I FOUND all the idle boys in the neighborhood collected aroundthe pony-chaise, expressing, in the occult language of slang,their high enjoyment and appreciation at the appearance of"Ariel" in her man's jacket and hat. The pony was fidgety--_he_felt the influence of the popular uproar. His driver sat, whip inhand, magnificently impenetrable to the gibes and jests that wereflying around her. I said "Good-morning" on getting into thechaise. Ariel only said "Gee up!" and started the pony.

I made up my mind to perform the journey to the distant northernsuburb in silence. It was evidently useless for me to attempt tospeak, and experience informed me that I need not expect to heara word fall from the lips of my companion. Experience, however,is not always infallible. After driving for half an hour instolid silence, Ariel astounded me by suddenly bursting intospeech.

"Do you know what we are coming to?" she asked, keeping her eyesstraight between the pony's ears.

"No," I answered. "I don't know the road. What are we coming to?"

"We are coming to a canal."

"Well?"

"Well, I have half a mind to upset you in the canal."

This formidable announcement appeared to require someexplanation. I took the liberty of asking for it.

"Why should you upset me?" I inquired.

"Because I hate you," was the cool and candid reply.

"What have I done to offend you?" I asked next.

"What do you want with the Master?" Ariel asked, in her turn.

"Do you mean Mr. Dexter?"

"Yes."

"I want to have some talk with Mr. Dexter."

"You don't! You want to take my place. You want to brush his hairand oil his beard, instead of me. You wretch!"

I now began to understand. The idea which Miserrimus Dexter hadjestingly put into her head, in exhibiting her to us on theprevious night, had been ripening slowly in that dull brain, andhad found its way outward into words, about fifteen hoursafterward, under the irritating influence of my presence!

"I don't want to touch his hair or his beard," I said. "I leavethat entirely to you."

She looked around at me, her fat face flushing, her dull eyesdilating, with the unaccustomed effort to express herself inspeech, and to understand what was said to her in return.

"Say that again," she burst out. "And say it slower this time."

I said it again, and I said it slower.

"Swear it!" she cried, getting more and more excited.

I preserved my gravity (the canal was just visible in thedistance), and swore it.

"Are you satisfied now?" I asked.

There was no answer. Her last resources of speech were exhausted.The strange creature looked back again straight between thepony's ears, emitted hoarsely a grunt of relief, and never morelooked at me, never more spoke to me, for the rest of thejourney. We drove past the banks of the canal, and I escapedimmersion. We rattled, in our jingling little vehicle, throughthe streets and across the waste patches of ground, which I dimlyremembered in the darkness, and which looked more squalid andmore hideous than ever in the broad daylight. The chaise tur neddown a lane, too narrow for the passage of any larger vehicle,and stopped at a wall and a gate that were new objects to me.Opening the gate with her key, and leading the pony, Arielintroduced me to the back garden and yard of Miserrimus Dexter'srotten and rambling old house. The pony walked off independentlyto his stable, with the chaise behind him. My silent companionled me through a bleak and barren kitchen, and along a stonepassage. Opening a door at the end, she admitted me to the backof the hall, into which Mrs. Macallan and I had penetrated by thefront entrance to the house. Here Ariel lifted a whistle whichhung around her neck, and blew the shrill trilling notes with thesound of which I was already familiar as the means ofcommunication between Miserrimus Dexter and his slave. Thewhistling over, the slave's unwilling lips struggled into speechfor the last time.

"Wait till you hear the Master's whistle," she said; "then goupstairs."

So! I was to be whistled for like a dog! And, worse still, therewas no help for it but to submit like a dog. Had Ariel anyexcuses to make? Nothing of the sort.

She turned her shapeless back on me and vanished into the kitchenregion of the house.

