Doctor de Bruce by Earl Leeston Bell. This is a LibriVox recording. All
LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by Colin McMahon, Doctor de Bruce by
Earl Leeston Bell. The old tent maker declared that the rose, once blown,
forever dies. Then came the Bard of Avon, who described the after
Land as an unknown country from which no traveler ever returns. I used to
laugh with Omar and philosophies with Shakespeare, believing both were right. I laughed
with the Persian Scoffer. Now they laugh at me when I tell them why
I believe both Omar and the author of Hamlet were wrong. I am convinced
the rose lives on even as Elsa my rose still exists. The after Land
may forever remain an unknown strand, but I am certain the path to it
is not always a one way road. Yes, I am convinced, but
I do not care to investigate. To probe too deep into such things often
means a long journey from which the traveler returns sansanity. Therefore, I Arthur
Rens Humble Barrister, of Boston will have none of it, haven't I said?
They already laugh at me. I looked at my watch, five minutes
till closing time. As I turned to the key in my office door,
I was interrupted by a messenger. The telegram read Cloughton, Georgia, Arthur
Rens, Boston, mass Come at once, Heaven and Hell depends Armand de
Bruce. Armand de Bruce, a man who, at the age of twenty
seven, had disappeared while resident physician of one of the largest hospitals in Boston,
and whose whereabouts he had never revealed even to his own family. Heaven
and Hell depends. I perused the telegram several wondering the while why De Bruce
at last had chosen to reveal his hiding place and the reason for his urgency
of appeal. He it was who had attended Elsie Shackelford, my beloved,
in her fatal illness, and we had become the closest of friends. I
recalled the little town from which the telegram was sent, a rustic hamlet nestling
in the majestic hills of North Georgia. De Bruce and I had at one
time spent several days there camping out on a hunt for small game and quail,
with which the woods abounded at the time. Enroute to my bachelor quarters,
I fell to ruminating on de Bruce's past. He had been most successful
in his chosen profession, and could not have asked for a more promising future
at the time he so abruptly abandoned his career and disappeared. Though a fellow
of marked eccentricities, he had a pronounced pensiant for making friends, and everything
in the line of good luck seemed to swerve his way. Fortune smiled on
him, and he had returned to the compliment by systematically disposing of much of
his income in various charitable ways. A friend of the unfortunate, much of
his time was spent at the bedside of the poor, but reminiscences were crowded
out by conjecture. Over to Bruce's telegram, undoubtedly he must be ill or
in deep trouble. Anyway, it set me thinking. I awoke early and
purchased a few periodicals with which to while away the trip to Georgia. The
journey was without incident, save for a strange dream that night, which was
so vivid that I awoke and slept no more. It seemed I heard a
voice fraught with memories of the past, crying out too late, but not
too late. The voice sounded weirdly like de Bruce's. Next morning I dismissed
it as an absurd fancy, occasioned by my concern over De Bruce's telegram and
the fact that I was not accustomed to making long journeys by rail. Came
the hour when the train was struggling over the Blue Ridge, and the early
afternoon found me whirling through the stately hills of North Georgia, where the iridescent
hues of autumn blended into the blue background of the pines. At four o'clock
I reached my destination, the only passenger to a light. Going into the
little station to inquire the way to Bruce's dwelling, I found the place deserted,
save for a little pickaninny, who eyed me curiously, particularly after I
queried him. After a moment, he stammered that doctor de Bruce's home was
located about two miles west of the village and pointed out the road, Tossing
the boy a coin, I set out to walk the distance. After making
a few inquiries of natives along the way. I soon neared the house.
As I approached, I studied its appearance and wondered why de Bruce, who
in his youth so loved the Magnificent, could be content to dwell in such
a place. It was roomy structure on the colonial style, but apparently put
together hurriedly and left unpainted. The pathway, palisated by ancient oaks, was
a foot deep in leaves, and the trees themselves gave evidence of not having
been trimmed in years. The great oaks stood like giant sentinels guarding the desolation.
