His silk hat, Dyson thought, should
have been a high bowler of odious pattern worn with a baggy
morning-coat, and an instinct told him that the fellow did not commonly
carry a clean pocket-handkerchief. The face was not of the most
agreeable pattern, and was in no way improved by a pair of bulbous
chin-whiskers of a ginger hue, into which mustaches of light color
merged imperceptibly. Yet in spite of these signals hung out by nature,
Dyson felt that the individual beside him was something more than
compact of vulgarity. He was struggling with himself, holding his
feelings in check, but now and again passion would mount black to his
face, and it was evidently by a supreme effort that he kept himself
from raging like a madman. Dyson found something curious and a little
terrible in the spectacle of an occult emotion thus striving for the
mastery, and threatening to break out at every instant with violence,
and they had gone some distance before the person whom he had met by so
odd a hazard was able to speak quietly. "You are really very good," he said. "I apologize again; my rudeness was
really most unjustifiable. I feel my conduct demands an explanation, and
I shall be happy to give it you. Do you happen to know of any place near
here where one could sit down? I should really be very glad." "My dear sir," said Dyson, solemnly, "the only café in London is close
by. Pray do not consider yourself as bound to offer me any explanation,
but at the same time I should be most happy to listen to you. Let us
turn down here." They walked down a sober street and turned into what seemed a narrow
passage past an iron-barred gate thrown back. The passage was paved with
flagstones, and decorated with handsome shrubs in pots on either side,
and the shadow of the high walls made a coolness which was very
agreeable after the hot breath of the sunny street. Presently the
passage opened out into a tiny square, a charming place, a morsel of
France transplanted into the heart of London. High walls rose on either
side, covered with glossy creepers, flower-beds beneath were gay with
nasturtiums, geraniums, and marigolds, and odorous with mignonette, and
in the centre of the square a fountain hidden by greenery sent a cool
shower continually plashing into the basin beneath, and the very noise
made this retreat delightful. Chairs and tables were disposed at
convenient intervals, and at the other end of the court broad doors had
been thrown back; beyond was a long, dark room, and the turmoil of
traffic had become a distant murmur. Within the room one or two men were
sitting at the tables, writing and sipping, but the courtyard was empty. "You see, we shall be quiet," said Dyson. "Pray sit down here, Mr.--?" "Wilkins. My name is Henry Wilkins." "Sit here, Mr. Wilkins. I think you will find that a comfortable seat. I
suppose you have not been here before? This is the quiet time; the place
will be like a hive at six o'clock, and the chairs and tables will
overflow into that little alley there." A waiter came in response to the bell; and after Dyson had politely
inquired after the health of M. Annibault, the proprietor, he ordered a
bottle of the wine of Champigny. "The wine of Champigny," he observed to Mr. Wilkins, who was evidently a
good deal composed by the influence of the place, "is a Tourainian wine
of great merit. Ah, here it is; let me fill your glass. How do you find
it?" "Indeed," said Mr. Wilkins, "I should have pronounced it a fine
Burgundy. The bouquet is very exquisite. I am fortunate in lighting upon
such a good Samaritan as yourself. I wonder you did not think me mad. But if you knew the terrors that assailed me, I am sure you would no
longer be surprised at conduct which was certainly most unjustifiable." He sipped his wine, and leant back in his chair, relishing the drip and
trickle of the fountain, and the cool greenness that hedged in this
little port of refuge. "Yes," he said at last, "that is indeed an admirable wine. Thank you;
you will allow me to offer you another bottle?" The waiter was summoned, and descended through a trap-door in the floor
of the dark apartment, and brought up the wine. Mr. Wilkins lit a
cigarette, and Dyson pulled out his pipe. "Now," said Mr. Wilkins, "I promised to give you an explanation of my
strange behavior. It is rather a long story, but I see, sir, that you
are no mere cold observer of the ebb and flow of life. You take, I
think, a warm and an intelligent interest in the chances of your
fellow-creatures, and I believe you will find what I have to tell not
devoid of interest." Mr. Dyson signified his assent to these propositions, and though he
thought Mr. Wilkins's diction a little pompous, prepared to interest
himself in his tale. The other, who had so raged with passion half an
hour before, was now perfectly cool, and when he had smoked out his
cigarette, he began in an even voice to relate the




NOVEL OF THE DARK VALLEY. I am the son of a poor but learned clergyman in the West of
England,--but I am forgetting, these details are not of special
interest. I will briefly state, then, that my father, who was, as I
have said, a learned man, had never learnt the specious arts by which
the great are flattered, and would never condescend to the despicable
pursuit of self-advertisement. Though his fondness for ancient
ceremonies and quaint customs, combined with a kindness of heart that
was unequalled and a primitive and fervent piety, endeared him to his
moor-land parishioners, such were not the steps by which clergy then
rose in the Church, and at sixty my father was still incumbent of the
little benefice he had accepted in his thirtieth year. The income of the
living was barely sufficient to support life in the decencies which are
expected of the Anglican parson; and when my father died a few years
ago, I, his only child, found myself thrown upon the world with a
slender capital of less than a hundred pounds, and all the problem of
existence before me. I felt that there was nothing for me to do in the
country, and as usually happens in such eases, London drew me like a
magnet. One day in August, in the early morning, while the dew still
glittered on the turf, and on the high green banks of the lane, a
neighbor drove me to the railway station, and I bade good-bye to the
land of the broad moors and unearthly battlements of the wild tors. It
was six o'clock as we neared London; the faint sickly fume of the
brickfields about Acton came in puffs through the open window, and a
mist was rising from the ground. Presently the brief view of successive
streets, prim and uniform, struck me with a sense of monotony; the hot
air seemed to grow hotter; and when we had rolled beneath the dismal and
squalid houses, whose dirty and neglected back yards border the line
near Paddington, I felt as if I should be stifled in this fainting
breath of London.