After waiting for a minute or two, and hearing no signal from thefloor above, I advanced into the broader and brighter part of thehall, to look by daylight at the pictures which I had onlyimperfectly discovered in the darkness of the night. A paintedinscription in many colors, just under the cornice of theceiling, informed me that the works on the walls were theproduction of the all-accomplished Dexter himself. Not satisfiedwith being poet and composer, he was painter as well. On one wallthe subjects were described as "Illustrations of the Passions;"on the other, as "Episodes in the Life of the Wandering Jew."Chance speculators like myself were gravely warned, by means ofthe inscription, to view the pictures as efforts of pureimagination. "Persons who look for mere Nature in works of Art"(the inscription announced) "are persons to whom Mr. Dexter doesnot address himself with the brush. He relies entirely on hisimagination. Nature puts him out."

Taking due care to dismiss all ideas of Nature from my mind, tobegin with, I looked at the pictures which represented thePassions first.

Little as I knew critically of Art, I could see that MiserrimusDexter knew still less of the rules of drawing, color, andcomposition. His pictures were, in the strictest meaning of thatexpressive word, Daubs. The diseased and riotous delight of thepainter in representing Horrors was (with certain exceptions tobe hereafter mentioned) the one remarkable quality that I coulddiscover in the series of his works.

The first of the Passion pictures illustrated Revenge. A corpse,in fancy costume, lay on the bank of a foaming river, under theshade of a giant tree. An infuriated man, also in fancy costume,stood astride over the dead body, with his sword lifted to thelowering sky, and watched, with a horrid expression of delight,the blood of the man whom he had just killed dripping slowly in aprocession of big red drops down the broad blade of his weapon.The next picture illustrated Cruelty, in many compartments. Inone I saw a disemboweled horse savagely spurred on by his riderat a bull-fight. In another, an aged philosopher was dissecting aliving cat, and gloating over his work. In a third, two paganspolitely congratulated each other on the torture of two saints:one saint was roasting on a grid-iron; the other, hung up to atree by his heels, had been just skinned, and was not quite deadyet. Feeling no great desire, after these specimens, to look atany more of the illustrated Passions, I turned to the oppositewall to be instructed in the career of the Wandering Jew. Here asecond inscription informed me that the painter considered theFlying Dutchman to be no other than the Wandering Jew, pursuinghis interminable Journey by sea. The marine adventures of thismysterious personage were the adventures chosen forrepresentation by Dexter's brush. The first picture showed me aharbor on a rocky coast. A vessel was at anchor, with thehelmsman singing on the deck. The sea in the offing was black androlling; thunder-clouds lay low on the horizon, split by broadflashes of lightning. In the glare of the lightning, heaving andpitching, appeared the misty form of the Phantom Ship approachingthe shore. In this work, badly as it was painted, there werereally signs of a powerful imagination, and even of a poeticalfeeling for the supernatural. The next picture showed the PhantomShip, moored (to the horror and astonishment of the helmsman)behind the earthly vessel in the harbor. The Jew had stepped onshore. His boat was on the beach. His crew--little men withstony, white faces, dressed in funeral black--sat in silent rowson the seats of the boat, with their oars in their lean, longhands. The Jew, also a black, stood with his eyes and handsraised imploringly to the thunderous heaven. The wild creaturesof land and sea--the tiger, the rhinoceros, the crocodile, thesea-serpent, the shark, and the devil-fish--surrounded theaccursed Wanderer in a mystic circle, daunted and fascinated atthe sight of him. The lightning was gone. The sky and sea haddarkened to a great black blank. A faint and lurid light lightedthe scene, falling downward from a torch, brandished by anavenging Spirit that hovered over the Jew on outspread vulturewings. Wild as the picture might be in its conception, there wasa suggestive power in it which I confess strongly impressed me.The mysterious silence in the house, and my strange position atthe moment, no doubt had their effect on my mind. While I wasstill looking at the ghastly composition before me, the shrilltrilling sound of the whistle upstairs burst on the stillness.For the moment my nerves were so completely upset that I startedwith a cry of alarm. I felt a momentary impulse to open the doorand run out. The idea of trusting myself alone with the man whohad painted those frightful pictures actually terrified me; I wasobliged to sit down on one of the hall chairs. Some minutespassed before my mind recovered its balance, and I began to feellike my own ordinary self again. The whistle sounded impatientlyfor the second time. I rose and ascended the broad flight ofstairs which led to the first story. To draw back at the pointwhich I had now reached would have utterly degraded me in my ownestimation. Still, my heart did certainly beat faster than usualas I approached the door of the circular anteroom; and I honestlyacknowledge that I saw my own imprudence, just then, in asingularly vivid light.

