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raywritesthings · 5 years ago

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Sheriff, Hood and Maid

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Quentin Lance, Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, John Diggle Relationships: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen (Hinted/Unresolved) Summary: Long before the Hood arrives in Starling City, Detective Lance relaxes his loyalty to the law. His daughter must take on a double life of her own to redeem her family legacy. / AU What-If of Season 1 *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

It had been a moment of weakness. After losing Sara, seeing the bodies of all those young girls pile up one after the other, with stiff limbs and sightless eyes, it was too much. He’d have done anything to make it stop, to catch Mathis.

Anything, as it turned out, had meant selling his soul.

He’d received a call tipping him off to a location Mathis was supposedly using to conduct his sick experiments. When he’d arrived, there was no Mathis and no equipment. Just a mid-ranking member of one of the local cartels.

Quentin had been angered and then infuriated when the thug had proposed his deal. Immunity for him and his side in exchange for information. He had stormed out of that warehouse and not looked back.

Then another girl had turned up dead. And another. Before he could think it through too many times, he was dialing the number that had called in the fake tip.

What else could he have done? It wasn’t like people weren’t going to buy the drugs anyway if he refused to play ball with the cartel. He’d gotten a location and led a raid to catch the Dollmaker in the act. A serial killer behind bars.

“Just remember the favor you owe us, Detective,” he’d been warned. “Or your pretty daughter with the fancy new law degree is gonna wish it was Mathis that got to her.”

Okay, so one cartel was going to walk the streets knowing he’d look the other way. So what? They didn’t have the manpower to bring them all in.

The funny thing was, once one deal was made, it didn’t seem so bad to make more. It was like they could sniff him out all of a sudden. Maybe there was talk. He didn’t know.

Quentin found himself with a lot more convictions under his belt and a lot more friends in low places. His tab was always paid at his favorite bar before he even made it there after a shift. It wasn’t like he was letting all the criminals walk. There were still bad people getting put away.

How was it any different than Nudocerdo hobnobbing with the big wigs in their ivory towers? How was it any different than Moira Queen or Malcolm Merlyn paying all the right people to get their kids off the hook for crimes they ought to be serving sentences for?

Whenever he happened to be in a charitable mood, which he rarely was, Quentin could admit it wasn’t very different to all the wheeling and dealing he’d done behind the scenes to keep Sara’s record clean.

If he had one saving grace, it was Laurel. She alone was untouched by all the dirt and corruption their city was swimming in. He was prouder than he could say, and it burned at him more than he could stand sometimes the way she would remind him of all the things he had once taught her about the law and doing what was right. He snapped at her more than was warranted for it, and he knew she just couldn’t understand.

He never wanted her to. If she ever knew…

But it was pointless to even worry about that. The associates he’d acquired over the last few years would ensure he was never ousted, so long as he kept up his end of the deals he’d made. And he would, for her sake. This city was rotten to the core, and if all he could do was save one person from it, it damned well wouldn’t be the rich elites who could bribe their way through anything or the teens with rap sheets already a mile long. It would be his own flesh and blood, all he had left of it in the world.

With enough drink in him, most nights he went to bed with a muddied conscience. But it was enough to let him sleep.

---

Laurel had had a bad feeling for a long time. Various bad feelings, she supposed, but it was hard not to when her sister and boyfriend died while screwing each other, her mother left and her father fell into drinking. There weren’t many good feelings left in the wake of all that.

But this specific one had more to do with her work. Ever since she had started at CNRI, things had felt a little… off.

At first she hadn’t noticed, too caught up in the high of winning her first official case, saving a man’s son from prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Other little victories here and there.

But then, every time she tried going up against something big, the systemic forces truly plaguing their city, roadblocks constantly sprung up in her path. A judge threw the case out, witnesses disappeared, evidence went missing from the police lockers and, lately, her boss had been getting very particular about handing out or approving assignments.

If she’d talked to her father about it once, she must have talked to him about it a million times. He’d been a sympathetic ear at first, promising to keep an eye on things at the precinct, but as time wore on he did little more than sigh and tell her that she couldn’t expect to change the world overnight. Joanna did him one better and suggested Laurel do something with all that pent-up frustration, which had led Laurel to seeking out boxing lessons at a gym not too far from their office.

While letting her anger out through her fists did wonders for her emotional self-control, it did little to fix the rest of her problems. Laurel’s mind chased itself around in circles night after night, wondering just where the trouble was starting from. Was there some kind of leak between their office and the DA’s? Was it Kate Spencer herself? Or was she being spied on?

Laurel started meeting her clients outside of the office and off the books. For a while, it seemed to help as she was happy to note to her dad. But gradually, whatever force was conspiring against her seemed to catch up to her new methods. It didn’t matter if she worked with Joanna or alone, if she wrote her files in plain English or in the secret code she and Sara had developed during a particularly boring winter filled with school cancellations due to the wind chill, making playing outside impossible. She was reaching her wit’s end with this enemy who seemed to know her as well as she knew herself.

Just as she was starting to wonder if everything was hopeless, an unexpected ally of sorts emerged from seemingly nowhere: an archer dressed in green. He’d appeared on the scene as suddenly as Oliver had stepped back into her life after five years of him being presumed dead, taking in Adam Hunt and his security team before Laurel was slated to lose her case against him thanks to a bought Judge Grell. Then again, he took on Martin Sommers and the Triad after they attacked her home while Oliver was visiting.

It was exhilarating seeing someone finally stand up to the untouchable in this city. She couldn’t help to wonder why no one had thought to do it before, couldn’t help but feel inspired...

Laurel kept these thoughts to herself while staying at her father’s that night. The police were still processing the crime scene that her apartment had become the other night thanks to the home invasion that she suspected was meant to have been an assassination if she hadn’t been able to take down one of their attackers and Mr. Diggle hadn’t shown up to confront China White. The bodyguard himself might have been killed had Oliver not been extremely lucky with his knife throw. She supposed he must have gotten very good at that sort of thing while hunting for food on the island.

Laurel’s dreams of a figure moving through thick, green overgrowth stalking the Fortune 500 were interrupted by the low snarl of her dad’s voice. Laurel startled awake, looking around in confusion.

“...don’t care that he got away. Sommers overreached, and that’s his and your problem, not mine!”

Light shone through the cracks around the bedroom door. He was still awake? Laurel slid off the mattress as quietly as she could, sneaking in her socks to the door. She opened it a centimeter and peered down the hall.

Her father was pacing back and forth, crossing in and out of view as he spoke into a phone. “My daughter comes first. The minute you agreed to his contract, that’s the minute you turned your back on me. I wasn’t gonna do a damned thing to save that bottom-feeder from some vigilante.”

Laurel’s mind raced. If this was about Sommers, and her father was talking to a person who had accepted a contract that had to do with her…

“Yeah, I know. I know what you have on me. I’d rather we continue on business as usual, too, but we can’t do that unless I have your word that the next time Laurel is in your sights, you let me handle it. Alright? She’s my responsibility, not yours. And you can tell that to China White herself.”

