“Alfred told him so to his beard, with customary frankness, and Ben
laughed his great thunder laugh--like roll of an Elizabethan drum--and
said, ‘My glue sticks, brother, my glue sticks. We shall see if thine
holds on so stoutly to the literature of England after passage of
centuries!’”
“Concerning Tennyson,” began Doctor Johnson, “we may take him first as
to his _machinery_, so-called from θεὸς απὸ μηχανῆς, or the occasional
interposition of supernatural power; next upon his _episodes_; and
lastly as to his _sentiments_, as expressive of manners. Now, in so far
as I am able to judge, the man, regarded as a moral----”
I felt Professor Parkinson pulling at my sleeve and together we stole
away. Carlyle had already turned his back and departed.
“Won’t the Doctor be hurt?” I murmured.
“Not in the least,” replied my friend. “See! There goes Boswell to him.”
A jaunty shade tripped by us with his eyes reverently lifted to the
Colossus of Words.
“Still at it, you see,” said the Professor.
* * * * *
Peter Parkinson did not delay his departure and was absent about his
affairs for exactly one week. Then he returned weary and cast down, but
apparently well satisfied with the results of his expedition.
He was good enough to tell us the sequel of Gridd’s baseness, and I
cannot do better than employ the good man’s own words in the narrative.
Many great ghosts gave ear to him. Indeed, he enjoyed the attention of
the highest.
“I found the audacious villain at Monte Carlo,” he began, “and
Providence so willed that our meeting came plump upon the high-water
mark of his ill-gotten fortunes. For he retired to bed in high good
humour after breaking the bank at the gambling house there. I suffered
him to sink into a sound sleep before availing myself of our spectral
privileges. Then settling myself upon the bottom rail of his bed (I
spare no detail) I awoke him with his favourite word. I breathed the
magic syllables firmly and at the sound of ‘Royalties!’ the wretch
turned, gradually roused himself, sat up and beheld me with my phantom
eyes fixed upon him.
“‘Good Lord! It’s Parkinson!’ he exclaimed, instantly became wide awake
and fell into a cold perspiration. Never have I seen guilt and terror
at once so horribly manifested as upon that occasion. The terror we
inspire, at least upon a sinner, has surely not been exaggerated.
“‘Traitor!’ I cried, ‘unhallowed breaker of vows, base thief and cruel
coward! You, who would steal a dead man’s fame and fatten on your
perversion of the truth, hear me! Even to the nether shades has this
infamous treachery descended; each new-come spirit enters indignant
with the horror of it; and so out of high justice I am thus allowed to
protect my own honour, to revisit the realms of the quick and right
such a wrong as all literature can scarcely match. Well may you quail,
ignoble murderer of a reputation, who have requited my kindness thus!’
“Thomas Gridd scarcely comprehended all these utterances of mine, for
the very madness of terror was upon him. His hair stood on end, his
teeth chattered, his limbs were reflexed, his eyes glared and his hands
gripped the sheet about his neck.
“‘Mercy! Mercy!’ he screamed. ‘Mercy, avenging ghost! Be merciful, even
as you were always merciful in this world. Have pity, terrible spirit!’
“‘Miscreant!’ I cried. ‘Wretch to profane that divine word with your
lips! I want my autobiography. Where is it?’
“‘Burnt!’ he said. ‘As Heaven’s above us both I burnt every line.’
“It was apparent that he told the truth.
“‘In that case,’ I replied, ‘you will send a statement of the fact to
the first daily newspaper--a statement signed and witnessed. You will
also declare that your own fabrication is devoid of the bare bones of
truth--a calculated and cold-blooded lie to gain your own mercenary
ends. And, finally, every farthing that has accrued to you from this
villainous action must be handed over to the Peter Parkinson Institute
at Glasgow.’
“Now, had he defied me,” continued the Professor, “I really know
not how I should have proceeded. I lacked all power to enforce my
directions, as you will perceive. I could only haunt the man--and that
temporarily during my leave of absence--a proceeding perhaps more
painful for myself than for the criminal. But the wretch was overborne
by the nameless horror of a visit from the grave. His guilty conscience
reeled before me, and he was physically and mentally prostrated. He had
barely strength to promise faithfully upon his oath that he would do
all I bid him; and then he lost consciousness.
“He was suffering from acute nervous excitation upon the following
morning. He took his first meal in bed and it consisted solely of
ardent spirits. I limned before his eyes while he was shaving and
he shrank back and dropped his razor and screamed. Pointing to his
writing-desk, I spoke:
“‘Delay not a moment, or the consequences will be beyond my power to
describe to you.’
