In a small town near Caermaen there is a museum, containing for the most
part Roman remains which have been found in the neighbourhood at various
times. On the day after my arrival at Caermaen I walked over to the
town in question, and took the opportunity of inspecting this museum. After I had seen most of the sculptured stones, the coffins, rings,
coins, and fragments of tessellated pavement which the place contains, I
was shown a small square pillar of white stone, which had been recently
discovered in the wood of which I have been speaking, and, as I found on
inquiry, in that open space where the Roman road broadens out. On one
side of the pillar was an inscription, of which I took a note. Some of
the letters have been defaced, but I do not think there can be any doubt
as to those which I supply. The inscription is as follows:

    DEVOMNODENT_i_
    FLA_v_IVSSENILISPOSSV_it_
    PROPTERNVP_tias_
    _qua_SVIDITSVBVMB_ra_

'To the great god Nodens (the god of the Great Deep or Abyss) Flavius
Senilis has erected this pillar on account of the marriage which he saw
beneath the shade.' The custodian of the museum informed me that local antiquaries were much
puzzled, not by the inscription, or by any difficulty in translating it,
but as to the circumstance or rite to which allusion is made. *       *       *       *       *

... And now, my dear Clarke, as to what you tell me about Helen Vaughan,
whom you say you saw die under circumstances of the utmost and almost
incredible horror. I was interested in your account, but a good deal,
nay all, of what you told me I knew already. I can understand the
strange likeness you remarked both in the portrait and in the actual
face; you have seen Helen's mother. You remember that still summer night
so many years ago, when I talked to you of the world beyond the shadows,
and of the god Pan. You remember Mary. She was the mother of Helen
Vaughan, who was born nine months after that night. Mary never recovered her reason. She lay, as you saw her, all the while
upon her bed, and a few days after the child was born she died. I fancy
that just at the last she knew me; I was standing by the bed, and the
old look came into her eyes for a second, and then she shuddered and
groaned and died. It was an ill work I did that night when you were
present; I broke open the door of the house of life, without knowing or
caring what might pass forth or enter in. I recollect your telling me at
the time, sharply enough, and rightly enough too, in one sense, that I
had ruined the reason of a human being by a foolish experiment, based on
an absurd theory. You did well to blame me, but my theory was not all
absurdity. What I said Mary would see, she saw, but I forgot that no
human eyes could look on such a vision with impunity. And I forgot, as I
have just said, that when the house of life is thus thrown open, there
may enter in that for which we have no name, and human flesh may become
the veil of a horror one dare not express. I played with energies which
I did not understand, and you have seen the ending of it. Helen Vaughan
did well to bind the cord about her neck and die, though the death was
horrible. The blackened face, the hideous form upon the bed, changing
and melting before your eyes from woman to man, from man to beast, and
from beast to worse than beast, all the strange horror that you
witnessed, surprises me but little. What you say the doctor whom you
sent for saw and shuddered at I noticed long ago; I knew what I had done
the moment the child was born, and when it was scarcely five years old I
surprised it, not once or twice but several times with a playmate, you
may guess of what kind. It was for me a constant, an incarnate horror,
and after a few years I felt I could bear it no longer, and I sent Helen
Vaughan away. You know now what frightened the boy in the wood. The rest
of the strange story, and all else that you tell me, as discovered by
your friend, I have contrived to learn from time to time, almost to the
last chapter. And now Helen is with her companions.... The Inmost Light


I

One evening in autumn, when the deformities of London were veiled in
faint blue mist, and its vistas and far-reaching streets seemed
splendid, Mr. Charles Salisbury was slowly pacing down Rupert Street,
drawing nearer to his favourite restaurant by slow degrees. His eyes
were downcast in study of the pavement, and thus it was that as he
passed in at the narrow door a man who had come up from the lower end of
the street jostled against him. 'I beg your pardon--wasn't looking where I was going. Why, it's Dyson!' 'Yes, quite so. How are you, Salisbury?' 'Quite well. But where have you been, Dyson? I don't think I can have
seen you for the last five years?' 'No; I dare say not. You remember I was getting rather hard up when you
came to my place at Charlotte Street?' 'Perfectly. I think I remember your telling me that you owed five weeks'
rent, and that you had parted with your watch for a comparatively small
sum.' 'My dear Salisbury, your memory is admirable. Yes, I was hard up. But
the curious thing is that soon after you saw me I became harder up. My
financial state was described by a friend as "stone broke." I don't
approve of slang, mind you, but such was my condition. But suppose we go
in; there might be other people who would like to dine--it's a human
weakness, Salisbury.' 'Certainly; come along. I was wondering as I walked down whether the
corner table were taken. It has a velvet back, you know.' 'I know the spot; it's vacant. Yes, as I was saying, I became even
harder up.' 'What did you do then?' asked Salisbury, disposing of his hat, and
settling down in the corner of the seat, with a glance of fond
anticipation at the _menu_. 'What did I do? Why, I sat down and reflected. I had a good classical
education, and a positive distaste for business of any kind: that was
the capital with which I faced the world. Do you know, I have heard
people describe olives as nasty! What lamentable Philistinism! I have
often thought, Salisbury, that I could write genuine poetry under the
influence of olives and red wine. Let us have Chianti; it may not be
very good, but the flasks are simply charming.' 'It is pretty good here. We may as well have a big flask.' 'Very good. I reflected, then, on my want of prospects, and I determined
to embark in literature.' 'Really; that was strange. You seem in pretty comfortable circumstances,
though.' 'Though! What a satire upon a noble profession. I am afraid, Salisbury,
you haven't a proper idea of the dignity of an artist. You see me
sitting at my desk--or at least you can see me if you care to call--with
pen and ink, and simple nothingness before me, and if you come again in
a few hours you will (in all probability) find a creation!' 'Yes, quite so. I had an idea that literature was not remunerative.' 'You are mistaken; its rewards are great.