Nowhere was their sign of life, save for the shrieking of blue jays
and the distant hammering of a woodpecker on a moribund pine. Mounting the steps,
which were carpeted with leaves, I saw before me a massive door,
a jar revealing the dark interior of a spacious hall. A moment's hesitation,
and I knocked lightly. Nearly five minutes elapsed before I rapped again, this
time more forcibly. But the only answer was an echo that reverberated ominously through
the hall, a lingering echo that seemed to die reluctantly before the silence of
the approaching night. Before I could rap again, I was startled by a
deep growl, and glancing behind, saw a large setter dog, his fangs
bared. The animal growled again, and then his mood suddenly changed, the
snarl turning into a whine as he looked at me in that piteous manner which
only a dumb brute in pain or hunger can register. I spoke kindly to
the animal, and he eventually left me, curling himself in a bed of
leaves on the far end of the porch. I rapped on the great door
for the third time, louder than ever, Again only an echo. I
repeated the knocking, and then pushing open the door, I peered into the
hall only shadows, but a door to the left was open, revealing a
room fairly well lighted by the rays of the descending sun straying through the windows.
Thinking that to Bruce might be in a distant part of the house,
and assuming that he would not take offense at finding me there, I decided
to enter and await his coming. First glance showed the room to be a
library. Books were everywhere. Over the shelves were many pictures ancient and dusty.
I noticed that the largest picture, which occupied a central position between the
shelves, was turned with its face to the wall. I conjectured that the
picture must be of some fair girl whom de Bruce had loved and lost,
though as far as I knew, he had always been a misogynist, but
his nature was such that he would have loved with an almost mythical intensity,
had he ever loved at all. The thought came to me that the original
of the portrait might have been the cause of his forsaking his career and living
the life of a recluse. I became deeply reminiscent there in the stillness of
the apparently deserted house. If, as had been said, darkness may become
so intense that one may feel it, then by the same token, silence
may become so deep that one may hear it. And so it was that
I fancied. I heard voices of other days, and above all the love
song of Elsie. How long I sat there, lost in meditation, and
I cannot recall having lost much sleep on the train. I became drowsy,
and to arouse myself, walked over to a shelf of books, reseating myself.
I tried to read, but the letters blurred. Drowsiness was overcoming me.
Twice I thought to leave the house and returned to the station, and
twice I decided that De Bruce might be out for a late afternoon walk and
would return soon. I placed the book on a table in the center of
the room and walked to an open window. Outside. All nature was seeking
sleep. Even the jays had quit their quarreling. As I gazed out upon
the blue hills, I became aware of a presence in the room, though
I had heard no footfall. Welcome, Arthur, said a voice I recognized,
and I turned to meet my host, changed almost beyond recognition. It
was an aged, palsied man who stood before me. He seemed to be
suffering from some devitalizing malady. His sunken eyes held no luster, his complexion
was as yellow as the old lace curtains that shaded the windows. I was
indeed startled, but composed myself and met him halfway, extending my hand,
But instead of the warm clasp that I expected, De Bruce seemed not to
notice my proffered greeting. I knew you were coming, he said, and
I involuntarily stepped back, for in the articulation, his lips moved in a
most horribly indescribable manner. His grimaces were terrible to behold, particularly when he
attempted to emphasize his words with a smile. I returned a greeting that must
have been almost as incoherent as his. He seemed to notice my confusion,
and his lips again twitched in an uncanny smile. Arthur, he said,
I set for you because there's something I must tell you before it is too
late. A week ago I was stricken with paralysis. See I cannot close
my eyes. It is with the greatest effort that I speak. But first
tell me how you affair since I saw you last. Let's talk of by
gone days. We dwelled in reminiscences for a little while, and De Bruce
then turned the conversation by asking me to look over the pictures with which the
walls were crowded. They were old, and the faces, those of scientists
and medical men were scarcely discernible, what with their covering of dust and the
gathering shadows. Night was falling fast. I turned to my host, and,
seeming to divine my thoughts, He tottered to the table and lighted a
large oil lamp, which, though it dispelled the gloom fairly well, flickered
in a manner grotesquely in keeping with the weirdness of the surroundings. As I
looked at each picture, De Bruce told me what the original had accomplished in
science. I noticed that his annunciation was becoming clearer and his lips twitching less.
