Search for Mr. Hyde

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the clock of the neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for Mr. Utterson though he took charge of it now that it was made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend.

That evening Mr. Utterson returned to his bachelor home in a gloomy mood and ate dinner without pleasure. On Sundays, he usually sat by the fire after dinner, with a dry book of theology on his reading desk. He would stay until the nearby church clock struck twelve, then go quietly and gratefully to bed. That night, however, as soon as the table was cleared, he picked up a candle and went into his office. He opened his safe and took a document from its most private compartment. The envelope was labeled Dr. Jekyll’s Will. With a troubled expression, he sat down to study it. Dr. Jekyll had written the will himself. Although Mr. Utterson now kept the completed will, he had refused to help prepare it in any way. The will stated that, if Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., died, all his possessions would pass to his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde.” But the will also covered Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months.” In that case, Edward Hyde would immediately take Henry Jekyll’s place. Hyde would have no burdens or obligations beyond paying a few small sums to members of the doctor’s household. The document had long been a source of distress to the lawyer. It offended him both as a lawyer and as someone who loved the sensible, conventional side of life. To him, anything fanciful was improper. Until now, his ignorance of Mr. Hyde had deepened his outrage. Now, in a sudden reversal, his knowledge did so. Things had been bad enough when Hyde was only a name, and Utterson could discover nothing more. They were worse now that the name was taking on hateful qualities. For so long, shifting, shapeless mists had kept him from seeing clearly. Now, out of those mists, a clear and unmistakable image of a fiend suddenly sprang into view.

“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

“I thought it was madness,” he said as he put the unpleasant document back in the safe. “And now I’m beginning to fear it’s a disgrace.”

With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set forth in the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding patients. “If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

With that, he blew out his candle, put on a heavy coat, and headed toward Cavendish Square, a medical stronghold. His friend, the renowned Dr. Lanyon, lived there and saw crowds of patients at his house. “If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

The serious-looking butler recognized and welcomed him. Without any delay, he led Mr. Utterson straight from the door to the dining room. Dr. Lanyon sat there alone, drinking his wine. He was a cheerful, healthy, neatly dressed gentleman with a red face and a mass of prematurely white hair. His manner was loud and confident. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, he jumped up from his chair and greeted him with both hands. His warmth seemed a little theatrical, as it usually did, but his feelings were genuine. For the two men were old friends who had been together at school and college. Both had a deep respect for themselves and each other. And, as does not always follow from such respect, they thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably preoccupied his mind.

After some aimless conversation, the lawyer steered the discussion toward the subject that had been weighing so unpleasantly on his mind.

“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?”

“I suppose, Lanyon,” he said, “you and I must be Henry Jekyll’s two longest-standing friends?”

“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.”

“I wish the friends were younger,” Dr. Lanyon chuckled. “But I suppose we are. And what does that matter? I don’t see much of him now.”

“Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”

“Really?” said Utterson. “I thought you were connected by a shared interest.”

“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.”

“We did,” came the reply. “But Henry Jekyll became too caught up in wild ideas for me more than ten years ago. He began to go wrong, wrong in his thinking. And though I still care about him for old times’ sake, as people say, I see damn little of him. And I have for years. Such unscientific nonsense,” added the doctor, his face suddenly turning purple, “would have driven even Damon and Pythias apart.”

This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson. “They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a protégé of his—one Hyde?” he asked.

This small flash of temper was something of a relief to Mr. Utterson. “They have only disagreed on some scientific point,” he thought. He had no passion for science (except the science of legally transferring property), so he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave his friend a few seconds to regain his calm. Then he turned to the question he had come to ask. “Have you ever met a protégé of his, a man named Hyde?” he asked.

“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”

“Hyde?” Lanyon repeated. “No. I've never heard of him. He came along after my time.”

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions.

That was all the information the lawyer brought back to his large, dark bed. He tossed and turned there until the early hours of the morning gave way to later ones. His restless mind found little peace that night, struggling in the dark and overwhelmed by questions.

Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone; but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamplighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clauses of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of enduring hatred.

