Speaker 1: Doctor de Bruce by Earl Leiston Bell. This is a
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Recording by Colin mac mahon, Doctor de Bruce by Earl
Leiston Bell. The old tent Maker declared that the rose,
once blown, forever dies. Then came the part of Avon,
who described the after Land as an unknown country from
which no traveler ever returns. I used to laugh with
Omar and philosophize 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 Wrens 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 Wrens, Boston, mass Calm
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 times, 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 pensiont for making friends, and everything in
the line of good luck seemed to swerve his way.
Fortune had 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 De 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 alight, Going into the little station to inquire the
way to de Bruce's dwelling, I found the place deserted,
save for a little Picaninny, 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, buil on
the colonial style, but apparently put together hurriedly and left unpainted.
The pathway, pallisated 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 there 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 ajar, revealing the dark interior of a spacious hall.
A moment's hesitation, and I knocked lightly. Nearly five minutes
elapsed before I wrapped 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
wrap 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, and 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, 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 return 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
bygone days. We dwelt 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 enunciation 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 rejuvenait 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 De 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 friend, 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 approach 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 raymon. As you see it in the picture,
you know the rest Arthur. Afraid to face the judgment
of men, 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 ask 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 threw phantom shadows all 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 all 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 in 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,
Fella never knows how many friends he got till he's dead.
That funeral this afternoon was the biggest I I were
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 to 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 de
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 physician's friends had come afoot, many from
adjoining counties. His narrative drifted to the life de Bruce
had since coming to Clifton 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 Cloughton, 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 incubus, 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 Colleen McMahon.