There was a glass over the mantel-piece in the anteroom. Ilingered for a moment (nervous as I was) to see how I looked inthe glass.

The hanging tapestry over the inner door had been left partiallydrawn aside. Softly as I moved, the dog's ears of MiserrimusDexter caught the sound of my dress on the floor. The fine tenorvoice, which I had last heard singing, called to me softly.

"Is that Mrs. Valeria? Please don't wait there. Come in!"

I entered the inner room.

The wheeled chair advanced to meet me, so slowly and so softlythat I hardly knew it again. Miserrimus Dexter languidly held outhis hand. His head inclined pensively to one side; his large blueeyes looked at me piteously. Not a vestige seemed to be left ofthe raging, shouting creature of my first visit, who was Napoleonat one moment, and Shakespeare at another. Mr. Dexter of themorning was a mild, thoughtful, melancholy man, who only recalledMr. Dexter of the night by the inveterate oddity of his dress.His jacket, on this occasion, was of pink quilted silk. Thecoverlet which hid his deformity matched the jacket in palesea-green satin; and, to complete these strange vagaries ofcostume, his wrists were actually adorned with massive braceletsof gold, formed on the severely simple models which havedescended to us from ancient times.

"How good of you to cheer and charm me by coming here!" he said,in his most mournful and most mu sical tones. "I have dressed,expressly to receive you, in the prettiest clothes I have. Don'tbe surprised. Except in this ignoble and material nineteenthcentury, men have always worn precious stuffs and beautifulcolors as well as women. A hundred years ago a gentleman in pinksilk was a gentleman properly dressed. Fifteen hundred years agothe patricians of the classic times wore bracelets exactly likemine. I despise the brutish contempt for beauty and the meandread of expense which degrade a gentleman's costume to blackcloth, and limit a gentleman's ornaments to a finger-ring, in theage I live in. I like to be bright and I beautiful, especiallywhen brightness and beauty come to see me. You don't know howprecious your society is to me. This is one of my melancholydays. Tears rise unbidden to my eyes. I sigh and sorrow overmyself; I languish for pity. Just think of what I am! A poorsolitary creature, cursed with a frightful deformity. Howpitiable! how dreadful! My affectionate heart--wasted. Myextraordinary talents--useless or misapplied. Sad! sad! sad!Please pity me."

His eyes were positively filled with tears--tears of compassionfor himself! He looked at me and spoke to me with the wailing,querulous entreaty of a sick child wanting to be nursed. I wasutterly at a loss what to do. It was perfectly ridiculous--but Iwas never more embarrassed in my life.

"Please pity me!" he repeated. "Don't be cruel. I only ask alittle thing. Pretty Mrs. Valeria, say you pity me!"

I said I pitied him--and I felt that I blushed as I did it.

"Thank you," said Miserrimus Dexter, humbly. "It does me good. Goa little further. Pat my hand."

I tried to restrain myself; but the sense of the absurdity ofthis last petition (quite gravely addressed to me, remember!) wastoo strong to be controlled. I burst out laughing.

Miserrimus Dexter looked at me with a blank astonishment whichonly increased my merriment. Had I offended him? Apparently not.Recovering from his astonishment, he laid his head luxuriously onthe back of his chair, with the expression of a man who waslistening critically to a performance of some sort. When I hadquite exhausted myself, he raised his head and clapped hisshapely white hands, and honored me with an "encore."

"Do it again," he said, still in the same childish way. "MerryMrs. Valeria, _you_ have a musical laugh--_I_ have a musical ear.Do it again."

I was serious enough by this time. "I am ashamed of myself, Mr.Dexter," I said. "Pray forgive me."

He made no answer to this; I doubt if he heard me. His variabletemper appeared to be in course of undergoing some new change. Hesat looking at my dress (as I supposed) with a steady and anxiousattention, gravely forming his own conclusions, steadfastlypursuing his own train of thought.

