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Doctor de Bruce by Earl Leeston Bell. This is a LibriVox recording. All

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LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,

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please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
by Colin McMahon, Doctor de Bruce by

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Earl Leeston Bell. The old tent
maker declared that the rose, once blown,

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forever dies. Then came the Bard
of Avon, who described the after

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Land as an unknown country from which
no traveler ever returns. I used to

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laugh with Omar and philosophies with Shakespeare, believing both were right. I laughed

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with the Persian Scoffer. Now they
laugh at me when I tell them why

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I believe both Omar and the author
of Hamlet were wrong. I am convinced

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the rose lives on even as Elsa
my rose still exists. The after Land

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may forever remain an unknown strand,
but I am certain the path to it

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is not always a one way road. Yes, I am convinced, but

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I do not care to investigate.
To probe too deep into such things often

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means a long journey from which the
traveler returns sansanity. Therefore, I Arthur

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Rens Humble Barrister, of Boston will
have none of it, haven't I said?

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They already laugh at me. I
looked at my watch, five minutes

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till closing time. As I turned
to the key in my office door,

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I was interrupted by a messenger.
The telegram read Cloughton, Georgia, Arthur

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Rens, Boston, mass Come at
once, Heaven and Hell depends Armand de

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Bruce. Armand de Bruce, a
man who, at the age of twenty

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seven, had disappeared while resident physician
of one of the largest hospitals in Boston,

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and whose whereabouts he had never revealed
even to his own family. Heaven

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and Hell depends. I perused the
telegram several wondering the while why De Bruce

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at last had chosen to reveal his
hiding place and the reason for his urgency

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of appeal. He it was who
had attended Elsie Shackelford, my beloved,

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in her fatal illness, and we
had become the closest of friends. I

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recalled the little town from which the
telegram was sent, a rustic hamlet nestling

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in the majestic hills of North Georgia. De Bruce and I had at one

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time spent several days there camping out
on a hunt for small game and quail,

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with which the woods abounded at the
time. Enroute to my bachelor quarters,

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I fell to ruminating on de Bruce's
past. He had been most successful

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in his chosen profession, and could
not have asked for a more promising future

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at the time he so abruptly abandoned
his career and disappeared. Though a fellow

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of marked eccentricities, he had a
pronounced pensiant for making friends, and everything

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in the line of good luck seemed
to swerve his way. Fortune smiled on

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him, and he had returned to
the compliment by systematically disposing of much of

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his income in various charitable ways.
A friend of the unfortunate, much of

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his time was spent at the bedside
of the poor, but reminiscences were crowded

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out by conjecture. Over to Bruce's
telegram, undoubtedly he must be ill or

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in deep trouble. Anyway, it
set me thinking. I awoke early and

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purchased a few periodicals with which to
while away the trip to Georgia. The

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journey was without incident, save for
a strange dream that night, which was

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so vivid that I awoke and slept
no more. It seemed I heard a

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voice fraught with memories of the past, crying out too late, but not

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too late. The voice sounded weirdly
like de Bruce's. Next morning I dismissed

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it as an absurd fancy, occasioned
by my concern over De Bruce's telegram and

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the fact that I was not accustomed
to making long journeys by rail. Came

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the hour when the train was struggling
over the Blue Ridge, and the early

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afternoon found me whirling through the stately
hills of North Georgia, where the iridescent

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hues of autumn blended into the blue
background of the pines. At four o'clock

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I reached my destination, the only
passenger to a light. Going into the

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little station to inquire the way to
Bruce's dwelling, I found the place deserted,

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save for a little pickaninny, who
eyed me curiously, particularly after I

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queried him. After a moment,
he stammered that doctor de Bruce's home was

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located about two miles west of the
village and pointed out the road, Tossing

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the boy a coin, I set
out to walk the distance. After making

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a few inquiries of natives along the
way. I soon neared the house.

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As I approached, I studied its
appearance and wondered why de Bruce, who

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in his youth so loved the Magnificent, could be content to dwell in such

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a place. It was roomy structure
on the colonial style, but apparently put

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together hurriedly and left unpainted. The
pathway, palisated by ancient oaks, was

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a foot deep in leaves, and
the trees themselves gave evidence of not having

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been trimmed in years. The great
oaks stood like giant sentinels guarding the desolation.

