There, close beside him, his face altered and
disfigured by poverty and disgrace, his body barely covered by greasy
ill-fitting rags, stood his old friend Charles Herbert, who had
matriculated on the same day as himself, with whom he had been merry
and wise for twelve revolving terms. Different occupations and varying
interests had interrupted the friendship, and it was six years since
Villiers had seen Herbert; and now he looked upon this wreck of a man
with grief and dismay, mingled with a certain inquisitiveness as to
what dreary chain of circumstances had dragged him down to such a
doleful pass. Villiers felt together with compassion all the relish of
the amateur in mysteries, and congratulated himself on his leisurely
speculations outside the restaurant. They walked on in silence for some time, and more than one passer-by
stared in astonishment at the unaccustomed spectacle of a well-dressed
man with an unmistakable beggar hanging on to his arm, and, observing
this, Villiers led the way to an obscure street in Soho. Here he
repeated his question. “How on earth has it happened, Herbert? I always understood you would
succeed to an excellent position in Dorsetshire. Did your father
disinherit you? Surely not?”

“No, Villiers; I came into all the property at my poor father’s death;
he died a year after I left Oxford. He was a very good father to me,
and I mourned his death sincerely enough. But you know what young men
are; a few months later I came up to town and went a good deal into
society. Of course I had excellent introductions, and I managed to
enjoy myself very much in a harmless sort of way. I played a little,
certainly, but never for heavy stakes, and the few bets I made on races
brought me in money—only a few pounds, you know, but enough to pay for
cigars and such petty pleasures. It was in my second season that the
tide turned. Of course you have heard of my marriage?”

“No, I never heard anything about it.”

“Yes, I married, Villiers. I met a girl, a girl of the most wonderful
and most strange beauty, at the house of some people whom I knew. I
cannot tell you her age; I never knew it, but, so far as I can guess, I
should think she must have been about nineteen when I made her
acquaintance. My friends had come to know her at Florence; she told
them she was an orphan, the child of an English father and an Italian
mother, and she charmed them as she charmed me. The first time I saw
her was at an evening party. I was standing by the door talking to a
friend, when suddenly above the hum and babble of conversation I heard
a voice which seemed to thrill to my heart. She was singing an Italian
song. I was introduced to her that evening, and in three months I
married Helen. Villiers, that woman, if I can call her woman, corrupted
my soul. The night of the wedding I found myself sitting in her bedroom
in the hotel, listening to her talk. She was sitting up in bed, and I
listened to her as she spoke in her beautiful voice, spoke of things
which even now I would not dare whisper in the blackest night, though I
stood in the midst of a wilderness. You, Villiers, you may think you
know life, and London, and what goes on day and night in this dreadful
city; for all I can say you may have heard the talk of the vilest, but
I tell you you can have no conception of what I know, not in your most
fantastic, hideous dreams can you have imaged forth the faintest shadow
of what I have heard—and seen. Yes, seen. I have seen the incredible,
such horrors that even I myself sometimes stop in the middle of the
street and ask whether it is possible for a man to behold such things
and live. In a year, Villiers, I was a ruined man, in body and soul—in
body and soul.”

“But your property, Herbert? You had land in Dorset.”

“I sold it all; the fields and woods, the dear old house—everything.”

“And the money?”

“She took it all from me.”

“And then left you?”

“Yes; she disappeared one night. I don’t know where she went, but I am
sure if I saw her again it would kill me. The rest of my story is of no
interest; sordid misery, that is all. You may think, Villiers, that I
have exaggerated and talked for effect; but I have not told you half. I
could tell you certain things which would convince you, but you would
never know a happy day again. You would pass the rest of your life, as
I pass mine, a haunted man, a man who has seen hell.”

Villiers took the unfortunate man to his rooms, and gave him a meal. Herbert could eat little, and scarcely touched the glass of wine set
before him. He sat moody and silent by the fire, and seemed relieved
when Villiers sent him away with a small present of money. “By the way, Herbert,” said Villiers, as they parted at the door, “what
was your wife’s name? You said Helen, I think? Helen what?”

“The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what
her real name was I can’t say. I don’t think she had a name. No, no,
not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can’t say
anymore. Good-bye; yes, I will not fail to call if I see any way in
which you can help me. Good-night.”

The man went out into the bitter night, and Villiers returned to his
fireside. There was something about Herbert which shocked him
inexpressibly; not his poor rags nor the marks which poverty had set
upon his face, but rather an indefinite terror which hung about him
like a mist. He had acknowledged that he himself was not devoid of
blame; the woman, he had avowed, had corrupted him body and soul, and
Villiers felt that this man, once his friend, had been an actor in
scenes evil beyond the power of words. His story needed no
confirmation: he himself was the embodied proof of it. Villiers mused
curiously over the story he had heard, and wondered whether he had
heard both the first and the last of it. “No,” he thought, “certainly
not the last, probably only the beginning. A case like this is like a
nest of Chinese boxes; you open one after the other and find a quainter
workmanship in every box. Most likely poor Herbert is merely one of the
outside boxes; there are stranger ones to follow.”

Villiers could not take his mind away from Herbert and his story, which
seemed to grow wilder as the night wore on. The fire seemed to burn
low, and the chilly air of the morning crept into the room; Villiers
got up with a glance over his shoulder, and, shivering slightly, went
to bed. A few days later he saw at his club a gentleman of his acquaintance,
named Austin, who was famous for his intimate knowledge of London life,
both in its tenebrous and luminous phases. Villiers, still full of his
encounter in Soho and its consequences, thought Austin might possibly
be able to shed some light on Herbert’s history, and so after some
casual talk he suddenly put the question:

“Do you happen to know anything of a man named Herbert—Charles
Herbert?”

Austin turned round sharply and stared at Villiers with some
astonishment. “Charles Herbert? Weren’t you in town three years ago?