While I was studying the likeness of a French scientist who, according to
my host, had been blown to atoms while experimenting with some rejuvenile eating acids
of his own concoction, I heard a whine behind me. The dog had
forsaken the porch and entered the room. I stroked the animal gently, and
he looked at me so piteously, whining the while that I turned to de
Bruce for an explanation. Again, he anticipated my words, poor Leo,
he says he's not eaten in several days. At his master's words, the
dog bristled, then cowered to the floor, and crept out of the door.
My host seemed not to remark on the animal's queer conduct, and proceeded
to discuss the scientist in the picture. I soon reached the large painting,
turned to the wall and started to pass it by, but De Bruce gestured
for me to turn it around. It was with difficulty that I succeeded,
and then, my god, I cried, stepping back aghast. It was
a likeness, a life size oil painting of Elsie Shackelford, and oh the
horror of it. But for the eyes, violet eyes that had been with
me always, I would not have recognized her. A crimson stream apparently had
been painted and mingled with the red of a rose on her breast. The
flower also was disfigured, and its red had trickled down and daubed the whiteness
of her raiment. Speechless, I turned to to Bruce. My face was
as bloodless as his, and I was trembling violently. He again motioned for
me to be seated, and I complied, shielding my eyes from the gruesome
sight on the canvas. Again, my host was speaking. I listened with
bowed head. You've seen the portrait that has driven me mad, he began.
You see that the life blood seems to be flowing from her pallid lips,
and that it stains her breast every time I look at the picture.
Her lips seemed to say, murderer, murderer, See the frightened, piteous
stare. Arthur turned the picture to the wall, so that I may tell
you the ghastly story there in the dancing shadows. As I caught hold of
the gilded frame, I again glanced at the pathetic face on the canvas,
and it appeared that Elsie's eyes were fixed on de Bruce in a wild and
stony stare, that her wilted lips were trying to find speech. Her eyes
then turned to me, and in their violet depths, I beheld a ray
of the love light that had played there so long ago, and her lips
seemed to shape into the ghost of a smile. Maybe it was only a
phantasmagoria of lamp light and shadows. The task completed, I tottered back to
the chair and again shielded my face with my hands. De Bruce, still
standing behind me, continued his story throughout the unbelievable recital. I never raised
my head, overcome by the horror of what I had seen. Arthur,
he said, I killed Elsie in trying to kill you. I loved her
desperately, and while she was convalescing in the hospital. I tried to win
her. Finally I told her of my love and learned that it could never
be returned. It was the first I knew of your approaching nuptials. She
was the only woman I had ever cared for, and I had loved her
since childhood. The hope of winning her had spurred me on to success in
my profession. When I learned my fate, I went insane, a cool,
calculating madness. Next day you came to see her, and when you
held her in your arms, I decided to kill you. Chance favored me
for Elsie soon rang for a glass of water. I poured two glasses,
and into one I poured a few drops of a colorless drug I had formulated.
The ice in the glasses tinkled merrily as I brought the water into the
room, and in my madness I fancied the music that of wedding bells.
The poison was for you. Again, Chance favored me. You too were
thirsty, and reached for the glass before I could offer it. You smiled
as you drank. To Elsie's health, Mine was a devil's smile. When
in my room a few minutes later, I drank of wine to your death.
Two days later, Elsie died in my fiendish anticipation I had given her
the wrong glass. After discovering my mistake, I was no longer a madman.
Day and night, I watched by her bedside and sought to undo my
crime, but the drug was too potent. She was unconscious and did not
hear my confession in prayers. As I knelt by her bed, she died
in unspeakable agony, a hemorrhage, staining her Raymond as you see it in
the picture. You know the rest Arthur. Afraid to face the judgment of
man, I fled, but no one suspected me, and I would have
been safe in Boston. Now that I soon must face the inevitable judgment,
I confess to you. God knows I've tried to atone from a small photograph
of Elsie. I had an oil painting made and placed it in my room.
Every night, kneeling before the portrait, I prayed her forgiveness, and
nightly I noticed a gradual change in the picture. Slowly, her features began
to alter. Her eyes seemed to alternate between an accusing stare and the dull
glaze of death. At first I dismissed it as a defect in the oil.
