The Darrow Enigma(达罗之迷)

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The Darrow Enigma

by Melvin L. Severy

The Darrow Enigma

THE EPISODE OF THE

DARKENED ROOM

CHAPTER I

What shall we say when Dream-Pictures leave their frames of night

and push us from the waking world?

As the part I played in the events I am about to narrate was rather that

of a passive observer than of an active participant, I need say little of

myself. I am a graduate of a Western university and, by profession, a

physician. My practice is now extensive, owing to my blundering into

fame in a somewhat singular manner, but a year ago I had, I assure you,

little enough to do. Inasmuch as my practice is now secure, I feel

perfectly free to confess that the cure I effected in the now celebrated case

of Mrs. P- was altogether the result of chance, and not, as I was then only

too glad to have people believe, due to an almost supernatural power of

diagnosis.

Mrs. P- was not more surprised at the happy result than was I; the only

difference being that she showed her astonishment, while I endeavoured to

conceal mine, and affected to look upon the whole thing as a matter of

course.

My fame spread; the case got into the medical journals, where my skill

was much lauded, and my practice became enormous. There is but one

thing further I need mention regarding myself: that is, that I am possessed

of a memory which my friends are pleased to consider phenomenal. I

can repeat a lecture, sermon, or conversation almost word for word after

once hearing it, provided always, that the subject commands my interest.

My humble abilities in this direction have never ceased to be a source of

wonderment to my acquaintance, though I confess, for my own part, when

I compare them with those of Blind Tom, or of the man who, after a single

reading, could correctly repeat the London Times, advertisements and all,

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they seem modest indeed.

It was about the time when, owing to the blessed Mrs. P -, my

creditors were beginning to receive some attention, that I first met George

Maitland. He had need, he said, of my professional services; he felt

much under the weather; could I give him something which would brace

him up a bit; he had some important chemical work on hand which he

could not afford to put by; in fact, he didn't mind saying that he was at

work upon a table of atomical pitches to match Dalton's atomic weights; if

he succeeded in what he had undertaken he would have solved the secret

of the love and hatred of atoms, and unions hitherto unknown could easily

be effected.

I do not know how long he would have continued had not my interest

in the subject caused me to interrupt him. I was something of an

experimenter myself, and here was a man who could help me.

It was a dream of mine that the great majority of ailments could be

cured by analysing a patient's blood, and then injecting into his veins such

chemicals as were found wanting, or were necessary to counteract the

influence of any deleterious matter present. There were, of course,

difficulties in the way, but had they not already at Cornell University done

much the same for vegetable life? And did not those plants which had

been set in sea sand out of which every particle of nutriment had been

roasted, and which were then artificially fed with a solution of the

chemicals of which they were known to be composed, grow twice as rank

as those which had been set in the soil ordinarily supposed to be best

adapted to them? What was the difference between a human cell and a

plant cell? Yes, since my patient was a chemist, I would cultivate his

acquaintance.

He proceeded to tell me how he felt, but I could make nothing of it, so

I forthwith did the regulation thing; what should we doctors do without it!

I looked at his tongue, pulled down his eyelid, and pronounced him bilious.

Yes, there were the little brown spots under his skin - freckles, perhaps -

and probably he had an occasional ringing in his ears. He was willing to

admit that he was dizzy on suddenly rising from a stooping posture, and

that eggs, milk, and coffee were poison to him; and he afterward told me

The Darrow Enigma

he should have said the same of any other three articles I might have

mentioned, for he looked so hale and vigorous, and felt so disgracefully

well, that he was ashamed of himself. We have had many a laugh over it

since. The fact of the matter is the only affliction from which he was

suffering was an inordinate desire to make my acquaintance. Not for my

own sake - oh, dear, no! - but because I was John Darrow's family

physician, and would be reasonably sure to know Gwen Darrow, that

gentleman's daughter. He had first met her, he told me after we had

become intimate, at an exhibition of paintings by William T. Richards, -

but, as you will soon be wondering if it were, on his part, a case of love at

first sight, I had best relate the incident to you in his own words as he told

it to me. This will relieve me of passing any judgment upon the matter,

for you will then know as much about it as I, and, doubtless, be quite as

capable of answering the question, for candour compels me to own that

my knowledge of the human heart is entirely professional. Think of

searching for Cupid's darts with a stethoscope!

