Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that
was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in
discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet
somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his
taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something
indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not
only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more
often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with
himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for
vintages; and though he enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the
doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for
others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure
of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity
inclined to help rather than to reprove. "I incline to Cain's
heresy," he used to say quaintly: "I let my brother go to the devil
in his own way." In this character, it was frequently his fortune
to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence
in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as
they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in
his demeanour.
No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was
undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be
founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of
a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the
hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer's way. His friends
were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest;
his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no
aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt the bond that united him to
Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about
town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in
each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was
reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that
they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail with
obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two
men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the
chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of
pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that they might
enjoy them uninterrupted.
It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down
a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and
what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the
weekdays. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed and all
emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of
their grains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that
thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling
saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms
and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in
contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and
with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and
general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and
pleased the eye of the passenger.
Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line
was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a
certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the
street. It was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a
door on the lower storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall
on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and
sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell
nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the
recess and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon
the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and
for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these
random visitors or to repair their ravages.
Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the
by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former
lifted up his cane and pointed.
"Did you ever remark that door?" he asked; and when his
companion had replied in the affirmative. "It is connected in my
mind," added he, "with a very odd story."
"Indeed?" said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, "and
what was that?"
"Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming
home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock
of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town
where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street
after street and all the folks asleepâstreet after street, all
lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a churchâ
till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and
listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at
once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along
eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten
who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well,
sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner;
and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled
calmly over the child's body and left her screaming on the ground.
It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn't
like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few
halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him
back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming
child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me
one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running.
The people who had turned out were the girl's own family; and
pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent put in his
appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more
frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have
supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious
circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first
sight. So had the child's family, which was only natural. But the
doctor's case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry
apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong
Edinburgh accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he
was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw
that Sawbones turn sick and white with desire to kill him. I knew
what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing
being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we
could and would make such a scandal out of this as should make his
name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any
friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And
all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping
the women off him as best we could for they were as wild as
harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was
the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering
coolnessâfrightened too, I could see thatâbut carrying it off, sir,
really like Satan. `If you choose to make capital out of this
accident,' said he, `I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but
wishes to avoid a scene,' says he. `Name your figure.' Well, we
screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family; he would
have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the
lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next
thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us
but to that place with the door?âwhipped out a key, went in, and
presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a
cheque for the balance on Coutts's, drawn payable to bearer and
signed with a name that I can't mention, though it's one of the
points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and
often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for
more than that if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of
pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked
apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a
cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man's
cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and
sneering. `Set your mind at rest,' says he, `I will stay with you
till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.' So we all set of,
the doctor, and the child's father, and our friend and myself, and
passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we
had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque
myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery.
Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine."
"Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson.
"I see you feel as I do," said Mr. Enfield. "Yes, it's a bad
story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a
really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the
very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it
worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black mail I
suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the
capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place with
the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from
explaining all," he added, and with the words fell into a vein of
musing.
From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather
suddenly: "And you don't know if the drawer of the cheque lives
there?"
"A likely place, isn't it?" returned Mr. Enfield. "But I happen
to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other."
"And you never asked about theâplace with the door?" said Mr.
Utterson.
"No, sir: I had a delicacy," was the reply. "I feel very
strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style
of the day of judgment. You start a question, and it's like
starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away
the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird
(the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his
own back garden and the family have to change their name. No sir, I
make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the
less I ask."
"A very good rule, too," said the lawyer.
"But I have studied the place for myself," continued Mr.
Enfield. "It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and
nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the
gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the
court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut
but they're clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally
smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it's not so sure; for
the buildings are so packed together about the court, that it's
hard to say where one ends and another begins."
The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then
"Enfield," said Mr. Utterson, "that's a good rule of yours."
"Yes, I think it is," returned Enfield.
"But for all that," continued the lawyer, "there's one point I
want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the
child."
"Well," said Mr. Enfield, "I can't see what harm it would do. It
was a man of the name of Hyde."
"Hm," said Mr. Utterson. "What sort of a man is he to see?"
"He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his
appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable.
I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must
be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity,
although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary
looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No,
sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not
want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment."
Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously
under a weight of consideration. "You are sure he used a key?" he
inquired at last.
"My dear sir ⊠" began Enfield, surprised out of
himself.
"Yes, I know," said Utterson; "I know it must seem strange. The
fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is
because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone
home. If you have been inexact in any point you had better correct
it."
"I think you might have warned me," returned the other with a
touch of sullenness. "But I have been pedantically exact, as you
call it. The fellow had a key; and what's more, he has it still. I
saw him use it not a week ago."
Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young
man presently resumed. "Here is another lesson to say nothing,"
said he. "I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain
never to refer to this again."
"With all my heart," said the lawyer. I shake hands on that,
Richard."