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Nowhere was their sign of life,
save for the shrieking of blue jays

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and the distant hammering of a woodpecker
on a moribund pine. Mounting the steps,

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which were carpeted with leaves, I
saw before me a massive door,

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a jar revealing the dark interior of
a spacious hall. A moment's hesitation,

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and I knocked lightly. Nearly five
minutes elapsed before I rapped again, this

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time more forcibly. But the only
answer was an echo that reverberated ominously through

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the hall, a lingering echo that
seemed to die reluctantly before the silence of

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the approaching night. Before I could
rap again, I was startled by a

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deep growl, and glancing behind,
saw a large setter dog, his fangs

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bared. The animal growled again,
and then his mood suddenly changed, the

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snarl turning into a whine as he
looked at me in that piteous manner which

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only a dumb brute in pain or
hunger can register. I spoke kindly to

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the animal, and he eventually left
me, curling himself in a bed of

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leaves on the far end of the
porch. I rapped on the great door

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for the third time, louder than
ever, Again only an echo. I

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repeated the knocking, and then pushing
open the door, I peered into the

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hall only shadows, but a door
to the left was open, revealing a

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room fairly well lighted by the rays
of the descending sun straying through the windows.

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Thinking that to Bruce might be in
a distant part of the house,

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and assuming that he would not take
offense at finding me there, I decided

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to enter and await his coming.
First glance showed the room to be a

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library. Books were everywhere. Over
the shelves were many pictures ancient and dusty.

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I noticed that the largest picture,
which occupied a central position between the

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shelves, was turned with its face
to the wall. I conjectured that the

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picture must be of some fair girl
whom de Bruce had loved and lost,

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though as far as I knew,
he had always been a misogynist, but

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his nature was such that he would
have loved with an almost mythical intensity,

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had he ever loved at all.
The thought came to me that the original

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of the portrait might have been the
cause of his forsaking his career and living

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the life of a recluse. I
became deeply reminiscent there in the stillness of

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the apparently deserted house. If,
as had been said, darkness may become

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so intense that one may feel it, then by the same token, silence

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may become so deep that one may
hear it. And so it was that

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I fancied. I heard voices of
other days, and above all the love

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song of Elsie. How long I
sat there, lost in meditation, and

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I cannot recall having lost much sleep
on the train. I became drowsy,

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and to arouse myself, walked over
to a shelf of books, reseating myself.

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I tried to read, but the
letters blurred. Drowsiness was overcoming me.

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Twice I thought to leave the house
and returned to the station, and

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twice I decided that De Bruce might
be out for a late afternoon walk and

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would return soon. I placed the
book on a table in the center of

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the room and walked to an open
window. Outside. All nature was seeking

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sleep. Even the jays had quit
their quarreling. As I gazed out upon

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the blue hills, I became aware
of a presence in the room, though

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I had heard no footfall. Welcome, Arthur, said a voice I recognized,

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and I turned to meet my host, changed almost beyond recognition. It

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was an aged, palsied man who
stood before me. He seemed to be

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suffering from some devitalizing malady. His
sunken eyes held no luster, his complexion

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was as yellow as the old lace
curtains that shaded the windows. I was

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indeed startled, but composed myself and
met him halfway, extending my hand,

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But instead of the warm clasp that
I expected, De Bruce seemed not to

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notice my proffered greeting. I knew
you were coming, he said, and

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I involuntarily stepped back, for in
the articulation, his lips moved in a

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most horribly indescribable manner. His grimaces
were terrible to behold, particularly when he

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attempted to emphasize his words with a
smile. I returned a greeting that must

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have been almost as incoherent as his. He seemed to notice my confusion,

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and his lips again twitched in an
uncanny smile. Arthur, he said,

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I set for you because there's something
I must tell you before it is too

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late. A week ago I was
stricken with paralysis. See I cannot close

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my eyes. It is with the
greatest effort that I speak. But first

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tell me how you affair since I
saw you last. Let's talk of by

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gone days. We dwelled in reminiscences
for a little while, and De Bruce

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then turned the conversation by asking me
to look over the pictures with which the

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walls were crowded. They were old, and the faces, those of scientists

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and medical men were scarcely discernible,
what with their covering of dust and the

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gathering shadows. Night was falling fast. I turned to my host, and,

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seeming to divine my thoughts, He
tottered to the table and lighted a

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large oil lamp, which, though
it dispelled the gloom fairly well, flickered

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in a manner grotesquely in keeping with
the weirdness of the surroundings. As I

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looked at each picture, De Bruce
told me what the original had accomplished in

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science. I noticed that his annunciation
was becoming clearer and his lips twitching less.