"I was standing," Maitland said, "before a masterpiece of sea and rock,

such as only Richards can paint. It was a view of Land's End, Cornwall,

and in the artist's very best vein. My admiration made me totally

unmindful of my surroundings, so much so, indeed, that, although the

gallery was crowded, I caught myself expressing my delight in a perfectly

audible undertone. My enthusiasm, since it was addressed to no one,

soon began to attract attention, and people stopped looking at the pictures

to look at me. I was conscious of this in a vague, far-off way, much as

one is conscious of a conversation which seems to have followed him

across the borderland of sleep, and I even thought that I ought to be

embarrassed. How long I remained thus transported I do not know. The

first thing I remember is hearing someone close beside me take a quick,

deep breath, one of those full inhalations natural to all sensitive natures

when they come suddenly upon something sublime. -I turned and looked.

I have said I was transported by that canvas of sea and rocks, and have,

therefore, no word left to describe the emotion with which I gazed upon

the exquisite, living, palpitating picture beside me. A composite

photograph of all the Madonnas ever painted, from the Sistine to

The Darrow Enigma

Bodenhausen's, could not have been more lovely, more ineffably womanly

than that young girl, radiant with the divine glow of artistic delight - at

least, that is my opinion, which, by the bye, I should, perhaps, have stated

a little more gingerly, inasmuch as you are yourself acquainted with the

young lady. Now, don't look incredulous [noticing my surprise]. Black

hair - not brown, black; clear pink and white complexion; large, deep

violet eyes with a remarkable poise to them." - Here I continued the

description for him: "Slight of figure; a full, honest waist, without a

suggestion of that execrable death-trap, Dame Fashion's hideous cuirass; a

little above middle height; deliberate, and therefore graceful, in all her

movements; carries herself in a way to impress one with the idea that she

is innocent, without that time-honoured concomitant, ignorance; half girl,

half woman; shy, yet strong; and in a word, very beautiful - that's Gwen

Darrow." I paused here, and Maitland went on somewhat dubiously: "Yes,

it's not hard to locate such a woman. She makes her presence as clearly

felt among a million of her sex as does a grain of fuchsine in a hogshead

of water. If, with a few ounces of this, Tyndall could colour Lake

Geneva, so with Gwen Darrow one might, such is the power of the ideal,

change the ethical status of a continent."

He then told me how he had made a study of Miss Darrow's

movements, and had met her many times since; in fact, so often that he

fancied, from something in her manner, that she had begun to wonder if

his frequent appearance were not something more than a coincidence.

The fear that she might think him dogging her footsteps worried him, and

he began as sedulously to avoid the places he knew she frequented, as he

previously had sought them. This, he confessed, made him utterly

miserable. He had, to be sure, never spoken to her, but it was everything

to be able to see her. When he could endure it no longer he had come to

me under pretence of feeling ill, that he might, when he had made my

acquaintance, get me to introduce him to the Darrows.

You will understand, of course, that I did not learn all this at our first

interview. Maitland did not take me into his confidence until we had had

a conference at his laboratory devoted entirely to scientific speculations.

On this occasion he surprised me not a little by turning to me suddenly and

The Darrow Enigma

saying: "Some of the grandest sacrifices the world has ever known, if one

may judge by the fortitude they require,=20and the pain they cause, have

occurred in the laboratory." I looked at him inquiringly, and he continued:

"When a man, simply for the great love of truth that is in him, has given

his life to the solution of some problem, and has at last arrived, after years

of closest application, at some magnificent generalisation - when he has,

perhaps, published his conclusions, and received the grateful homage of

all lovers of truth, his life has, indeed, borne fruit. Of him may it then be

justly said that his

"'. . . life hath blossomed downward like The purple bell-flower.'

But suddenly, in the privacy of his laboratory, a single fact arises from

the test-tube in his trembling hand and confronts him! His brain reels;

the glass torment falls upon the floor, and shatters into countless pieces,

but he is not conscious of it, for he feels it thrust through his heart. When

he recovers from the first shock, he can only ejaculate: 'Is it possible?'

After a little he is able to reason. 'I was fatigued,' he says; 'perhaps my

senses erred. I can repeat the experiment again, and be sure. But if it

overthrow those conclusions for which I have given my life?' he gasps.