China White. The Triad. Her father was on the phone with the Triad.

She watched him hang up and rub a hand across his forehead. “Should’ve just let her go to San Francisco…” he muttered under his breath.

She couldn’t keep watching. Laurel shook her head and backed up into a dresser with a muffled bang, too loud for him not to have heard. “Shit,” she whispered.

Sure enough, she heard his shoes coming down the hall. Rather than comforting, they sounded loud and heavy and like a threat. What did she do? What did she say?

The door opened before she could make up her mind to flee, and Laurel looked up at her father.

“Honey?” He asked, sounding just as concerned as always. His gun rested on his belt.

She had to play this off. She couldn’t risk him finding out she knew. She couldn’t trust he wouldn’t hurt her — she didn’t know who this man was anymore.

“Uh, sorry. I was getting up to use the bathroom, and I couldn’t see where I was going in the dark,” she explained, hoping the strain in her voice could be attributed to the pain from hitting the furniture.

He nodded. “Okay. Lamp’s on the table there for it you need it.”

“Uh-huh. Are you going out?”

He looked down at himself. “No. I just, uh, was finishing up some work at the table. I’ll get to sleep soon, promise.”

Laurel forced a smile that was more a nervous twitch of the lips as she slowly moved past him into the hall, shutting herself in the bathroom. She let out a breath then drew it back in, forcing herself to focus on that and prevent herself from hyperventilating.

Her father was a dirty cop. How long had he been? Since she got her degree? Since the Gambit sunk? Since always?

He was the source of the leak. For three years, she’d been watching herself and who she spoke to, dedicated herself to nothing but work — and the one person she had felt safe in confiding to, the one person she’d thought understood her relentless pursuit of justice, had betrayed her.

She sat on the lid of the toilet and willed the tears that wanted to spill from her eyes back. There wasn’t time to feel sorry for herself. She’d unknowingly been helping the other side by giving them ready access to information. What was she going to do now?

The first thing was stop talking to her dad about her cases and make sure to lock up her notes even in the safety of her home. And then… what? That didn’t feel like enough.

What could she do to help the people who had suffered for her ignorance? The people who would continue to suffer thanks to this corrupt bargain her father had made? Or even, maybe, possibly, her father himself?

Was he just doing this to protect her? Maybe someone had made threats. Maybe he thought it was the only way. They were both semi-public figures. It wouldn’t have been hard at all for organized crime to make the connection between them and decide to exploit it.

If she could figure out how deep this went, how far this web of alliances stretched, maybe she could free him from it.

But she couldn’t do it as herself. It was clear that either her father would be forced to stop her or the Triad and whoever else would take matters into their own hands, and she didn’t want to test her luck a second time. Prosecuting them publicly would mean damning her father, too, and despite everything she had just learned, she didn’t know if she was prepared to do that.

She had to work independently of the law. Any misgivings she might have felt about that a month ago melted away now that she knew her father had abandoned his own credo a long time ago. This wasn’t some idealized mock trial in school. This was reality. And there was someone out there already proving that the only way to get justice in this city was to get it yourself.

Laurel stood and flushed the toilet to sell her story, washing her hands in the sink as she stared herself down in the mirror. Her eyes were dry and determined.

She would do what needed to be done.

---

Oliver was at a crossroads in many ways. Diggle was on the fence about joining him. Lance was hot on the trail of evidence he’d planted to set himself up for exoneration. And he still didn’t know quite where he and Laurel stood since his return in both of his personas.

He knew as Oliver he was making things difficult, wanting to atone for his actions yet also wanting her safe. He couldn’t be the man she saw in him in his public life because he was needed as the Hood. And while she seemed far more receptive to the Hood, his first encounter with her had proven… odd.

“How do you decide?” She’d asked him unexpectedly in the dark of her apartment. The little light come through the windows made her eyes look overbright and earnest. “Who gets hospitalized and who lands in the morgue?”

“It’s not a decision,” he answered eventually. “Not a conscious one. This city is in a fight for its life. In those kinds of struggles…” He had found himself struggling then to articulate what it was to be driven by the need for survival in the heat of battle, how everything else faded away.

But Laurel had nodded as if she understood. “Then it’s not a question of targeting.”

“Is there someone you wanted targeted?”

To his surprise, she did not dismiss the question, but rather hesitated. “I don’t have everything I need yet. And you’re right that Declan’s case can’t wait if he really is as innocent as you think.”

He’d let the subject drop, and there had been no time to address it in any of their subsequent meetings. Certainly not at Iron Height, where she had pulled him out of the fog of battle through her touch and voice alone before he could make yet another kill. He didn’t know how to thank her for that. Especially when the next time he saw her, it was because she was representing him against her dad, and he couldn’t exactly thank her for something he wasn’t supposed to know about as Oliver Queen.

It helped that Laurel was convinced there was no way he was the Hood. At least, he thought she was convinced until the polygraph test. Until he revealed some of the truth about what had happened to him there. The look in her eyes… he had fled before she could ask him anything, back to the party he was having Tommy plan at the house.

Oliver walked around the main room, making sure he was very visible as Diggle prepared to head out in the Hood’s suit. While he didn’t exactly enjoy himself in this type of crowd anymore, he didn’t truly tense up until he noticed something.

Outside the glass doors to the patio, someone was watching.

The strobe lights from the party illuminated her for a moment — he thought it was a her, though he couldn’t make out her face beneath the dark shawl she wore over her head and wrapped around her shoulders. The patio went dark and then light again, and in that time she had turned her back as she dropped something in one of the potted plants.

Oliver sucked around people as he made his way to the patio and the far edge, but he could make out no one in the darkness of the grounds. None of the attendees seemed to have noticed anything, either, thought that likely was due to their inebriated states.

He went back to the plant and pulled out what she had left behind.

It was a manila envelope with a note scrawled on one side in almost exaggeratedly bad handwriting.

For the Hood, if you know him.

Oliver’s heart thudded in his chest. This woman had clearly decided to believe Lance, or at least believed he had some role in the Hood’s appearance in Starling.

Did he open it? Ignore it to avoid proving this woman’s suspicions? But then, what did she want?

Oliver took the envelope back to his room and opened it, spilling the contents onto his desk. Pictures printed on computer paper. Typed notes. It was rudimentary and low-budget, but he was looking at a dossier. A dossier on Nudocerdo, the Starling City Police Commissioner. From the looks of it, he was in far too many pockets to be doing anything good for the public.

Take him down without death and I’ll tell you everything, was written at the bottom of the final page.

Now he was truly at a crossroads. If he acted, this woman would clearly know he at the very least had a connection to the Hood. But just what was “everything”?

Oliver found himself attacked by a hitman before he could ponder that much further, and only the intervention of Detective Lance saved his life and his identity from being exposed, as much as the detective looked like he might be happy to shoot Oliver as well. Long after the party had been cleared out and his family had gone to sleep secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t a vigilante was Oliver able to discuss with Diggle the woman who seemed to think he might still be the vigilante.

