pass an indefinite period in a constant state of torture.

This unpleasant state of things was not rendered any more bearable by the presence of Dentham, who, Adrian knew, kept a constant watch upon his every action. What the man suspected he could not tell, but that he was suspicious of the life led by Dr. Michael Roversmire was certain, as Adrian felt rather than saw the stealthy glances with which he watched his goings out and comings in, gettings up and layings down. This, in itself, was enough to irritate a sensitive mind, but added to the appalling tortures the unhappy young man was constantly feeling, it drove him nearly to the verge of distraction, and he longed for something to happen which would give him, if not a release, at least change of life. At last an event happened which caused Adrian to make up his mind to leave his seclusion, and which also caused considerable anxiety to the enquiring mind of Mr. Dentham.

One day, about two weeks after the transformation had taken place, Adrian saw in the paper a notice of a reward offered for the discovery of the whereabouts of Adrian Lancaster.

"I'm wanted by the police, I suppose," he muttered gloomily to himself; but this idea was soon dispelled when he read the last lines of the advertisement, which said that all information was to be given to O. M., The Nook, Marlow, Bucks.

"It's Olive! Olive!" cried Adrian, throwing down the paper, "she wants to find out where I am and help me, God bless her; if I could only reveal myself to her—but it's impossible. Dr. Roversmire is a stranger to her, and if I told her what had taken place, she would look upon me as a madman. What am I to do?—God help me, what am I to do?"

He walked up and down the room, plucking at his long grey beard as if he would tear from his young soul this mark of age.

"She could never love me as I am now," he said, clasping his hands, "for that would be treachery to my memory, and this face is not the one to win any girl's love—did not Roversmire himself say that the woman he loved refused to return his passion?—stay! perhaps if I look through this desk I may find out the name of the woman he loved, and go and see her—something may come of it, though I dread even to hope that things will turn out well."

Sitting down at the desk near a deep, wide window, he unlocked it with the key which was placed therein, and began to turn over the papers in the hope of finding some clue to the name of this girl, whose rejection of Roversmire's suit had indirectly led up to the catastrophe which had happened to himself.

He was about an hour looking through the papers, but found nothing likely to lead to discovery, until at length he found a locked book, which he immediately guessed was the diary of Roversmire.

"If it's anywhere, it will be in here," he said to himself, "but it's locked—I wonder where the key is—it's a very small hole, so the key must also be small. I don't think I've seen any key that size, and yet—ah!" with a sudden recollection, "it's on the watch chain."

And so it was, a long slender golden key of Indian workmanship, with which Adrian easily unlocked the book, and was soon deep in the contents written in the small, clear handwriting of the doctor. For a long time he read steadily on, without finding what he was in search of.

The entries principally related to the writer's life in India, the periods of his fasts, the statements of his feelings, the dates upon which he arrived at and departed from different places, and every now and then, wild rhapsodies, peculiarly Oriental in their poetic thought and imagery of the delights, ecstacies, and marvellous pleasures he had tasted of, when set free from his earthly body. Later on in the book, the doctor recorded his arrival in England, the disposition of his affairs with regard to money; the taking of his house at Hampstead, and the way in which he lived secluded from all men.

Then, at last, came a declaration of his passion, and at the sight of the name of the woman he loved, Adrian Lancaster gave a low cry, and letting the book fall upon the floor, arose quickly to his feet.

"Olive Maunders!" he whispered clutching his throat, "he loved Olive Maunders, and she never told me anything about him—oh, impossible—it cannot be true."

It was true however, for on recovering his composure, and resuming the reading of the diary, he found the whole facts of the case, plainly set out. Dr. Roversmire had called at the town house of Sir John Maunders with a letter of introduction from a friend in India, and Sir John, having a leaning towards occult science, had been much taken up with the curious character of his guest. Roversmire saw Olive, fell in love with her, and recorded his impressions in a series of broken paragraphs, which were anything but pleasant reading to the fastidious mind of Adrian Lancaster, seeing that they were about the girl whom he intended to make his wife.

". . . . She is certainly a most beautiful woman, but it is not her outward form which attracts me, fair though it be as the lotus floating on the wave of the holy Ganges. The pure crystal of her body encloses the still purer flower of her soul, a soul which possesses strong masculine characteristics . . . . after the soulless women of the East, this discovery is to me a source of wonder and admiration.

". . . . I have observed her narrowly, and am still constant to my first opinion; with such a strong soul as she possesses, Olive might go through the ordeal with unshaken firmness of purpose, and be enabled to release her soul from this clinging vestment of clay . . . . I must explain as much as I can to her and see if she will make the attempt.