'My generalisation is firmly established in the minds of all - all but myself

- no one will ever chance upon this particular experiment, and it may not

disprove my theory after all; better, much better, that the floor there keep

the secret of it all both from me and from others!' But even as he says

this to himself he has taken a new tube from the rack and crawled - ten

years older for that last ten minutes - to his chemical case. The life-long

habit of truth is so strong in him that self-interest cannot submerge it. He

repeats the experiment, and confirms his fears. The battle between his

life and a few drops of liquid in a test-tube has been mercilessly fought,

and he has lost! The elasticity of the man is gone forever, and the only

indication the world ever receives of this terrible conflict between a

human soul and its destiny is some half a dozen lines in Nature, giving the

experiment and stating that it utterly refutes its author's previous

conclusions. Half a dozen lines - the epitaph of a dead, though unburied,

life!"

My companion paused there, but I found myself unable to reply. He

The Darrow Enigma

had spoken with such intensity, such dramatic fervour, that I was

completely swept away by his eloquence; so much so, indeed, that it did

not even occur to me to ask myself why he should have burst out in this

peculiar strain. I have given you the incident in order that you may see

the strange moods into which Maitland occasionally relapsed - at least, at

that time. After a quick glance at me he continued, in a quieter vein: "All

of us men of science have felt something, however little, of this, and I

believe, as a class, scientists transcend all other men in their respect for

absolute truth." He cast another one of his searching glances at me, and

said quickly: "This is precisely why I am going to confide in you and rely

upon your assistance in a matter, the successful termination of which

would please me as much as the discovery of an absolute standard of

measurement."

He then made the confession which I have already given you, and

ended by asking me to secure him an introduction to Miss Darrow. I

cheerfully promised to bring this about at the first opportunity. He asked

me if I thought, on account of his having met her so frequently, she would

be likely to think it was all a "put up job."

"I do not know," I replied. "Miss Darrow is a singularly close

observer. On the whole I think you had better reach her through her

father. Do you play croquet?" He replied that he was considered

something of an expert in that line. That, then, was surely the best way.

John Darrow was known in the neighbourhood as a "crank" on the subject

of croquet. He had spent many hundreds of dollars on his grounds. His

wickets were fastened to hard pine planks, and these were then carefully

buried two feet deep. The surface of the ground, he was wont to descant,

must be of a particular sort of gravel, sifted just so, and rolled to a nicety.

The balls must be of hard rubber, and have just one-eighth inch clearance

in passing through the wickets, with the exception of the two wires

forming the "cage," where it was imperative that this clearance should be

reduced to one-sixteenth of an inch - but I need not state more to show

how he came to be considered a "crank" upon the subject.

It was easy enough to bring Maitland and Darrow together. "My

friend is himself much interested in the game; he heard of your superb

The Darrow Enigma

ground; may he be permitted to examine it closely?" Darrow was all

attention. He would be delighted to show it. Suppose they make a

practical test of it by playing a game. This they did and Maitland played

superbly, but he was hardly a match for the old gentleman, who sought to

palliate his defeat by saying: "You play an excellent game, sir; but I am a

trifle too much for you on my own ground. Now, if you can spare the

time, I should like to witness a game between you and my daughter; I

think you will be pretty evenly matched."

If he could spare the time! I laughed outright at the idea. Why, with

the prospect of meeting Gwen Darrow before him, an absolute unit of

measure, with a snail's pace, would have made good its escape from him.

As it is a trick of poor humanity to refuse when offered the very thing one

has been madly scheming to obtain, I hastened to accept Darrow's

invitation for my friend, and to assure him on my own responsibility, that

time was just then hanging heavily on Maitland's hands. Well, the game

was played, but Maitland was so unnerved by the girl's presence that he

played execrably, so poorly, indeed, that the always polite Darrow

remarked: "You must charge your easy victory, Gwen, to your opponent's

gallantry, not to his lack of skill, for I assure you he gave me a much

harder rub." The young lady cast a quick glance at Maitland, which said

so plainly that she preferred a fair field and no favour that he hastened to

say: "Your father puts too high an estimate upon my play. I did my best

to win, but - but I was a little nervous; I see, however, that you would have

defeated me though I had been in my best form." Gwen gave him one of

those short, searching looks, so peculiarly her own, which seem to read,

with mathematical certainty, one's innermost thoughts, - and the poor

fellow blushed to the tips of his ears. - But he was no boy, this Maitland,

and betrayed no other sign of the tempest that was raging within him.

His utterance remained as usual, deliberate and incisive, and I thought this

perplexed the young lady. Before leaving, both Maitland and I were

invited to become parties to a six-handed game to be played the following

week, after the grounds had been redressed with gravel.