“I think you were visited by the Maid.”

Oliver’s face scrunched up. “The who?”

Digg shrugged. “She showed up a couple weeks back. Folks in the Glades say they’ve spotted her trailing gangbangers and cops alike. And the rumor is she’s had to fight her way out of a situation or two. That’s part of what made me realize I needed to join this fight,” Diggle told him. Folks are getting restless, desperate. You’ve shown them a new way, and they just might take it.”

Oliver frowned. He hadn’t been trying to show anyone a new way. This was just the most effective way for him to complete his father’s mission. “Why ‘the Maid’?”

“You said she was wearing that shawl over her head? Hoodette didn’t catch on, so people started looking to your namesake: Robin Hood.”

It hit him a moment later. “Maid Marian.” His uneasiness grew. Oliver knew, of course, that the whole point of what he’d just done was that the Hood and Oliver Queen were separate identities. But he didn’t like the idea of being associated, and romantically at that, with another woman. Not when he was meant to be proving himself to Laurel. If she could only know.

Unless she did? Why exactly had she wanted to know how the Hood chose his targets and what happened to them? What had she meant by not having everything she needed yet? Was she gathering information? And if she was…

It was a theory. The same kind of theory that this woman was working off of regarding his own identity, but if he was right it changed everything.

If he was right, he needed to know what Laurel knew. And he had a feeling he’d only find that out once Nudocerdo was out of the picture.

---

Once again, he found himself at the bar and, once again, he found his tab was already covered. He wasn’t drinking anything strong, though. Not tonight. Not when he’d screwed up bad enough.

He’d been so sure it was Queen. Locking up the Hood would’ve helped smooth over the ruffled feathers caused by the vigilante’s interference in Hunt and Sommer’s operations. Would’ve made his job a heck of a lot easier. And would’ve gotten the bastard far and away from his daughter.

When he’d been sure of the archer’s identity, it had all made sense. Queen returned from that island and thought he could slide back into Laurel’s good graces by putting his thumb on the scales of justice, so to speak. That was clearly why Hunt and Sommers had been attacked coincidentally as Laurel was mounting cases against them, and she had been picked out of all the lawyers in the city to help him clear Peter Declan’s name. Only now, it apparently was a coincidence, and he didn’t know anything anymore.

The Hood needed to be caught. No matter what good other people thought he was doing, he was a menace that needed to be off the streets the same as any thug. Just because he was stealing money and giving it away didn’t make him better than the likes of a kid jacking a car for a joyride. It made him worse, because he was causing unrest with the criminal elements who, like it or not, were woven into the very fabric of Starling. Had been for longer than Quentin had wanted to admit before he’d finally given in.

A man in a fine suit took the barstool next to him. “Evening, Detective.”

Quentin blew out a breath. He was not in the mood for another deal right now, not when he was still on shaky ground with the Triad. “So, which boss do you work for?”

The man pursed his lips. “Hardly. My name is Carl Ballard.”

Ballard? One of the big-wigs? Quentin sat up a little straighter.

“What’s a guy with all the money and success in the world doing in a hole-in-the-wall like this?”

“I’m here on business. I assume you haven’t heard since you’re clearly off duty at the moment, but reports have come in that Commissioner Nudocerdo has been attacked in his home by the Hood.”

“That son of a bitch,” Quentin swore. It wasn’t enough that the guy had to prove his Queen theory wrong tonight, but he had to go after the police department?

“I agree,” Ballard said lightly. “And so do some associates of mine who were fond of Nudocerdo. Given his imminent fall from grace, we want to see that things keep running smoothly. That’s why I’m letting you know you have the full backing of Tempest to fill the position of Commissioner.”

He reeled back a little in shock. “Commissioner? Me?” His eyes narrowed. “Just what is Tempest?”

“A group of like-minded individuals who want the best for our families and our city, like yourself,” Ballard told him. “We all feel you would be the best candidate in these uncertain times. Your commitment to catching the vigilante is unmatched, and you understand the way this city works.”

He knew what that last part meant underneath. Business as usual. It was hardly what he would have envisioned all those years ago as a beat cop with his head full of ideas about changing things for the better. He’d forgotten about that dream a long time ago.

“Say I accept. What’s in it for me?”

“A number of powerful allies. More if you prove effective.”

“Effective at what?”

“Tempest wants to find out the source of the Hood’s information. What he’s basing his crusade off of and how he obtained it. These are things you have to be wondering, too.”

He had, and he’d thought for a worrying moment that it might be Laurel. For the first time tonight, he was glad he’d been wrong about his assumptions on Queen.

“I’ve been in the Glades recently working on a gentrification project, and my security tells me they’ve heard rumors of a spy. A woman. They’re calling her his Maid Marian. We’d like you to start there, tracking down this young Maid.”

An informant for the Hood? That was something solid, something real at last. What did he have to lose?

“I’ll get on it — or, guess I’ll put my best men on it, since your people want me in the Commissioner’s chair so badly.” Quentin stuck out his hand for Carl Ballard to shake.

It wasn’t the worst deal he’d made.

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #quentin lance #arrow #green arrow #black canary #my writing

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thesilentinquisitor · 6 years ago

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About Evren

Basics

Name: Evren Tanith Anubis

Aka: Lady Anubis, Lady Inquisitor, the Emperor’s Jackal, the Silent Inquisitor, the Bone Witch. Aunt/Auntie Evren to many. Known to the Neverborn as the Fourteen-Eyed Jackal and the Crowned Devourer In Golden Chains. Evy or Eve to some.

Originally: Evren Tanith Burakgazi.

DOB: 21st December, 989.M1 (Sagittarius). Appears to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

Gender + Sexuality: Agender/demigirl. Poly-panromantic greysexual, with slight preference towards women when it comes to relationships and men when it comes to casual flings.

Origin: Liverpool, UK, Terra. Mixed Egyptian and Turkish, identifies as English.

Rank: [30k] Grand Inquisitor. Officially, she is the seeker of traitors and rebels, acting as a scalpel to cut out the cancer before it grows large enough to warrant calling in the Space Wolves or Night Lords. Unofficially, she seeks out artefacts, creatures, and people of great power and destructive potential and contains them, sometimes neutralising them or turning them to the use of the Imperium. These include Chaos or Warp-powered artefacts, xenotech, creations from before the Age of Strife, items from alternate universes, and things of stranger, more obscure origins. Her mission and means are highly secretive, with few beyond the Emperor and Malcador the Sigillite being aware of her true mission.

[40k] Loyalist Renegade/Inquisitor: After the Tomb Jackals were banished and wiped from the records at the end of the Heresy, they spent several centuries engaged in a Repentance Crusade in the Eye. However, they soon emerged and began engaging with the Imperium again, albeit under false names with false histories. Evren uses a fake Rosette to pass as an Inquisitor of Ordo Hereticus or Malleus.