"Mrs. Valeria," he burst out suddenly, "you are not comfortablein that chair."

"Pardon me," I replied; "I am quite comfortable."

"Pardon _me,_" he rejoined. "There is a chair of Indianbasket-work at that end of the room which is much better suitedto you. Will you accept my apologies if I am rude enough to allowyou to fetch it for yourself? I have a reason."

He had a reason! What new piece of eccentricity was he about toexhibit? I rose and fetched the chair. It was light enough to bequite easily carried. As I returned to him, I noticed that hiseyes were strangely employed in what seemed to be the closestscrutiny of my dress. And, stranger still, the result of thisappeared to be partly to interest and partly to distress him.

I placed the chair near him, and was about to take my seat in it,when he sent me back again, on another errand, to the end of theroom.

"Oblige me indescribably," he said. "There is a hand-screenhanging on the wall, which matches the chair. We are rather nearthe fire here. You may find the screen useful. Once more forgiveme for letting you fetch it for yourself. Once more let me assureyou that I have a reason."

Here was his "reason," reiterated, emphatically reiterated, forthe second time! Curiosity made me as completely the obedientservant of his caprices as Ariel herself. I fetched thehand-screen. Returning with it, I met his eyes still fixed withthe same incomprehensible attention on my perfectly plain andunpretending dress, and still expressing the same curious mixtureof interest and regret.

"Thank you a thousand times," he said. "You have (quiteinnocently) wrung my heart. But you have not the less done me aninestimable kindness. Will you promise not to be offended with meif I confess the truth?"

He was approaching his explanation I never gave a promise morereadily in my life.

"I have rudely allowed you to fetch your chair and your screenfor yourself," he went on. "My motive will seem a very strangeone, I am afraid. Did you observe that I noticed you veryattentively--too attentively, perhaps?"

"Yes," I said. "I thought you were noticing my dress."

He shook his head, and sighed bitterly.

"Not your dress," he said; "and not your face. Your dress isdark. Your face is still strange to me. Dear Mrs. Valeria, Iwanted to see you walk."

To see me walk! What did he mean? Where was that erratic mind ofhis wandering to now?

"You have a rare accomplishment for an Englishwoman," heresumed--"you walk well. _She_ walked well. I couldn't resist thetemptation of seeing her again, in seeing you. It was _her_movement, _her_ sweet, simple, unsought grace (not yours), whenyou walked to the end of the room and returned to me. You raisedher from the dead when you fetched the chair and the screen.Pardon me for making use of you: the idea was innocent, themotive was sacred. You have distressed--and delighted me. Myheart bleeds--and thanks you."

He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, thensuddenly raised it again.

"Surely we were talking about her last night?" he said. "What didI say? what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember,half forget. Please remind me. You're not offended with me--areyou?"

I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I wasfar too anxious to find my way into his confidence--now that hehad touched of his own accord on the subject of Eustace's firstwife--to be offended with Miserrimus Dexter.

"We were speaking," I answered, "of Mrs. Eustace Macallan'sdeath, and we were saying to one another--"

He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair.

"Yes! yes!" he exclaimed. "And I was wondering what interest_you_ could have in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tellme! Confide in me! I am dying to know!"

"Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than theinterest that I feel," I said. "The happiness of my whole life tocome depends on my clearing up the mystery."

"Good God--why?" he cried. "Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn'tdo that. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn't wander. Thething is too serious. Wait a minute!"

An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of hischair. He opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partiallyfinished, with the necessary materials for working, a complete.We looked at each other across the embroidery. He noticed mysurprise.

"Women," he said, "wisely compose their minds, and helpthemselves to think quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are mensuch fools as to deny themselves the same admirable resource--thesimple and soothing occupation which keeps the nerves steady andleaves the mind calm and free? As a man, I follow the woman'swise example. Mrs. Valeria, permit me to compose myself."

Gravely arranging his embroidery, this extraordinary being beganto work with the patient and nimble dexterity of an accomplishedneedle-woman.

"Now," said Miserrimus Dexter, "if you are ready, I am. Youtalk--I work. Please begin."

I obeyed him, and began.