The bells of the church so conveniently near Mr. Utterson’s home struck six, and still he wrestled with the problem. Until now, the problem had occupied only his intellect. But now his imagination was also caught up in it, or rather enslaved by it. He lay tossing in the thick darkness of the night and his curtained room. Mr. Enfield’s story passed through his mind in a series of brightly lit pictures. First he saw the vast spread of lamps in a city at night. Then he saw a man walking quickly, then a child running from the doctor’s house. Then the two met, and that human Juggernaut trampled the child and walked on, ignoring her screams. Or he would see a room in a wealthy household, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams. Then the bedroom door would open, the bed curtains would be pulled apart, and the sleeper would be awakened. And there, beside his friend, would stand a figure who had been given power over him. Even at that dead hour of night, his friend must rise and obey the figure’s commands. The figure in these two scenes haunted the lawyer all night. Whenever he dozed off, he saw the figure slipping still more stealthily through sleeping houses. Or the figure raced faster and faster through ever larger mazes of lamplit streets, until the speed made him dizzy. At every street corner, the figure crushed a child and left her screaming. And still the figure had no face he could recognize. Even in his dreams, the figure had no face, or a face that puzzled him and melted before his eyes. So an unusually strong, almost excessive curiosity sprang up in the lawyer’s mind and grew rapidly. He wanted to see the real Mr. Hyde’s face. If he could see Hyde just once, he thought, the mystery would become clearer and perhaps disappear altogether. Mysterious things often did disappear when examined closely. He might discover a reason for his friend’s strange attachment or enslavement, whichever you chose to call it. He might even understand the startling clauses in the will. At least the face would be worth seeing: the face of a man without a trace of mercy. The mere sight of that face had stirred lasting hatred in Enfield, a man not easily affected.

From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when business was plenty and time scarce, at night under the face of the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.

From then on, Mr. Utterson kept returning to watch the door on the side street lined with shops. He came in the morning before office hours, and at noon when business was busy and time was short. He came at night beneath the city moon, dimmed by fog. In every kind of light and at all hours, whether the street was empty or crowded, the lawyer stood watch.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

“If he’s Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I’ll be Mr. Seek.”

And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps, unshaken by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the court.

At last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine, dry night, with frost in the air. The streets were as clean as a ballroom floor. No wind disturbed the lamps, which cast a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the side street was almost deserted. Despite the low growl of London all around, the street was very quiet. Small sounds carried far. Household sounds could be heard clearly from the houses on both sides of the road. The sound of anyone approaching could be heard long before the person arrived. Mr. Utterson had been at his post for some minutes when he heard an odd, light footstep drawing near. During his nightly patrols, he had grown used to a curious effect. A lone person’s footsteps would suddenly stand out from the city’s vast hum and clatter, even from far away. Yet never before had a sound caught his attention so sharply and completely. With a strong, superstitious feeling that he was about to succeed, he stepped back into the courtyard entrance.

The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed and the look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home.

The footsteps came swiftly closer and suddenly grew louder as the walker rounded the end of the street. Looking out from the entrance, the lawyer could soon see what kind of man he had to deal with. The man was small and very plainly dressed. Even from that distance, the sight of him somehow made the lawyer feel a strong dislike. But the man headed straight for the door, crossing the road to save time. As he approached, he took a key from his pocket like someone coming home.

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. “Mr. Hyde, I think?”

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched the man on the shoulder as he passed. “Mr. Hyde, I think?”

Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?”

Mr. Hyde drew back, breathing in with a hiss. But his fear lasted only a moment. And though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered calmly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?”

“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll’s—Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard of my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.”

“I see you’re going in,” the lawyer replied. “I’m an old friend of Dr. Jekyll’s. I’m Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street. You must have heard my name. Since I’ve run into you at such a convenient moment, I thought you might let me in.”

“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde, blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up, “How did you know me?” he asked.

“You won’t find Dr. Jekyll. He’s not at home,” replied Mr. Hyde, blowing into the key. Then he suddenly asked, but still without looking up, “How did you recognize me?”

“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson “will you do me a favour?”

“In return,” said Mr. Utterson, “will you do me a favor?”

“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”

“I’d be happy to,” the other person replied. “What will it be?”

“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer.

“Will you let me see your face?” the lawyer asked.

Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may be useful.”

Mr. Hyde seemed to hesitate. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned to face Mr. Utterson with a defiant look. The two men stared steadily at each other for a few seconds. “Now I’ll recognize you next time,” said Mr. Utterson. “That may be useful.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “it is as well we have met; and à propos, you should have my address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Hyde, “it’s just as well we’ve met. And by the way, you should have my address.” He gave a street address in Soho.

“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address.

“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson. “Could he, too, have been thinking about the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted to acknowledge the address.

“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”

“And now,” the other man said, “how did you recognize me?”

“By description,” was the reply.

“From a description,” came the reply.

“Whose description?”

“Whose description?”

“We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson.

“We have friends in common,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Common friends,” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who are they?”

“Mutual friends,” repeated Mr. Hyde, his voice a little hoarse. “Who are they?”

“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.

“Jekyll, for example,” the lawyer said.

“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I did not think you would have lied.”

“He never told you,” shouted Mr. Hyde, his face flushing with anger. “I didn’t think you would lie.”

“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”

“Come on,” said Mr. Utterson, “that language is inappropriate.”

The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house.

The other man let out a snarl that turned into a savage laugh. The next moment, with extraordinary speed, he unlocked the door and disappeared into the house.