History

Abilities:

Flawed Perpetual: Requires energy and biomass to regenerate lost body parts; she must eat an arm’s weight to get an arm back. Large healings leave her weak and sleepy from hours to days after; regrowing more than 50% of her bodyweight will cause her to fall into a coma. Will regenerate from the largest part remaining or the one with her head. Other parts die after an hour and are usually consumed to regain biomass. Never ‘dies’ but will lose consciousness if sufficiently injured.

Living Cancer: Thanks to her mother’s hasty dying pact and Malal’s sick sense of humour, Evren can best be described as a sapient infectious cancer. Her cells are constantly regenerating and can revert back to stem cell level to allow her to regenerate limbs or organs. Her cells replace any foreign organic material inside or added to her body - grafted-on limbs will change into copies of what she lost - which means she was never able to bear a child, even before she removed the required organs. Given sufficient time and material, she can convert corpses into copies of her or, if a live cell sample is placed in a nutrient broth, grow a new body from scratch over a period of roughly two and half months.

Gamma-level Psyker: biomancy/physiokinesis/chloromancy, telepathy, telekinesis, kine-shields. Studied and mastered necromancy from the post-Heresy-era onwards. Has an incredibly precise control over her magic and a long list of memorised spells, though her range is middling to poor. Good at sensing fluctuations in the Warp.

Biomancy: Her first and strongest discipline. Though she was first trained as a healer, Evren has turned what she learnt to the causes of torture and interrogation, shaping flesh and bone like wet clay. She knows dozens of methods for instant killing, as well as how to keep a victim alive long after they should have died. Her speciality is the draining of energy from victims, leaving them dried-out husks.

Chloromancy: An offshoot of biomancy devoted to the control of plants. She can create fully-grown plants from seeds in seconds, even if said seeds are inside someone’s stomach at the time. Evren’s presence enlivens plants - grass lengthens in her footsteps and flowers bloom where she uses her magic.

Necromancy: At the price of another life, Evren can bring back the dead - either has barely-sapient drones or exactly as they used to be. Those too damaged or rotten to be brought back properly are made into corpse-constructs - shambling creatures made from mismatched parts, sometimes with dozens of eyes or arms for legs - or as disposable troops. Can also summon, banish, and sense ghosts or spirits - not via any natural ability but the use of charmed props and equipment.

Daemonology: Has studied the lore of daemons, so can summon, banish, restrain, and otherwise deal with daemons. After her pact with Malal, she can access their Chains of Binding, which can make most daemons her slaves.

Strengths/Weaknesses:

+ Biology, genetic manipulation, botany: Excels in the sciences of life. Can create new species of plants, animals, and bacterium in her lab, for everything from relieving famine or curing diseases to bioweapons. Has an almost instinctive knowledge of cell function and makeup. + Occult knowledge: Widely read in the nature of magic and the Warp. Has memorised many spells, curses, and cantrips; draws protective sigils and wards with ease. Knows secrets that would drive many insane, which has had an impact on her sanity. + Resistant to pain and torture: Both thanks to experience and her ability to use biomancy to shut down her pain receptors, she can resist most interrogation techniques. When put under great stress, she will put herself into a coma. + Stealth and terror tactics: Can become all but imperceptible thanks to a combination of magical and mundane techniques. Trained in tracking, assassination, sabotage, recon, torture and interrogation, intelligence gathering, and item/personnel retrieval. + Shapeshifting: Disguising herself as others, of any height, weight, or bodyshape, is easy for Evren thanks to her biomancy. She deeply dislikes changing her skin tone and avoid it whenever possible. ~ Evren has autism, what was formerly known as Asperger’s Syndrome. - Suffering mentally: Her traumatic life experiences and knowledge of the universe has given Evren a depression and PTSD, both of which seem resistant to treatment. She suffers from panic attacks, nightmares, and is psychologically triggered by enclosed spaces, the colour yellow (especially hooded robes), pregnant women, and the sight of certain religious artifacts. She uses various meditation techniques and marijuana for her anxiety. - Cannot see into the future through dreams, visions, or third-party methods: she cannot scry, cast runes, or use the Tarot. To seers, her future actions are shrouded in darkness. Some report hearing the roar of static and feeling the attention of something dark fall on them, heralded by seeing dozens of blank, white eyes in the darkness. Others see dozens of extremely disparate futures to the point of being overwhelmed. - ’Perpetual’ nature causes her body to reject all non-organic implants, such as the Black Carapace: organic implants and transplants can be accepted via biomancy. - Must have a source of energy/food or healing abilities slow. Must have a source of energy/food or her healing abilities slow until they cease to work entirely, due to the high energy demands of her body, leading to wounds remaining open even after an ordinary human would have healed. Starves at the rate of one unenhanced, though her enhancements allow her to consume many things considered inedible. - Weak to things that destroy cells/atoms, i.e. atom bombs, strong radiation, gauss flayers, fire, being thrown into the Sun. Deeply fears Necrons for this reason. - Highly affected by Blanks. Cause painful rashes/skin peeling, bleeding from the eyes/nose, intense migraines, and seizures depending on closeness/length of exposure. Her healing factor is deadened to the point where one could kill her with a knife and a bit of patience. - Bad at spelling and mental mathematics, to the point of dyscalculia.

Personality:

+ Loyal, protective, generous, loving, charitable, friendly, patient, determined, optimistic, intellectual, courageous, devoted, flexible, playful, artistic, imaginative, trusting, forgiving.

- Liar, braggart, snobbish, patronising, glutton, literal-minded, coddling, depressive, zealot, hoarder, hypocrite, merciless, sadistic, vengeful, spiteful, stubborn, nosy, impulsive, selfish, clingy, melodramatic.

- Evren’s motivation in life is the protection and wellbeing of humanity; to this end very few actions are considered ‘too much’ or ‘too far’. Like the SCP Foundation before her, she will inflict pain and death on hundreds or thousands to save millions or even billions. - Highly curious, she is full of questions at all times and loves to explore. - Friends and family mean a lot to her; she values her brothers’ happiness highly and possesses an undying loyalty to the Emperor, even if she often doubts him. - She still has great faith in humanity and believes that most people are good - Has a 'better the devil you know’ attitude, used to enduring horrible things if it meant keeping humanity safe from even greater horrors or even annihilation - She has a deep-seated disdain for religion and identifies as a misotheist, having never met a 'god’ worth worshipping. Secretly she dreams of toppling the gods and perhaps even taking a little of their power for themselves - she’s sure she would use it better. - Due to the fact it was the last time she felt 'normal’ or 'like herself’, Evren is obsessed with the culture of the 1980s to 2020s and has gone out of her way to preserve artifacts from that era, including her favourite popular media. She enjoys cartoons and anime. - Despite, or possibly because of, living through the millennia-long suppression of magic by the Foundation, Evren is openly, unapologetically proud of being a psyker and campaigns for the better understanding of her fellow magic-users. - Secretly, she is somewhat of a coward and flees from anything she is sure can kill her, though she once managed to explore a Necron tomb with her Legion. - Often overwhelmed by her duties, she is full of doubts and often second-guesses herself - Is a hopeless romantic, in love with love, but treats sex casually - to her, it’s just another fun thing two or more people who like each other can do together

Likes/hobbies: Magic and studying magic, archaeology, history, exploring ruins or nature, tomb-raiding and grave-robbing, botany and gardening, cartoons comics, horror books/movies, making clothes and jewellery, puzzles/riddles, cooking, coffee/recaff (the more elaborate, brighter-coloured, and highly-flavoured the better), Turkish and Egyptian cuisine, dancing, singing, playing the piano.