Maitland looked forward to this second meeting with Miss Darrow

with an eagerness which made every hour seem interminably long, and he

The Darrow Enigma

was in such a flutter of expectancy that I was sure if

"We live . . . in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on

a dial We should count time by heart-throbs,"

he must have passed through a period as long as that separating the

Siege of Troy from the "late unpleasantness." The afternoon came at last,

however. The party consisted, besides Darrow and his daughter,

Maitland and myself, of two young gentlemen with whom personally I had

but a slight acquaintance, although I knew them somewhat by reputation.

The younger one, Clinton Browne, is a young artist whose landscapes

were beginning to attract wide attention in Boston, and the elder, Charles

Herne, a Western gentleman of some literary attainments, but

comparatively unknown here in the East. There is nothing about Mr.

Herne that would challenge more than passing attention. If you had said

of him, "He is well-fleshed, well-groomed, and intellectually well-

thatched," you would have voiced the opinion of most of his

acquaintances.

This somewhat elaborately upholstered old world has a deal of mere

filling of one kind and another, and Mr. Herne is a part of it. To be sure,

he leaves the category of excelsior very far behind and approaches very

nearly to the best grade of curled hair, but, in spite of all this, he is simply

a sort of social filling.

Mr. Browne, on the other hand, is a very different personage. Of

medium height, closely knit, with the latent activity and grace of the cat

flowing through every movement and even stagnating in his pose, he is a

man that the first casual gaze instantly returns to with sharpened focus.

You have seen gymnasts whose normal movements were slowly

performed springs, just as rust is a slow combustion and fire the same

thing in less time. Well, Clinton Browne strongly suggested that sort of

athlete. Add to this a regularly formed, clearly cut, and all-but-beautiful

face, with a pair of wonderfully piercing, albeit somewhat shifty, black

eyes, and one need not marvel that men as well as women stared at him.

I have spoken of his gaze as "somewhat shifty," yet am not altogether sure

that in that term I accurately describe it. What first fastened my attention

was this vague, unfocussed, roving, quasi-introspective vision flashing

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with panther-like suddenness into a directness that seemed to burn and

pierce one like the thrust of a hot stiletto, His face was clean-shaven, save

for a mere thumb-mark of black hair directly under the centre of his lower

lip. This Iago-like tab and the almost fierce brilliancy of his concentrated

gaze gave to his countenance at times a sinister, Machiavellian expression

that was irresistible and which, to my thinking, seriously marred an

otherwise fine face. Of=20course due allowance must be made for the

strong prejudice I have against any form of beard. However, I'd wager a

box of my best liver-pills against any landscape Browne ever painted, - I

don't care if it's as big as a cyclorama, - that if he had known how

completely Gwen shared my views, - how she disliked the appearance of

bewhiskered men, - that delicately nurtured little imperial would soon

have been reduced to a tender memory, - that is to say, if a physician can

diagnose a case of love from such symptoms as devouring glances and an

attentiveness so marked that it quite disgusted Maitland, who repeatedly

measured his rival with the apparent cold precision of a mathematician,

albeit there was warmth enough underneath.

This singular self-poise is one of Maitland's most noticeable

characteristics and is, I think, rather remarkable in a man of such strong

emotional tendencies and lightning-like rapidity of thought. No doubt

some small portion of it is the result of acquirement, for life can hardly fail

to teach us all something of this sort; still I cannot but think that the larger

part of it is native to him. Born of well-to-do parents, he had never had the

splendid tuition of early poverty. As soon as he had left college he had

studied law, and had been admitted to the bar. This he had done more to

gratify the wishes of his father than to further any desires of his own, but

he had soon found the profession, so distasteful to him that he practically

abandoned it in favour of scientific research. True, he still occasionally

took a legal case when it turned upon scientific points which interested

him, but, as he once confessed to me, he swallowed, at such times, the

bitter pill of the law for the sugar coating of science which enshrouded it.

This legal training could, therefore, it seems to me, have made no deep or

radical change in his character, which leads me to think that the self-

control he exhibited, despite the angry disgust with which I know

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TheDarrowEnigma1TheDarrowEnigmabyMelvinL.SeveryTheDarrowEnigma2THEEPISODEOFTHEDARKENEDROOMCHAPTERIWhatshallwesaywhenDream-Picturesleavetheirframesofnightandpushusfromthewakingworld?AsthepartIplayedintheeventsIamabouttonarratewasratherthatofapassiveobserverthanofanactiveparticipant,Ineedsaylittleofmy...

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