". . . . All in vain . . . . I have told her of my idea that she should marry me, that I should initiate her into those strange sciences of which the West knows nothing, and when she attains the mastery of the last great secret, we will float together, radiant spirits in infinite space.

". . . . It is quite useless, not even this destiny I offer her can gain her love! and why? Because it is given already to some brainless dandy of to-day called Adrian Lancaster . . . he is abroad now, and hence the mistake I made in thinking she was free—ah, it is unkind of Fate to thus mar the destiny of a fair strong soul by such a vulgar obstacle.

". . . . By means of my astral body, I have seen Mr. Adrian Lancaster, who is at Monte Carlo . . . . a handsome face certainly, but no brains, and if he has any, he never uses them . . he seems to me to lead a debauched life—ah, the pity that such a soiled soul should seek union with the stainless, spiritual part of Olive Maunders. It will be like fire and water coming together, and the mastery will be with the strongest.

". . . . I have tried again and failed, her material part is stronger than her spiritual one, and she has set her heart upon marriage with Adrian Lancaster, so there is nothing left for me to do, but to retire peacefully from the field . . . . I should like to teach her a lesson, and show her what she has lost in refusing to marry me . . . well, time will show, and I may some day, have an opportunity of doing so . . . ."

There were several other entries about Olive and himself, but Adrian had read enough, and closing the book with a frown, locked it up again in the desk. It was clear Dr. Roversmire had not held a very good opinion of him, and Adrian could not help acknowledging to himself that the view taken by the savant was a correct one. He had brains in plenty, but had never exercised them—never mind, there was yet time. The experiences he had undergone, while in the body of Roversmire, had not been without a salutary effect, and he would benefit by them, when he returned to his own body. But when would he return? Ah! that was the question; at all events, he would go down to Olive Maunders, and find out from her demeanour towards him, if she really was true to Adrian Lancaster, or if her ambition had caused her to look kindly upon Michael Roversmire. The entries in the book were plain enough—she did not love anyone else but himself, still the demon of jealousy was gnawing at Adrian's heart, and only a personal interview could satisfy him on the subject.

He rang the bell, and Dentham appeared with such rapidity that Adrian felt convinced he had not been far away. However, listen as he might, he could not learn anything likely to endanger the safety of Dr. Roversmire, so Adrian asked at once for what he wanted.

"Have you a Bradshaw?"

"Yes, sir," replied Dentham, and thereupon vanished, quickly returning with the book in question.

Adrian took it, and Dentham was about to retire when his master called him back.

"Wait a moment, I may want you," he said, without raising his eyes from the Guide, whereupon Dentham wondered greatly what could have occurred to alter so suddenly the general habits of the old doctor.

Adrian soon found out that there was a train late in the afternoon to Great Marlow, and laying down the book open on the table, rose to his feet.

"I am going to my room, Dentham," he said abruptly. "You can come in shortly to pack my portmanteau—I shall be going away for a few days."

"Going away," echoed Dentham when the door had closed on the tall figure of his master. "Where to, I wonder; there's something queer about this—why, he's hardly been out of the house for the last six months, and now he makes up his mind to be off in half a minute. I'll have a look at this and find out where he's going to."

The Bradshaw was lying on the table, still open at the place to which Adrian had referred, so Dentham had no difficulty in discovering that Dr. Roversmire was going to Great Marlow, in the county of Bucks.

"What does he want there?" mused Mr. Dentham, laying down the book—"more mysteries."

Here he caught sight of the paper crumpled up on the floor, where Adrian had thrown it, and picked it up.

"He's been asking for the papers a lot lately," said the astute valet to himself, "I wonder if there's anything in this that's got to do with his going to Marlow—I'll see."

He looked carefully over the paper, and at length came upon the advertisement for Adrian Lancaster's whereabouts.

"That's it," said Mr. Dentham in a satisfied tone, "it's the only mention of Marlow in the paper, and he only made up his mind to go there since he read the paper; and now I think of it," muttered Dentham sagaciously, "the walking-stick I picked up as he said belonged to himself, which was a lie, had the letters A L on it—now A stands for Adrian and L for Lancaster, and Adrian Lancaster's disappeared. I wonder—now I do wonder if the voice I heard that night was Mr. Lancaster's, and what his walking-stick is doing in this room—jumping at conclusions this is, I'm afraid, still, something may come of all this, but I shan't move till I've got more to go on."

He put the paper in his pocket, intending to place it beside the stick, which he had securely hidden, and then went off to pack Dr. Roversmire's portmanteau with a self-satisfied smirk on his white face.