Hates: Chaos-worshippers, the Chaos gods, religion in general, not being able to know things, traitors and backstabbers, letting down a friend, enclosed spaces, going hungry, wasting food, offal, eye contact, people who take advantage, corrupt officials, people who don’t care for others, Astartes who look down on humans, almost all Commissars not named Ciaphas Cain, the fact she has to remove all her body hair to wear her bodyglove comfortably. After the Heresy, she despises Iron Warriors and Word Bearers to the point where she’ll drop anything to kill them; it’s her dearest dream to sacrifice Erebus and Kor Phaeron to Malal.

Looks:

Height: 5′7″ (original) / 8′3″ (current). Can and will change her height with biomancy.

Eyes:

Golden with hints of brown. Dark rimmed irises like a wolf (or a chicken). In the 40k era, they turn white with black sclera when channelling the power of Malal.

Wears kohl eyeliner in the ancient Egyptian style, eyeshadow in shades of blue or red with a streak of gold. Long lashes usually enhanced with mascara.

Well-groomed, s-shaped eyebrows with a ‘hook’.

Possesses a unique, prototype in-built ‘prey-sight’ that allows her to see into the infrared spectrum and track targets by body-heat. Unfortunately, it also reduces her ability to see detail such as writing/screens and people’s faces, turns the world into a blobby mess of colour, and gives her crippling migraines if she uses it for more than five minutes. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes appear glazed during use.

Has a transparent, protective nictitating membrane.

Skin:

Brown, vaguely russet. Blushes easily, freckles in strong sunlight thanks to the Jackal geneseed. Some moles – aka ‘beauty spots’ - across her body and limbs.

No scars or wrinkles save for a line of small, round scars along her spine and faint marks on her stomach as if something with five claws slashed her from ribs to hip.

Removes all hair below the neck with biomancy, to keep it from catching in her armour and bodyglove; without that, she has dark body hair and a ‘treasure trail’.

Tattoos in gold ink of runes across her ribcage, arms to elbows, and on her stomach, spelling out incantations of warding and banishment; intricate magical diagrams and sigils cover her back from shoulders to hips. These act as protection against daemons, increase her magical abilities, and make her touch painful for any with above a certain amount of Warp energies inside them. Designed to ward off danger and interrogating Chaos worshippers, she cannot touch Sanguinius or Magnus with her bare skin without causing burning pins-and-needles tingling. Touching a daemon causes them severe pain, like touching a red-hot poker.

In the 40k era, she bears the brand of Malal on her stomach; the black-and-white skull mark only appears when she’s channelling the Outcast God’s power or consumed with thoughts of vengeance. At all other times, it’s invisible.

Sensitive to touch and ticklish, especially around the - ahem - chest.

Body:

Lean but muscular with long limbs/torso. Broad shoulders, slim waist, and powerful thighs. A six-pack and strong arms. Often compared to an Amazon or Valkyrie.

Disproportionate on close inspection, with her arms almost as long as her legs; can give an Uncanny Valley effect. Long stomach/spine between ribcage and hips; has three more lumbar vertebrae than normal. Long fingers, toes, neck.

Small chest - ‘small but perfectly formed’ as she sometimes says.

Highly flexible and double jointed, capable of impressive contortionist acts. Often cracks her joints to the point of sounding like an old man; is prone to aches and pains after too much flexing, which she eases with long baths.

Possesses all Astartes organs aside from the Mucranoid, Melanchromic Organ, Black Carapace, and Lyman’s Ear; her Sus-an Membrane has a malfunction that, whenever she activates it, plagues her hibernation period with horrific nightmares.

Lacks the Black Carapace and interface ports thanks to her Perpetual nature, so she syncs with her custom-made Power Armour (Mark IV variant, replaced by a Mark VI variant post-Heresy) via a series of needles that pierce her spinal cord.

Has several experimental organs not used in the final Astartes model: Angius Ligament (lets her stretch her jaws like a snake), Tanax Gland (produces a sticky, glue-like saliva that dries quickly on contact with air), Pera Organ (a second stomach), and Runco Node (a gland in the brain that, at times of great stress, releases hormones and chemicals to dull her feelings of pain, fear, and despair; in some circumstances, Evren goes into a trance-like state where she can only think of killing enemies and lacks morality, mercy, or a conscience. She never remembers her actions afterwards and the Jackals have sworn never to tell her).

Face:

Greatly resembles her Papa. They have the same eyes, brow, nose, and cheekbones. Diamond-shaped face with a strong jaw. Beauty spot near left eye.

Eight canine teeth; all teeth sharper and more pointed than normal.

Long, flexible tongue. Unsurprisingly, she’s also a very good kisser.

Wears a brown or berry-coloured blush and lipstick in maroon, berry, navy, or black.

Faceclaim: Jessica Penne.

Hair:

Black, glossy, falls in loose curls. Naturally thick and heavy. Soft and silky.

Shoulder-blade length and worn parted at her left side with a side-fringe.

Doesn’t often change her hairstyle, but she has experimented with various styles and lengths. Tends to go between straight and curly on a whim.

In battle, it’s braided and curled into a bun under her helmet.

Clothes:

Linen tunics, tight cloth trousers, long waistcoats, and long, fur-lined (often leather) coats. Soft leather knee-high boots, leather boots, flats, and ankle boots – never heels. Doesn’t wear socks. Wears black, white, gold, shades of red but usually crimson or maroon, and shades of blue from navy to turquoise.

Gold, copper, and bone accessories – from her kills, both animal, xenos, and human. Usually hand-made. Loves rubies, aquamarine, lapis lazuli, coral, and sapphires. Likes Egyptian, jackal, space, floral/plant, and skull/bone motifs.

Wears lots of rings, bracelets/bangles, and necklaces when off-duty.

Has a large hat collection, with hats for every occasion, but she most often wears a wide-brimmed black hat with the brim tilted just so. Hat never falls off because it’s held in place with a hatpin topped with a silver skull.

Attitude/Bearing:

Due to her autism, she rarely makes eye contact, has dulled facial expressions/RBF, tends towards a monotone voice, and stims by twining her hands, playing with her hair, or pressing her palms together. Looks at people’s noses or ears, as a rule.

Stands and walks with almost unnatural grace and flexibility. Very light feet. Will casually bend her limbs backwards to reach something or turn her head like an owl.

