Chapter 3

He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The
rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly
balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift
physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye
and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror
of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet
that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he
is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted;
and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when Utterson
remarked on his ill looks, it was with an air of great firmness that
Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.

“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a
question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir,
I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more
glad to get away.”

“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”

But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to
see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice.
“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any
allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,
“Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends,
Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.”

“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”

“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after
I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I
cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me
of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear
it.”

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll,
complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of
this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long
answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious
in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our
old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never
meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you
must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is
often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I
have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If
I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could
not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors
so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this
destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the
dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to
his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with
every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment,
friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were
wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in
view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper
ground.

A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less
than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he
had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room,
and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal
of his dead friend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE,
and in case of his predecease _to be destroyed unread_,” so it was
emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the
contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this
should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a
disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure,
likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till
the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not
trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad
will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketted. But in
the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man
Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible.
Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity
came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to
the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his
dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the
inmost corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may
be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his
surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but
his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but
he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart,
he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by
the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into
that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its
inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to
communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined
himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes
even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not
read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so
used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off
little by little in the frequency of his visits.

INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that
when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.

“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never
see more of Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him,
and shared your feeling of repulsion?”

“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield.
“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that
this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that
I found it out, even when I did.”

“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we
may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if
the presence of a friend might do him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with
sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and
sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of
mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”

“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor drearily, “very low. It
will not last long, thank God.”

“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr. Jekyll.) Come now; get your hat and take a quick
turn with us.”

“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but
no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I
am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask
you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

“Why, then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do
is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”

“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the
doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the
smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such
abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen
below. They saw it but for a glimpse for the window was instantly
thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and
left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the
by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings
of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion.
They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes.

“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.

But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once
more in silence.

THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a
second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer.
“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts
himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like
it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid
of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly
disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered
for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced
his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he
sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed
to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see
there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather
inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play! What does the
man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me
and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat;
but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared
upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was
still untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying
on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the
most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and
flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets
unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had
never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it
otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish
to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there
was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The
square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin
trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole,
who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the
middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off
his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all
the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he
wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face
was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you,
Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was
built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and
women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of
Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the
cook, crying out “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to
take him in her arms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very
irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her
voice and now wept loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that
testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so
suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and
turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And
now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a
candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged
Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to
hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any
chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk
that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage
and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the
surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of
the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen;
while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and
obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a
somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did
so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said
complainingly.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in
his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across
the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the
beetles were leaping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s
voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look
for look.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty
years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir;
master’s made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we
heard him cry out upon the name of God; and _who’s_ in there instead of
him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!”

“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my
man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you
suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could
induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend
itself to reason.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it
yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it,
whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and
day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was
sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet
of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week
back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left
there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day,
ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and
complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists
in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another
paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another
order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir,
whatever for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents
ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He
assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his
present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large
quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous
care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at
once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can
hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough,
but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had
broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do
you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the
lawyer.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and
then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said.
“I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the
theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this
drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was
at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when
I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet.
It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my
head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon
his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run
from me? I have served him long enough. And then...” The man paused and
passed his hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I
think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized
with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer;
hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask
and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this
drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate
recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it
is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain
and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant
alarms.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that
thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he
looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man,
and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,”
cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years?
Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door,
where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the
mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr.
Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty
to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much
as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still
alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to
do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of
it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take
the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and
balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I
are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both
think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked
figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that
I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it
Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same
bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who
else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot,
sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But
that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr.
Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something
queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t
know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your
marrow kind of cold and thin.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a
monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it
went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson;
I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I
give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I
fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay truly, I
believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer
(for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s
room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make
an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the
cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the
blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any
malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round
the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the
laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let
us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the
way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now
quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that
deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about
their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where
they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but
nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a
footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better
part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist,
there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an
enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it!
But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr.
Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they
went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread
of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he
asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of
horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away
with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from
under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest
table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath
to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in
the quiet of the night.

“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He
paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our
suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if
not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute
force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with
the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and
the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal
screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the
axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four
times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of
excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock
burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet
before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and
chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer
or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer
the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would
have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most
commonplace that night in London.

Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and
still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and
beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large
for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still
moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the
crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung
upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a
self-destroyer.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish.
Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the
body of your master.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre,
which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above,
and by the cabinet, which formed an upper storey at one end and looked
upon the court.