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While I was studying the likeness of
a French scientist who, according to

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my host, had been blown to
atoms while experimenting with some rejuvenile eating acids

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of his own concoction, I heard
a whine behind me. The dog had

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forsaken the porch and entered the room. I stroked the animal gently, and

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he looked at me so piteously,
whining the while that I turned to de

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Bruce for an explanation. Again,
he anticipated my words, poor Leo,

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he says he's not eaten in several
days. At his master's words, the

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dog bristled, then cowered to the
floor, and crept out of the door.

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My host seemed not to remark on
the animal's queer conduct, and proceeded

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to discuss the scientist in the picture. I soon reached the large painting,

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turned to the wall and started to
pass it by, but De Bruce gestured

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for me to turn it around.
It was with difficulty that I succeeded,

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and then, my god, I
cried, stepping back aghast. It was

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a likeness, a life size oil
painting of Elsie Shackelford, and oh the

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horror of it. But for the
eyes, violet eyes that had been with

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me always, I would not have
recognized her. A crimson stream apparently had

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been painted and mingled with the red
of a rose on her breast. The

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flower also was disfigured, and its
red had trickled down and daubed the whiteness

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of her raiment. Speechless, I
turned to to Bruce. My face was

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as bloodless as his, and I
was trembling violently. He again motioned for

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me to be seated, and I
complied, shielding my eyes from the gruesome

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sight on the canvas. Again,
my host was speaking. I listened with

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bowed head. You've seen the portrait
that has driven me mad, he began.

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You see that the life blood seems
to be flowing from her pallid lips,

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and that it stains her breast every
time I look at the picture.

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Her lips seemed to say, murderer, murderer, See the frightened, piteous

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stare. Arthur turned the picture to
the wall, so that I may tell

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you the ghastly story there in the
dancing shadows. As I caught hold of

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the gilded frame, I again glanced
at the pathetic face on the canvas,

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and it appeared that Elsie's eyes were
fixed on de Bruce in a wild and

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stony stare, that her wilted lips
were trying to find speech. Her eyes

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then turned to me, and in
their violet depths, I beheld a ray

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of the love light that had played
there so long ago, and her lips

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seemed to shape into the ghost of
a smile. Maybe it was only a

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phantasmagoria of lamp light and shadows.
The task completed, I tottered back to

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the chair and again shielded my face
with my hands. De Bruce, still

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standing behind me, continued his story
throughout the unbelievable recital. I never raised

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my head, overcome by the horror
of what I had seen. Arthur,

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he said, I killed Elsie in
trying to kill you. I loved her

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desperately, and while she was convalescing
in the hospital. I tried to win

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her. Finally I told her of
my love and learned that it could never

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be returned. It was the first
I knew of your approaching nuptials. She

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was the only woman I had ever
cared for, and I had loved her

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since childhood. The hope of winning
her had spurred me on to success in

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my profession. When I learned my
fate, I went insane, a cool,

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calculating madness. Next day you came
to see her, and when you

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held her in your arms, I
decided to kill you. Chance favored me

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for Elsie soon rang for a glass
of water. I poured two glasses,

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and into one I poured a few
drops of a colorless drug I had formulated.

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The ice in the glasses tinkled merrily
as I brought the water into the

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room, and in my madness I
fancied the music that of wedding bells.

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The poison was for you. Again, Chance favored me. You too were

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thirsty, and reached for the glass
before I could offer it. You smiled

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as you drank. To Elsie's health, Mine was a devil's smile. When

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in my room a few minutes later, I drank of wine to your death.

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Two days later, Elsie died in
my fiendish anticipation I had given her

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the wrong glass. After discovering my
mistake, I was no longer a madman.

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Day and night, I watched by
her bedside and sought to undo my

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crime, but the drug was too
potent. She was unconscious and did not

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hear my confession in prayers. As
I knelt by her bed, she died

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in unspeakable agony, a hemorrhage,
staining her Raymond as you see it in

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the picture. You know the rest
Arthur. Afraid to face the judgment of

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man, I fled, but no
one suspected me, and I would have

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been safe in Boston. Now that
I soon must face the inevitable judgment,

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I confess to you. God knows
I've tried to atone from a small photograph

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of Elsie. I had an oil
painting made and placed it in my room.

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Every night, kneeling before the portrait, I prayed her forgiveness, and

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nightly I noticed a gradual change in
the picture. Slowly, her features began

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to alter. Her eyes seemed to
alternate between an accusing stare and the dull

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glaze of death. At first I
dismissed it as a defect in the oil.