Has a faint Liverpudlian accent and a deep voice; the accent is a deliberate affectation and vanishes during times of stress, replaced with a Terran accent.

Daemon-Princess of Malal Form Evren can ‘summon’ small parts of her daemon form into her human body, such as horns, claws, eyes, and wings; her most common trick is to summon wings, pure black and flat as paper, the feathers razor-sharp.

Soul: To psykers and daemons, her soul appears to be glowing with a bright golden light that can be almost blinding. There’s an impression of many wings, eyes, and teeth and a burning crown. Her tattoos appear as literal golden chains and the influence of Malal as a spreading darkness centred around her solar plexus.

Equipment

Mark IV/ Mark VI Corvus Power Armour: Adjusted to her disproportionate frame, the biggest change is around the joints of the armour; plating has been re-shaped and in some cases removed to allow a much higher degree of flexibility. Instead of the classic ‘beaky’ helmet it has the white jackal mask worn by the Legion’s command ranks. The inside is coated with runes and sigils of protection, purity, and banishment. The pockets and waist pouches are much bigger on the inside than the outside.

Force Sword (Asurludu): Designed and built for a user who places speed and flexibility over strength, longer and lighter than the usual model. The hilt and blade show some influence from ancient Turkic designs. The blade is decorated with an ‘evren’ - that is to say, the dragon from Turkic mythology - and the grip is bound in dark blue.

Daemon Sword: A black-bladed daemon sword with an ornate gold hilt, decorated with obsidians and moonstones, and a scabbard decorated with many eyes. Contains Snuffer Of Faith’s Candlelight, a Guardian of Contradictions who displeased Malal and was sentenced to eleven thousand year’s imprisonment within the sword. Screams and wails when wielded. Can and will devour mortal souls and daemons alike.

Various grenades: Krak, frag, flashbang, and ‘Banisher’ - produced and equipped solely by the Tomb Jackals Legion, they contain blessed salt, iron, silver, and holy water. Evren often forgets they’re there or to replenish her supply, to the annoyance of her armoury staff. She retorts that her throwing arm is so bad they’re all but useless anyway.

Dataslate: Connected to the Weigher’s central database and intranet, Evren can call upon thousands of years of information in seconds. She can also connect to others’ dataslates and send messages to their ships or voxes. It can fold in half like a book and be used in either orientation. Most files are in Esceapian or Turkish; anything sensitive is protected with instakill memetic agents that cause fatal seizures and brain haemorrhages in any who haven’t been through the right psycho-programming.

Combat Knife: Carved with runes, it has a devastating effect on daemons and other creatures of Chaos. The default combat knife wielded by all Tomb Jackals and Shadows.

Bolter: She once owned a master-crafted, artisanal-made Crusade-pattern Bolter that was destroyed just after the Heresy, during their Crusade in the Eye, and never replaced. Since then she’s owned a variety of firearms, either losing them or giving them away. Her current weapon, as of 40k, is a Godwyn Mark Vb Pattern.

Snacks and drinks: Since both magic and healing drain a great deal of her energy, it’s important for Evren to stay well-fed. She keeps a supply of high-protein, high-fat, and high-sugar rations in the form of bars and drinks, fortified with iron and calcium, as well as more normal foodstuffs such as jerky, candy bars, and bottles of water.

Inquisitors’ Rosette: Before the Heresy, this took the form of the Emperor’s personal aquila in gold, with the SCA symbol on its breast, as a badge or a pendent. In the 40k, Evren wields the rosette of the Inquisition when going undercover. Kyete acquired it, as well as the official papers and paraphernalia, from a Custodian who owed her a favour. The rosette takes the form of the stylised I bearing the winged skull of a jackal.

First Aid Kit: For minor wounds she can’t or won’t heal with her biomancy.

#[ooc post]#[evren's personnel file]#[legion documents]

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ts1989fanatic · 6 years ago

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Taylor Swift tends to take a lot of flak from those that think she’s too much of a goody two shoes and then from those who see her trying to act like anything but a good girl. She can’t seem to win sometimes and yet she does so all the same since she’s one of the biggest stars in the music industry, so talk, rumor, and gossip don’t seem to affect her all that much. One thing that the TooFab staff and many others would love to point out, and they have, is that she is a very charitable person and has openly supported the Democrats as of late and has donated a great deal of money to those seeking to push against anti-LGBTQ+ legislation. That’s not the only time that Swift has been seen to be a charitable person either however since she has a history of helping out others when she can and doling out monetary relief when it’s possible for her to do so. Considering how much she makes it’s not hard to see how she can do this, but many are more impressed by the fact that she takes the time to reach out and touch people’s lives in a way that makes a real difference rather than how much she gives them.

The amounts are actually pretty impressive as well since Rania Aniftos from Billboard managed to find out just much Swift gifted to others when they needed help. She’s gone so far to donate books to her hometown library, help out in parts of New York City, and even help a college student begin to pay off her student loans. That’s the mark of someone that happens to like helping people and to many it’s the kind of good will that it takes to convince them that there’s still something decent in humanity and that there’s still hope to be found in the world now and again. Speaking from a more cynical standpoint, and closing my eyes to make it work since the facts kind of speak for themselves, it could be said that Swift is building up a great deal of karma that she might be hoping will pay big dividends in some far flung future. Huh boy, I laughed just typing that out, which would indicate that cynicism doesn’t work too well on this one. It’s easy not to like Taylor if you read all the gossip and rumors that fly back and forth about her and any other person she ‘might’ be feuding with occasionally or anyone that ‘might’ have an issue with her. But quite honestly it would seem that she’s just a good, decent human being that really cares about helping others

It’s not just in the US where her efforts to better the world take place either, as a couple years back Andrew McMaster of Global Citizen wrote up a piece detailing how far Taylor’s reach went when it came to helping others out. She’s a definite altruist since she seems to care about anyone and everyone she can, human or not. Her charitable donations have gone towards saving people, animals, and helping anyone that she can see is in need. True, it seems kind of odd to help out a college student who is looking at paying back money that they borrowed to get their education. That example definitely pales next to many since, speaking as a person still in school, debts are incurred because you want a chance to better your life in some way, and paying them off is your responsibility when it comes down to it. But seeing as it was Swift’s choice to help those that asked for it you can’t really fault her for wanting to help someone out.

A lot of people in this world would think twice about helping their fellow human being, but for Taylor it seems to be second nature at times as she tends to be a very giving and caring person that simply wants to make the world a better place. The amount of cynicism this draws is pretty normal since many folks would rather take care of themselves and those closest to them with the money they make and perhaps encourage others to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. It’s been seen though that this line of thinking isn’t the most popular in the world at the current moment and Taylor definitely doesn’t seem to be having it since she keeps on helping those that she figures need it the most. In her case it seems quite warranted since as one of the biggest pop stars in the world she definitely makes enough, and hoarding it all instead of using it to help others doesn’t seem to be a part of her nature. A lot of people should be thankful for this, and likely are.