Then, as the metamorphosis became more pronounced, I said it was but
the imagining of an avenging conscience, and prayed all the more, almost imperceptibly,
The disfiguration continued until I saw Elsie as she appeared in the agonies of
Death. For years, I continued to implore her forgiveness, but the only
answer was her piteous, accusing stare, which seemed to focus on me whenever
I entered the room. Eventually I turned the portrait to the wall, but
I could not thus hide the accusations of my conscience, and soon I became
a decrepit old man. But now I believe Elsie has forgiven me, and
it is without fear that I prepared to leave the world behind. Farewell,
Arthur, I asked you to forget what you cannot forgive. I raised my
head and found the room in darkness. I shouted to Bruce's name. No
answer again, I shouted, and after I had struck a match, the
feeble flame of which, through Phantom's shadows the walls, a terror stricken echo
came back to me through the gloom, experiencing cold fear for the first time
in my life. I rushed frantically out of the room and down the steps.
The station was my destination. I had gone only a short distance when
I saw a nebulous glow in the darkness ahead, A vaporous, weirdly luminous
substance hovering over the path. I stopped and regarded the phenomenon with awe,
for its phosphorescence was beautifully different from any I had ever seen. The whirling
of the substance rapidly gained momentum. It was taking shape, first the faint
outlines of a human form, then the semblance of a beaming face, a
metamorphosis from angel to woman. And Elsie stood before me. There was nothing
wraith like in her appearance as she came forward to meet me, except her
raiment, which was still luminous. I stepped forward to meet her, to
clasp her in my arms, as of old, but she held up a
warning hand. She smiled. She spoke, Arthur, She said, I
have forgiven him. He has atoned you too, must forgive. I am
alive, Arthur, even as you are alive, but our spheres are very
different. I still love you, and some day you will come to me.
As a token of this, I will leave with you the engagement ring
you gave me and the long ago. I will drop it into your hand,
as I must not touch you. She slipped the ring from her finger
and gave it to me. Farewell, beloved, I must return to my
plane. She wafted me a kiss, and was gone. For a fleeting
moment, A faintly luminous spiral marked the place where she had been. The
station agent was a typical native who seemed both surprised and glad at my appearance.
After I had bought my ticket, he ejected an inordinate quid of cut
plug and drawled. Fellow never knows how many friends he got till he's dead.
That funeral this afternoon was the biggest I've ever seen in these parts.
I nodded and inquired the time the train would arrive. He told me I
had but a few minutes to wait. Great man was doctor de Bruce,
remarked the station man. As I took a seat in the vacant waiting room.
Everybody for miles round was at his funeral today. Did I see you
there? What's that? I ejaculated, the ticket falling from my hand.
Doctor to Bruce's funeral today. Thought I might have seen you there, the
man repeated, evidently not remarking my astonishment. I understood, that is,
if the realization that one has just finished talking with a man just buried can
be classified as understanding of any sort. It wasn't necessary to ask the man
for particulars. Upon discovering I was not at the funeral, he was eager
to tell the whole story. At least a hundred carriages and automobiles were there,
he said, and hundreds of the physicians friends had come afoot, many
from adjoining counties. His narrative drifted to the life to Bruce had led since
coming to Coughton from the Southerner Straw. I was able to gather that De
Bruce had devoted most of his time to caring for the sick and needy in
the village and in the mountains, and had never accepted a penny for his
services. About two years before his death, however, his health began to
decline, and thereafter he was seldom seen to leave his estate. It was
rumored he had locked himself up with his books on science and spiritism, as
the native called it. Two days before my arrival at Coughton, a hillsman
calling at his house for medicine had found him dead in the library. The
coroner had pronounced it paralysis. The fellow was still talking when the locomotive shrieked
in the distance. Five minutes later it was speeding me northward. Yes,
maybe it was all a dream, a nightmare superinduced by reminiscences there in the
gloomy library. Yet I will swear I was awake through it all, and
that it was no hallucination, no phantom of imagery that related the story of
the madman's crime, no Incubis, that vision of Elsie. If it was
a dream, where did I get this ring? Perhaps it is a matter
for psychologists and other delvers into the unknown to investigate. As for me,
Arthur Rens, I repeat, I will have none of it. End of
Doctor de Bruce by Earl Leeston Bell recording by Colin McMahon.