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Then, as the metamorphosis became more
pronounced, I said it was but

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the imagining of an avenging conscience,
and prayed all the more, almost imperceptibly,

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The disfiguration continued until I saw Elsie
as she appeared in the agonies of

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Death. For years, I continued
to implore her forgiveness, but the only

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answer was her piteous, accusing stare, which seemed to focus on me whenever

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I entered the room. Eventually I
turned the portrait to the wall, but

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I could not thus hide the accusations
of my conscience, and soon I became

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a decrepit old man. But now
I believe Elsie has forgiven me, and

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it is without fear that I prepared
to leave the world behind. Farewell,

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Arthur, I asked you to forget
what you cannot forgive. I raised my

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head and found the room in darkness. I shouted to Bruce's name. No

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answer again, I shouted, and
after I had struck a match, the

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feeble flame of which, through Phantom's
shadows the walls, a terror stricken echo

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came back to me through the gloom, experiencing cold fear for the first time

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in my life. I rushed frantically
out of the room and down the steps.

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The station was my destination. I
had gone only a short distance when

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I saw a nebulous glow in the
darkness ahead, A vaporous, weirdly luminous

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substance hovering over the path. I
stopped and regarded the phenomenon with awe,

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for its phosphorescence was beautifully different from
any I had ever seen. The whirling

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of the substance rapidly gained momentum.
It was taking shape, first the faint

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outlines of a human form, then
the semblance of a beaming face, a

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metamorphosis from angel to woman. And
Elsie stood before me. There was nothing

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wraith like in her appearance as she
came forward to meet me, except her

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raiment, which was still luminous.
I stepped forward to meet her, to

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clasp her in my arms, as
of old, but she held up a

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warning hand. She smiled. She
spoke, Arthur, She said, I

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have forgiven him. He has atoned
you too, must forgive. I am

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alive, Arthur, even as you
are alive, but our spheres are very

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different. I still love you,
and some day you will come to me.

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As a token of this, I
will leave with you the engagement ring

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you gave me and the long ago. I will drop it into your hand,

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as I must not touch you.
She slipped the ring from her finger

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and gave it to me. Farewell, beloved, I must return to my

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plane. She wafted me a kiss, and was gone. For a fleeting

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moment, A faintly luminous spiral marked
the place where she had been. The

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station agent was a typical native who
seemed both surprised and glad at my appearance.

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After I had bought my ticket,
he ejected an inordinate quid of cut

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plug and drawled. Fellow never knows
how many friends he got till he's dead.

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That funeral this afternoon was the biggest
I've ever seen in these parts.

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I nodded and inquired the time the
train would arrive. He told me I

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had but a few minutes to wait. Great man was doctor de Bruce,

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remarked the station man. As I
took a seat in the vacant waiting room.

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Everybody for miles round was at his
funeral today. Did I see you

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there? What's that? I ejaculated, the ticket falling from my hand.

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Doctor to Bruce's funeral today. Thought
I might have seen you there, the

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man repeated, evidently not remarking my
astonishment. I understood, that is,

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if the realization that one has just
finished talking with a man just buried can

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be classified as understanding of any sort. It wasn't necessary to ask the man

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for particulars. Upon discovering I was
not at the funeral, he was eager

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to tell the whole story. At
least a hundred carriages and automobiles were there,

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he said, and hundreds of the
physicians friends had come afoot, many

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from adjoining counties. His narrative drifted
to the life to Bruce had led since

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coming to Coughton from the Southerner Straw. I was able to gather that De

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Bruce had devoted most of his time
to caring for the sick and needy in

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the village and in the mountains,
and had never accepted a penny for his

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services. About two years before his
death, however, his health began to

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decline, and thereafter he was seldom
seen to leave his estate. It was

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rumored he had locked himself up with
his books on science and spiritism, as

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the native called it. Two days
before my arrival at Coughton, a hillsman

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calling at his house for medicine had
found him dead in the library. The

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coroner had pronounced it paralysis. The
fellow was still talking when the locomotive shrieked

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in the distance. Five minutes later
it was speeding me northward. Yes,

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maybe it was all a dream,
a nightmare superinduced by reminiscences there in the

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gloomy library. Yet I will swear
I was awake through it all, and

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that it was no hallucination, no
phantom of imagery that related the story of

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the madman's crime, no Incubis,
that vision of Elsie. If it was

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a dream, where did I get
this ring? Perhaps it is a matter

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for psychologists and other delvers into the
unknown to investigate. As for me,

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Arthur Rens, I repeat, I
will have none of it. End of

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Doctor de Bruce by Earl Leeston Bell
recording by Colin McMahon.