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littleredroseonthevalley · 6 years ago

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East End

Summary: After another round distributing bread, Ernest Sinclaire stumbles on something he was not supposed to know.

Rating: T - Content not suitable for children. Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2109

Notes: So, this is basically an introduction to the MC I have been using on my stories these last few weeks. I expanded, with some (A LOT) of creative liberty, on the White!MC’s backstory provided at that diamond scene with Hamid three weeks ago.

What is historically accurate: The Count of Provence and most Bourbons were living in Britain from 1809 to the Restoration, under an invite from the then-Prince of Wales.

Most of them lived in semi-reclusion in Buckinghamshire, and Louis XVIII did publish several manifestos claiming the crown and outlying what he would do if he were to become king, but, in 1811, it seemed pretty clear that it would never happen. They were on exhile for almost twenty years by then, and Napoleon seemed to be winning, read ‘not losing’, the war against... Europe, pretty much.

It is also true that the British crown was pretty much indifferent about Louis XVIII’s claim. They did support attempts to invade France during the 1790′s, and they were part of the First and Second Coalitions, which intended to restore ‘order’ and ‘legality’ to France, but as Napoleon not-lost wars against three consecutive coalitions, he cemented somekind of legitimacy as the head of the French State.

What is not true: courtly etiquette. I really don’t know how the French greeted their king. I do know, though, it is horribly intricate and took too much research that a 2,000-word piece warrants to get it right. So hand-kissing it is, deal with it.

Without further ado, enjoy!

It was the dead of the night in East End, the weather was cool and a soft mist was forming near the uneven wet cobbles of the street.

They were having an abnormal cold and wet springtime on that year of the Lord 1811. Not a good thing for those who lived on that area of the British capital, for they had not enough money for food, lest for wood and heating.

For Ernest, who had just finished his rounds delivering bread to the starving workers of the area, the weather was, like most things that surrounded him, indifferent.

So is the life of eternal boredom and disinterest. Everything was ambivalent and grey.

It was, however, a hassle. He thought the night would be pleasant enough to walk back to his house, as he preferred, and had dismissed his driver for the night. At this hour, there would be no rentals available, so he would wet his coat over nothing.

He preferred not to be bothered by the curious stares of his groom, but he was better stared at than wet and cold, to be sure.

As the esquire turned a corner, he saw something that greatly confounded him. It was a carriage, and one he knew quite well.

Luke Harper, the groom on the employ of his neighbours, was driving the distinctively luxurious carriage, moving lazily through the fog, believing, within good reason, that he would not be seen or recognized in any way.

The horses stopped at front of the best-kept house on the street. The conductor makes no move to get down from his seat to open the door, as it would be expected of him if he carried one of his patrons.

Ernest had taken this as evidence he was carrying nobody, or that his business at the neighbourhood were of a personal order. Desiring no further entanglement with whatever business the man was conducting, lest it to be something unsavoury, the blond man crossed the street to continue his way to his house, trying to pass unnoticed.

However, before he lost eyesight of the carriage, a woman steps out. She wore a black dress and a cape, but the hood was not covering her head, where a beautiful stem of brown hair, tied neatly to form a thin cascade just past her shoulders.

Ernest could recognize that hair anywhere. He spent much more time than he cared to admit thinking about it, and about the rest of the person who wore it so gracefully. Lady Susan Beauchamp, the natural daughter and current heir of the Earl of Edgewater.

Just as soon as her feet touch the sidewalk, Mr Harper prompts the horses to move forward, and soon it disappears on the mist. The cloaked figure knocks on the door and is quickly ushered inside.

Feeling the curiosity and the concern getting the best out of him, he walks surreptitiously to the building. It was detached from its neighbours, a rarity in that particular street, but it was a guarantee there would be another point of entry or a window to peek.

Walking around the place, the esquire finds such a window, on the left side of the building, overlooking an alleyway. Benefitting with the prevalent darkness at the streets, he could sneak into a comfortable watching position.

Inside, there were about ten people, all wearing black aside from a single overweight man dressed in white, sitting on a chair right about on the far end of the room, on Ernest’s left. None of them wore jewellery, either, probably advisable due to the dangerous nature of their surroundings.

Another thing that resonated with the landowner was the fact there was no women in the room, aside the one brought by Edgewater’s groom and another one, a blonde, standing right next to the fat man.

A few moments later, Susan approaches the man in white, kneels and kisses his hand. Ernest contained his gasp, as it was a much too weird gesture to dedicate to a person, especially one as disgusting-looking as that man on the chair.

The young heiress stands once again and takes a few steps back. Her sights cross with the only other woman’s, who smile kindly at her presence. The man in white starts talking, though, and all eyes are on him.

Ernest could not hear what was being said, but whatever passed through the filter of the glass was certainly not English.

He stood there, observing attentively the exchange, for good part of thirty minutes. However, his focus on the scene meant he did not take proper care of the environment around him, and he was then tackled by a dark figure.

The esquire was hardly a man devout of physical activities, horseback riding and some gardening being the most that brought him outside in the sun. That, coupled with his distractedness, made him to be easily overpowered and taken inside the building.

Once inside, he was placed on his knees in front of the figure in white, being held in position firmly through his shoulders.

“Votre Majesté,” The man holding Ernest said, deferent. “Mes excuses pour l'interruption. Cet homme a été retrouvé à l'arrière du bâtiment. ”

The man in white pressed his lips, a sign of anger. Ernest could feel Susan staring down at him, but he did not look up to meet her glance.

“Vous ne pensez pas que cet homme pourrait être un espion, monsieur?” The fat man asks.

“Il n'est pas un espion, Votre Majesté.” Susan says, with an edge of anger on her voice. “Je le connais, c'est un ami de mon père. Puis-je être autorisé à traiter avec lui? ”

The man signals his approval with a hand-wave and he is taken to a side room, followed closely behind by Susan. She seats on an armchair, while he is forced to stand. The man that guarded him so far brings a few candelabras into the room and leaves them to themselves.

“What in Lord’s name are you doing here, Mr Sinclaire?” She asks impatiently, as soon as they are left alone. “This is not a neighbourhood where I can believe a man of your station happens to be spending his night.”

“I could very well ask the same of you, Lady Susan.” He counters, trying to maintain a haughty position of moral superiority. “If it is no place for a gentleman, it is also no place for a countess in the making.”

Her clear eyes formed a glare one might wonder if it is indeed incapable of murder. “As I am sure you have noticed, seeing you are spying on my every move for God knows how long, I have done nothing unbecoming or inappropriate for my station tonight. I am sorry to say I cannot say the same about you.”

“I apologize, milady, if it seemed as if I followed you here from Trafalgar Square, but do not assume I frequent houses of ill-repute for reasons of my libido.” He says, matching her raging tone. “If you believe me, I say I was on the region for a charitable work. I give out loaves of bread to the women with children.”

The woman evaluates him carefully with her glinting eyes, finally softening her stance. “I believe you. Now, I must ask for you to leave.”