“This I am willing to admit was a prevarication of the truth, but it
may perhaps be pardoned.
“He tottered to his writing-desk and anon I dictated a letter to the
Editor of the _Morning Post_, which he wrote with trembling fingers.
“‘_Dear Sir_,--
“‘_I desire through the medium of your journal to declare to the
world that my recent biography of the late Professor Peter Parkinson
is a deliberate and calculated tissue of fraud and falsehood. I
have twisted and turned the truth into a malignant fable and, upon
the foundation of much private and secret work, undertaken by my
benefactor in the interests of humanity, I have erected a shameful
structure of mendacity. My sole reason was the desire to create a
sensation and acquire wealth by it. The truth is that Professor
Parkinson left with me his autobiography and directed me to see it
through the press. This work would have explained all that unknown
labour on behalf of mankind which I so shamefully distort into an
attack upon him. I have destroyed this book. I also desire to say
that I have directed my bankers in London (Messrs. Dunster and Boyle,
of Lombard Street, E.C.) to pay to the Peter Parkinson Institute
at Glasgow ten thousand pounds, a sum representing the amount of
my royalties on the biography I concocted and dared to publish.
My publishers did not know the truth and are, to that extent,
blameless._’
“Then,” continued Parkinson, “I bid the knave send for two witnesses
and, myself invisible, saw them attest the signature of Thomas Gridd.
“Having observed him post this confession in a public letter-box, I
next directed him to visit a house of business. Into this he paid the
mass of gold and notes won at his infamous pastime overnight, and then
commissioned the banking people to convey the money by cable to the
firm of Dunster and Boyle in London.
“That done, Gridd wrote two other letters. One of these contained a
cheque for ten thousand pounds, and this he despatched to my Institute
in Scotland; the other was directed to his bankers and requested those
gentlemen to honour the cheque when it should be presented.
“So I left him to reflect upon his egregious sins, for physically the
man was now reduced to mere palpitating flesh and my continued presence
must doubtless have rendered him insane. It is quite certain that no
spectre could thus oppress a mind fortified by virtue.
“He slunk about Monte Carlo like one pursued by the Furies, and
doubtless he expected to see my stern shadow reflected once more within
his bloodshot eyes at every step. An analysis of his emotions would be
terribly instructive. I could even find it in my heart to have pitied
him then. But I thought of my wife, my children, my Institute, and was
firm.
“He made no attempt to go back upon my commands or to evade them.
Within twenty-four hours the metropolis was ringing with a new
sensation, the book was recalled as far as might be, and the Parkinson
Institute had grown richer by ten thousand pounds. Indeed that does
not represent all the advantage accruing to the institution from my
action. Numberless benefactions have sprung from this revelation and
the consciences of many tender persons have been touched into practical
action. Thus the right-feeling have compounded with their better
natures. And what is even more to me: this terrible cloud has been
lifted from off the hearts of my dear wife and children.
“My mission was accomplished within three short days. I visited Thomas
Gridd once more, begged him be of good cheer, to endeavour yet to
justify his existence, and to make his peace with Heaven, even as he
had now made it with men and ghosts. Then I vanished from his eyes.
Frankly I regret the unfortunate man’s position. It is terrible, indeed
hopeless, from a worldly point of view, yet a just and due reward for
unparalleled perfidy, if one may say so without being vindictive.”
The Professor sighed and ceased.
* * * * *
A week later, thanks to the arrival of an aged journalist, we learned
the end of this incident.
“Thomas Gridd committed suicide after writing a most astounding
confession to the _Morning Post_,” he explained.
“Then how comes it that he has not joined us?” I asked, rather
foolishly.
There was an awkward silence, upon which Ben Jonson, who chanced to be
present with other celebrities already mentioned, broke in with his
great laughter.
“It would seem, young man, thou art scarce so heedful of thy company as
an honest shade should be,” he said. “Know that we harbour not with
such varlets here. They have their proper kennel. Ask Dante about him.”
“The man Gridd now descends upon a locality of purgatorial discomfort,
situated beyond the limits of our knowledge, though not of our
conjecture,” declared Dr. Johnson.
“In brief, Gridd goes to grid-iron,” flashed a grim shadow in the
corner. “Tophet has him, mad-blazing, mad-dancing with flame of
unimaginable tints. Basting with pitch and fire. Thunder and bolt
above; blackness of Erebus beneath. And so ‘good-night’ to Gridd.”