The Nightmare Room by a Conan Doyle. The sitting room of the Masons was
a very singular apartment. At one end, it was furnished with considerable luxury.
The deep sofas, the low luxurious chairs, the voluptuous statuettes, and
the rich curtains hanging from deep and ornamental screens of metal work made a fitting
frame for the lovely woman who was the mistress of the establishment. Mason,
a young but wealthy man of affairs, had clearly spared no pains and no
expense to meet every want and every whim of his beautiful wife. It was
natural that he should do so, for she had given up much for his
sake. The most famous dancer in France, the heroine of a dozen extraordinary
romances, she had resigned her life of glittering pleasure in order to share the
fate of the young American whose austere ways differed so widely from her own.
In all that wealth could buy, he tried to make amends for what she
had lost. Some might perhaps have thought it in better taste had he not
proclaimed this fact, had he not even allowed it to be printed. But
save for some personal peculiarities of the sort His conduct was that of a husband
who has never, for an instant ceased to be a lover. Even the
presence of spectators would not prevent the public exhibition of his overpowering affection. But
the room was singular. At first it seemed familiar, and yet a longer
acquaintance made one realize its sinister peculiarities. It was silent, very silent.
No footfall could be heard upon those rich carpets and heavy rugs. A struggle,
even the fall of a body, would make no sound. It was
strangely colorless, also in a light which seemed always subdued. Nor was it
all furnished in equal taste. One would have said that when the young banker
had lavished thousands upon this boom dar, this inner jewel case for his precious
possession, he had failed to count the cost, and had suddenly been arrested
by a threat to his own solvency. It was luxurious where it looked out
upon the busy street below. At the farther side, it was bare,
spartan, and reflected rather the taste of a most ascetic man than of a
pleasure loving woman. Perhaps that was why she only came there for a few
hours, sometimes two, sometimes four in the day. But while she was
there, she lived intensely. Within this nightmare room, Lucille Mason was a
very different and a far more dangerous woman than she was in any other room.
Dangerous, that was the word. Who could doubt it? Who saw
her delicate figure stretched upon the great bear skin which draped the sofa. She
was leaning upon her right elbow, her delicate but determined chin resting upon her
hand, while her eyes, large and languishing, adorable but inexorable, stared
out in front of her with a fixed intensity, which had in it something
vaguely terrible. It was a lovely face, a child's face, and yet
nature had placed there some subtle mark, some indefinable expression, which told that
a devil lurked within. It had been noticed that dogs shrank from her,
and that children screamed and ran from her caresses. There are instincts that are
deeper than reason. Upon this particular afternoon, something had greatly moved her.
A letter was in her hand, which she read and re read with a
tightening of those delicate little eyebrows and a grim setting of those delicious lips.
Suddenly she started, and a shadow of fear softened the feline menace of her
features. She raised herself upon her arm, and her eyes were fixed eagerly
upon the door. She was listening, intently, listening for something which she
dreaded, most certainly dreaded to hear. For a moment, a smile of
relief played over her expressive face. Then, with a look of horror,
she stuffed her letter into her dress. She had hardly done so before the
door opened and a young man came briskly into the room. It was Archie
Mason, her husband, the man whom she had loved, the man for
whom she had sacrificed her European fame, the man whom now she regarded as
the one obstacle to a new and wonderful experience. The American was a man
about thirty, clean, shaven, athletic, dressed to perfection in a closely
cut suit which outlined his perfect figure. He stood at the door with his
arms folded, looking intently at his wife, with a face which might have
been a handsome sun tinted mask save for those vivid eyes. She still leaned
upon her elbow, but her eyes were fixed on his. There was something
terrible in the silent exchange. Each interrogated the other, and each conveyed the
thought that the answer was vital. He might have been asking what have you
done? She, in her turn, seemed to be saying, what do
you know? Finally, he walked forward, sat down upon the bear skin
beside her, and, taking her delicate ear gently between his fingers, turned
her face towards his. Lucille, he said, are you poisoning me?
She sprang back from his touch, with horror in her face and protests upon
her lips. Two moved to speak. Her surprise and her anger showed themselves
rather in her darting hands and her convulsed features. She tried to rise,
but his ground gasp tightened upon her wrist. Again he asked his question,
but this time it had deepened in its terrible significance. Lucille, why are
you poisoning me? You are mad, archie mad? She gasped. His
answer froze her blood. With pale, parted lips and blanched cheeks, she
could only stare at him in helpless silence. He drew a small bottle from
his pocket and held it before her eyes as grim evidence of her guilt.
It is from your jewel case, he said. Twice. She tried to
speak and failed. At last, the words came slowly, one by one
from her contorted lips. At least I never used it again. His hand
sought his pocket. From it, he drew a sheet of paper, which
he unfolded and held before her. It is the certificate of doctor Angus.
It shows the presence of twelve grains of antimony. I have also the evidence
of Dival, the chemist who sold it. Her face was terrible to look
at. There was nothing to say. She could only lie with that fixed,
hopeless stare, like some fierce creature in a fatal trap. Well,
he asked. There was no answer save a movement of desperation and appeal from
the beautiful woman. Why, he said, I want to know why.
As he spoke, his eye caught the edge of the letter, which she
had thrust into her bosom. In an instant he had snatched it. With
a cry of despair. She tried to regain it, but he held her
off with one hand while his eyes raced over it. Campbell, He gasped.
