Speaker 1: 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.