The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him. “There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There is something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.”

The lawyer stood for a while after Mr. Hyde had left him, looking deeply troubled. Then he began walking slowly uphill along the street, stopping every step or two. He put his hand to his forehead like a man struggling to make sense of something. The problem he was turning over as he walked was the kind rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and unusually short. He seemed deformed, though no particular deformity could be named. He had an unpleasant smile. He had faced the lawyer with a kind of murderous mixture of fearfulness and boldness. His voice was rough, whispering, and somewhat broken. All these things counted against him. But even together, they could not explain the disgust, loathing, and fear Mr. Utterson felt toward him, unlike anything he had felt before. “There must be something else,” said the puzzled gentleman. “There is something more, if I could find a name for it. God help me, the man seems hardly human! Something like a cave dweller, shall we say? Or could it be the old story of Dr. Fell, a dislike I cannot explain? Or is his foul soul simply shining through his body and transforming its appearance? The last, I think. For, oh, my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I saw Satan’s signature on a face, it is on your new friend’s.”

Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men; map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for the fanlight, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door.

Around the corner from the side street was a square of old, handsome houses. Most had fallen from their former grandeur and were rented out as apartments and rooms to men of all kinds. The tenants included map engravers, architects, shady lawyers, and agents of little-known businesses. One house, however, the second from the corner, was still occupied as a whole. The house had an air of great wealth and comfort, though only the window above the door was lit. Mr. Utterson stopped at the door and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door.

“Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer.

“Is Dr. Jekyll home, Poole?” the lawyer asked.

“I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?”

“I’ll check, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, letting the visitor in as he spoke. The hall was large and comfortable, with a low ceiling and a stone floor. A bright, open fire warmed the hall, as was usual in a country house. Expensive oak cabinets furnished the room. “Will you wait here by the fire, sir? Or shall I light the dining room for you?”

“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. But tonight there was a shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.

“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, moving closer and leaning on the tall guard around the fireplace. The hall, where he was now alone, was a particular favorite of his friend the doctor. Utterson himself often called it the pleasantest room in London. But tonight he felt a chill in his blood. Hyde’s face weighed heavily on his memory. He felt sick and disgusted with life, which was rare for him. In his gloomy mood, even the firelight flickering on the polished cabinets seemed threatening. So did the shadows shifting uneasily across the ceiling. When Poole soon returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll had gone out, Utterson was ashamed of his relief.

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room, Poole,” he said. “Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?”

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in through the old dissecting room, Poole,” he said. “Is he allowed to do that when Dr. Jekyll is away?”

“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a key.”

“That’s right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” the servant replied. “Mr. Hyde has a key.”

“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole,” resumed the other musingly.

“Your master seems to trust that young man a great deal, Poole,” the other man continued thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir, he does indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey him.”

“Yes, sir, he certainly does,” said Poole. “We’ve all been ordered to obey him.”

“I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.

“O, dear no, sir. He never dines here,” replied the butler. “Indeed we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes by the laboratory.”

“Oh, no, sir. He never eats dinner here,” replied the butler. “In fact, we see very little of him on this side of the house. He mostly comes and goes through the laboratory.”

“Well, good-night, Poole.”

“Well, good night, Poole.”

“Good-night, Mr. Utterson.”

“Good night, Mr. Utterson.”

And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. Ah, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, pede claudo, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening! And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of the will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ah, I must put my shoulder to the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear as transparency, the strange clauses of the will.

And the lawyer headed home with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “I fear he is in deep trouble! He was wild when he was young. That was a long time ago, certainly, but under God’s law, wrongdoing has no time limit. Ah, that must be the explanation. The ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some hidden disgrace. Punishment arriving, with a limping step, years after memory has forgotten the fault and self-love has excused it.” Frightened by the thought, the lawyer spent a while brooding over his own past. He searched every corner of his memory, fearing some old wrongdoing might spring into view like a Jack-in-the-Box. His past was fairly blameless. Few men could look back over their lives with less fear. Yet the many bad things he had done humbled him to the dust. And the many he had nearly done, but avoided, lifted him into a solemn, fearful gratitude. Then, returning to his thoughts about Jekyll, he felt a spark of hope. “This Master Hyde, if someone looked into his life,” he thought, “must have secrets of his own. Dark secrets, judging by his appearance. Beside those secrets, poor Jekyll’s worst would seem like sunshine. Things cannot go on as they are. I shudder to think of this creature creeping like a thief to Harry’s bedside. Poor Harry, what an awakening! And how dangerous, because if this Hyde suspects the will exists, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ah, I must do what I can to help, if Jekyll will just let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” For once again, he saw the strange clauses of the will with perfect clarity in his mind.