The Last Night
Mr Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.
`Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?' he cried; and then, taking a second look at him, `What ails you?' he added; `is the doctor ill?'
`Mr Utterson,' said the man, `there is something wrong.'
`Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,' said the lawyer. `Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.'
`You know the doctor's ways, sir,' replied Poole, `and how he shuts himself up. Well, he's shut up again in the cabinet; and I don't like it, sir - I wish I may die if I like it. Mr Utterson, sir, I'm afraid.'
`Now, my good man,' said the lawyer, `be explicit. What are you afraid of?'
`I've been afraid for about a week,' returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, `and I can bear it no more.'
The man's appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. `I can bear it no more,' he repeated.
`Come,' said the lawyer, `I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.'
`I think there's been foul play,' said Poole, hoarsely.
`Foul play!' cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened, and rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. `What foul play? What does the man mean?'
`I daren't say, sir,' was the answer; `but will you come along with me and see for yourself?'
Mr Utterson's only answer was to rise and get his hat and great coat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler's face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow.
It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and a flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for, struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white, and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.
`Well, sir,' he said, `here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.'
`Amen, Poole,' said the lawyer.
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