Mrs. M. was astonished at so strange a question, and proceeded to make
inquiries. Rachel told her a wild story. She said--

Clarke closed the book with a snap, and turned his chair towards the
fire. When his friend sat one evening in that very chair, and told his
story, Clarke had interrupted him at a point a little subsequent to
this, had cut short his words in a paroxysm of horror. 'My God!' he had
exclaimed, 'think, think what you are saying. It is too incredible, too
monstrous; such things can never be in this quiet world, where men and
women live and die, and struggle, and conquer, or maybe fail, and fall
down under sorrow, and grieve and suffer strange fortunes for many a
year; but not this, Phillips, not such things as this. There must be
some explanation, some way out of the terror. Why, man, if such a case
were possible, our earth would be a nightmare.' But Phillips had told his story to the end, concluding:

'Her flight remains a mystery to this day; she vanished in broad
sunlight; they saw her walking in a meadow, and a few moments later she
was not there.' Clarke tried to conceive the thing again, as he sat by the fire, and
again his mind shuddered and shrank back, appalled before the sight of
such awful, unspeakable elements enthroned as it were, and triumphant in
human flesh. Before him stretched the long dim vista of the green
causeway in the forest, as his friend had described it; he saw the
swaying leaves and the quivering shadows on the grass, he saw the
sunlight and the flowers, and far away, far in the long distance, the
two figures moved toward him. One was Rachel, but the other? Clarke had tried his best to disbelieve it all, but at the end of the
account, as he had written it in his book, he had placed the
inscription:

    ET DIABOLUS INCARNATUS EST. ET HOMO FACTUS EST. III

THE CITY OF RESURRECTIONS

'Herbert! Good God! Is it possible?' 'Yes, my name's Herbert. I think I know your face too, but I don't
remember your name. My memory is very queer.' 'Don't you recollect Villiers of Wadham?' 'So it is, so it is. I beg your pardon, Villiers, I didn't think I was
begging of an old college friend. Good-night.' 'My dear fellow, this haste is unnecessary. My rooms are close by, but
we won't go there just yet. Suppose we walk up Shaftesbury Avenue a
little way? But how in heaven's name have you come to this pass,
Herbert?' 'It's a long story, Villiers, and a strange one too, but you can hear it
if you like.' 'Come on, then. Take my arm, you don't seem very strong.' The ill-assorted pair moved slowly up Rupert Street; the one in dirty,
evil-looking rags, and the other attired in the regulation uniform of a
man about town, trim, glossy, and eminently well-to-do. Villiers had
emerged from his restaurant after an excellent dinner of many courses,
assisted by an ingratiating little flask of Chianti, and, in that frame
of mind which was with him almost chronic, had delayed a moment by the
door, peering round in the dimly-lighted street in search of those
mysterious incidents and persons with which the streets of London teem
in every quarter and at every hour. Villiers prided himself as a
practised explorer of such obscure mazes and byways of London life, and
in this unprofitable pursuit he displayed an assiduity which was worthy
of more serious employment. Thus he stood beside the lamp-post surveying
the passers-by with undisguised curiosity, and with that gravity only
known to the systematic diner, had just enunciated in his mind the
formula: 'London has been called the city of encounters; it is more than
that, it is the city of Resurrections,' when these reflections were
suddenly interrupted by a piteous whine at his elbow, and a deplorable
appeal for alms. He looked around in some irritation, and with a sudden
shock found himself confronted with the embodied proof of his somewhat
stilted fancies. 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 circumstance 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 blackest night, though I stood in the midst of
a wilderness.