It was Cambell. She had found her courage again. There was nothing
more to conceal. Her face set hard and firm. Her eyes were deadly
as daggers as she faced him. Yes, she said, it is Campbell,
my God, Campbell of all men. He rose and walked swiftly about
the room. Campbell, the grandest man that he had ever known, a
man whose whole life had been one long record of self denial, of courage,
of every quality which marks the chosen man. And yet he too had
fallen a victim to this siren, and had been dragged down to such a
level that he had been betrayed in intention, if not in actual deed,
the man whose hand he shook in friendship. It was incredible, and yet
here was the passionate, pleading letter imploring his wife to fly and share the
fate of a penniless man. Every word of the letter showed that Campbell had
at least no thought of Mason's death, which would have removed all difficulties.
That devilish solution was the outcome of the deep and wicked brain which brooded within
that perfect habitation in the mind of the woman he loved. Mason was a
man in a million, a philosopher, a thinker with a broad and tender
sympathy for others, for an instant, his soul had been submerged in his
bitterness. He could, for that brief period have slain both his wife and
Campbell, and gone to his own death with the serene mind of a man
who has done his plain duty. But already, as he paced the room,
milder thoughts had begun to prevail. How could he blame Campbell? He
knew the absolute witchery of this woman. It was not only her wonderful physical
beauty. She had a unique power of seeming to take an interest in a
man, in writhing to his inmost conscience, in penetrating those parts of his
nature which were too sacred for the world, and in seeming to stimulate him
towards ambition and even towards virtue and splendid kindliness. It was just there that
the deadly cleverness of her net was shown. He remembered how it had been
in his own case. She was free then, or so he thought,
and he had been able to marry her. But suppose she had not been
free, Suppose she had been married, and suppose she had taken possession of
his soul in the same way. Would he have stopped there? Would he
have been able to draw off with him his unfulfilled longings. He was bound
to admit that, with all his new England strength, he could not have
done so, Why then, should he feel so bitter with his unfortunate friend
who was in the same position. It was pity and sympathy that filled his
mind as he thought of Campbell, caught by this wonderful siren. And she
there she lay upon the sofa, a poor, broken butterfly, her dreams
dispersed, her plot detected, her future dark and perilous. Even for her
poisoner as she was, his heart relented. He knew something of her history.
He knew her as a spoiled child from birth, untamed, unchecked,
sweeping everything easily before her With her cleverness, her beauty, and her charm,
she had never known an obstacle. Now one had risen across her path,
and she had madly and wickedly tried to remove it in the only way
she could think of. But if she had wished to remove it was not
that in itself a sign that he had been found wanting that he was not
the man who could bring her peace of mind and contentment of heart. He
was too stern and self contained for that. Sunny, volatile nature. He
was of the north and she of the south, drawn strongly together for a
time by the law of opposites, but impossible for permanent union. He should
have seen this, he should have understood it. It was on him that
the responsibility lay. His heart softened towards her, as it would to a
little child that was in helpless trouble. For a time he had paced the
room in silence, his lips compressed, his hands clenched till his nails had
marked his palms. Now, with a sudden movement, he sat beside her
and took her cold and inert hand in his. You shall choose between us,
dear, he said, if really you are sure, sure you know
that Campbell could make you happy. I will not be the obstacle a divorce.
She gasped, his hand closed upon the bottle of poison. You can
call it, that, said he. A new, strange light shone in
her eyes as she looked at him, Archie, she cried, you could
forgive me even that, He smiled at her. You are only a little
wayward kitty. After all, Her arms were outstretched to him. When there
was a tap at the door, and the maid entered in the strange,
silent fashion in which all things moved in that room. There was a card
on the tray, Captain Campbell, I will not see him, Mason sprang
to his feet. On the contrary, he is most welcome show him up
this instant. A few minutes later, a tall, sunburnt young soldier had
been ushered into the room. He came forward with a smile upon his pleasant
features. But as the door closed behind him and the faces before him resumed
their natural expressions, he paused irresolutely. Well, he asked. Mason stepped
forward and laid his hand upon his shoulder. I bear no ill will,
he said, ill will? Yes, I know all, but I might
have done the same myself had the position been reversed, Mason quietly told him.
Campbell stepped back and looked a question at the lady. She nodded and
shrugged her graceful shoulders. Mason smiled, you need not fear that it is
a trap for a confession. We have had a frank talk upon the matter.
See Jack, you were always a sportsman. Here is a bottle.
Never mind how it came here. If one or the other of us drinks
it, it will clear the situation. His manner was wild, almost delirious.
Lucille, which shall it be? There had been a strange force at
work in the nightmare room. A third man was there, though not one
of the three who stood in the crisis of their life's drama had time or
thought for him. How long he had been there, how much he had
heard? None could say. In the corner, farthest from the little group,
he was crouched against the wall, a sinister, snakelike figure, silent
and scarcely moving save for a nervous twitching of his clenched right hand, intent
watching eagerly every new phase of the drama. Are you game, Jack,
asked Mason. The soldier nodded. No, No, cried the woman.
Mason had uncorked the bottle, and turning to the side table, he drew
out a pack of cards. We can't put the responsibility on her, he
said, Come jack, the best of three. The soldier approached the table.
He fingered the fatal cards. The woman, leaning upon her hand,
bent her face forward and stared with fascinated eyes. Then, and only then,
the bolt fell. The stranger had risen, pale and grave. All
three were suddenly aware of his presence. They faced him with eager inquiry in
their eyes. He looked at them with something of the Master in his bearing.
How is it, they asked, altogether rotten? He said, rotten.
We'll shoot the all seen again tomorrow. End of the Nightmare Room.