STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that wasrnnever lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;rnbackward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehowrnlovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,rnsomething eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed whichrnnever found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in thesernsilent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly inrnthe acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when hernwas alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed therntheatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he hadrnan approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost withrnenvy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; andrnin any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline tornCain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to therndevil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortunernto be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence inrnthe lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they camernabout his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.rnrnNo doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrativernat the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similarrncatholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to acceptrnhis friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and thatrnwas the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or thosernwhom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were therngrowth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubtrnthe bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,rnthe well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, whatrnthese two could see in each other, or what subject they could find inrncommon. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sundayrnwalks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hailrnwith obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the twornmen put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chiefrnjewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, butrneven resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy themrnuninterrupted.rnrnIt chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down arnby-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what isrncalled quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. Therninhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping torndo better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry;rnso that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air ofrninvitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when itrnveiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage,rnthe street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a firernin a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polishedrnbrasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caughtrnand pleased the eye of the passenger.rnrnTwo doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line wasrnbroken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certainrnsinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. Itrnwas two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lowerrnstorey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and borernin every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. Therndoor, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blisteredrnand distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches onrnthe panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had triedrnhis knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one hadrnappeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair theirrnravages.rnrnMr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; butrnwhen they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane andrnpointed.rnrn“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion hadrnreplied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,“with a very odd story.”rnrn“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and whatrnwas that?”rnrn“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home fromrnsome place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a blackrnwinter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there wasrnliterally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all thernfolks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a processionrnand all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mindrnwhen a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of arnpoliceman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who wasrnstumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of mayberneight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a crossrnstreet. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at therncorner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the manrntrampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on thernground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’trnlike a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa,rntook to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to wherernthere was already quite a group about the screaming child. He wasrnperfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so uglyrnthat it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who hadrnturned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, forrnwhom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was notrnmuch the worse, more frightened, according to the sawbones; and therernyou might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was onerncurious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at firstrnsight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But therndoctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dryrnapothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburghrnaccent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like thernrest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that sawbonesrnturn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in hisrnmind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of thernquestion, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would makernsuch a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one endrnof London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, wernundertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we werernpitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best werncould for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of suchrnhateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind ofrnblack sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carryingrnit off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out ofrnthis accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman butrnwishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwedrnhim up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would havernclearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of usrnthat meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to getrnthe money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place withrnthe door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with thernmatter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,rndrawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,rnthough it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at leastrnvery well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but thernsignature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I tookrnthe liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole businessrnlooked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into arncellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’srncheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy andrnsneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you tillrnthe banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, therndoctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passedrnthe rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we hadrnbreakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself,rnand said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit ofrnit. The cheque was genuine.”rnrn“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.rnrn“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. Forrnmy man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a reallyrndamnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink ofrnthe proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of yourrnfellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest manrnpaying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black MailrnHouse is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. Thoughrneven that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and withrnthe words fell into a vein of musing.rnrnFrom this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “Andrnyou don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”rnrn“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to havernnoticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”rnrn“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.rnrn“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly aboutrnputting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day ofrnjudgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sitrnquietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;rnand presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)rnis knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have tornchange their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looksrnlike Queer Street, the less I ask.”rnrn“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.rnrn“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “Itrnseems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in orrnout of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of myrnadventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the firstrnfloor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. Andrnthen there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody mustrnlive there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packedrntogether about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends andrnanother begins.”rnrnThe pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,”rnsaid Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”rnrn“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.rnrn“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want tornask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”rnrn“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was arnman of the name of Hyde.”rnrn“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”rnrn“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with hisrnappearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. Irnnever saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must berndeformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although Irncouldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yetrnI really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no handrnof it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declarernI can see him this moment.”rnrnMr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under arnweight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired atrnlast.rnrn“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.rnrn“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The factrnis, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because Irnknow it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you havernbeen inexact in any point you had better correct it.”rnrn“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch ofrnsullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. Thernfellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use itrnnot a week ago.”rnrnMr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young manrnpresently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “Irnam ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer tornthis again.”rnrn“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”