“You will not hand me the courtesy of explaining what was that I saw tonight?” He asks, in equal parts defiant and pleading.

“I do not think I should, but anything you thought you saw would probably be much worse than the actual truth.” She weighted. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

The esquire withholds a scoff. It would serve him no good. Instead, he says, “Who is that man in white? The one you kissed the hand?”

Susan gives him a side smirk, an amused reaction of those who know something their interlocutors do not. “That man, Mr Sinclaire, is Louis, the Count of Provence. Or, if you so prefer, King Louis XVIII of France. In fact, most of those people are members of the Bourbon dynasty. The Count of Artois, the Duke and Duchess of Angouleme, the Duke of Berry.”

The information takes some time to be internalized by Ernest’s mind. The King of France? He remembered reading on the paper a few months back that the surviving Bourbons had come to Britain upon invitation of the Prince of Wales, but he also recalled they were to remain in Buckinghamshire, quite ways off London.

Regardless, why would Susan, the natural daughter of a middle-tier English noble, have any business with the pretender French king or any of his family? Especially one that allowed them such familiarity with the Bourbons?

Predicting it to be the next question from Mr Sinclaire, Susan commences her tale: “You see, Mr Sinclaire, my mother is not English. She is from the continent, more specifically Brittany. Her parents, my grandparents, were landowners, country gentry not too different from yourself or my natural father.

“In 1789, came the Fear.” Her voice grows dark. “I cannot say whether my grandparents were good people, if they were charitable and just or if they were cruel to their serfs. I never met them. In whichever case, they were lynched and their house was set on fire.

“My mother, being just a girl on the cusp of her fifteenth birthday, was spared, but she was now homeless and an orphan. She, then, walked to Caen, where she met an Englishman who was besotted with her singing voice, so much so, he was willing to pay her journey across the Channel and sponsor her entrance to an opera company here in London. Given the ill-feelings the English had towards the French, my mother preferred to conceal her nationality.

“The next part of the story you probably know, my mother meeting my father, he promising to marry her, only for his father to deny him and imposing a match with Henrietta instead.” The woman gloss over the information. “After I was born, my mother started corresponding with several émigrés. She even helped a few settle in Britain under assumed names. In turn, she requested for them to send books to help raising me properly.

“One of those correspondents happened to be the Duchess of Angouleme, who referred me and my family to her uncle. I came here to meet with them, to discuss current events and their plans for the future. It is all.”

“But why here?” Ernest asks, pointedly. “Why so covert about it?”

She sighs. “Britain’s position regarding the legitimacy of the Bourbon claim has changed. While the British Crown sees positively the return of a Bourbon to the throne of France, they are no longer willing to support a takeover on the lines of those in the 1790’s. Restoration depends on whether a final solution with Napoleon can be reached, and how this solution presents itself.

“That being said, and reminding that they are in England under a personal invitation of the Prince Regent, it could be damaging to their standing in the country if they are suspected to be gathering émigrés for another attempt at a takeover. It is better if our meetings, be mine with the Bourbons, be with any other Frenchman, to be as discreet as possible.”

“I understand, Lady Susan.” He nods, soberly. “Thank you for you kindly sharing this story with me. I apologise for imposing into your affairs, especially one of this nature.”

“Pay no heed, Mr Sinclaire.” The woman bobs her head gracefully. “However, I must ask for your absolute discretion on the subject.”

“Of course. I will tell no soul.” The esquire promises, voice even and eyes looking deep into hers.

“Good. Now come, I will escort you out and arrange for a carriage to take you back to your house.”

Susan leads him outside, where a horse car waited, probably for one of the men inside the place. She talks with the groom in French, probably persuading him to take the Englishman home.

As London passes by the window and the East End is left behind, swallowed by the white fog, Ernest considers what he saw and heard from Lady Susan.

The woman was beautiful and fascinating, that was clear to anyone with two eyes and sense, but she also had secrets, and scars, she hides behind that natural debonair of hers.

Perhaps it was childish of him, just some petty curiosity that would bring no satisfaction, if not offense, but if Ernest was sure of one thing, is that he was eager to find out more of what hide beneath Lady Susan’s appearances.

Taglist: @catlady0911; @choicesyouplayandmore; @cocomaxley; @llholloway; @mrsernestsinclaire; @shelivesinthewoods; @tornbetween2loves

#desire & decorum #ernest sinclaire

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ncfan-1 · 6 years ago

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ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives: S2 EP060, ‘Observer Effect’

- In which Jonathan Sims is given two opportunities to learn something about himself and the impact his behavior has on himself and others, and it’s not especially clear whether he actually learns anything at all.

No spoilers, please!

- The fact that there’s a mirror in this statement, and that the mirror is the catalyst for bad shit to happen to the statement-giver, is painfully apt. Rosa Meyer is a distorted mirror image of Jonathan Sims, should he care to see himself reflected in her—a person whose supernaturally-induced paranoia, which manifests primarily as a persistent, overwhelming feeling of being watched, led to the utter ruination of her life. But for the life of me, I can’t tell if he recognized what he was looking at when he read about her. I’m not sure he could see any kinship to her at all.

- This episode drives home the message that ‘Burnt Offerings’ told to us: you don’t have to actively look for one of the powers to have their attention drawn to you, and for them to ruin your life. All you have to do is be in the wrong place at the wrong time, handling the wrong object. You don’t have to do anything right or wrong for it to come down on you and ruin your life.

- (It’s interesting that cameras don’t seem to inherently be a source of power for Beholding. Rosa only began to feel it in them—if the fact that her “breakdown” involved smashing the cameras—after the incident with the mirror.)

- I wonder if Rosa’s brother’s early death, dying of a stroke at a very young age for that, had anything to do with what he was researching. I wouldn’t be surprised.

- We’re introduced in this episode to a term that is very pertinent: ‘outer cults.’ Outer cults are devoted to the worship of figures that seem to have no connection to any normal religious practice (some having more in common with ancient shamanism), and they have objects associated with them that seem to have more power imbued in them than just the symbolic. The mirror, I would guess, is associated with Beholding, since everything Rosa experiences—that feeling of being watched, seeing briefly in the mirror a reflection of a figure with huge, bulging eyes that watch her greedily—matches with Beholding. I wonder about objects associated with other cults. I wonder if some of them aren’t currently in Artifact storage in the Archives.

- (So what do I call these things, then? I’ve seen @centaurianthropology call them Outer Gods, but they don’t feel like gods to me. They don’t feel coalescent enough for that. They’re a lot more primal.)

- One wonders how Rosa’s brother found out about these outer cults in the first place, if they are so secretive. Again, dying of a stroke at the age of thirty-eight? Not normal.

- And Rosa’s brother was researching these outer cults with the help of the Magnus Institute. Color me shocked. /sarcasm

- Of course, it isn’t a good thing that Rosa killed somebody and was planning to drive a truck full of gasoline into the Magnus Institute. And if Jon deteriorates far enough, I could see him doing something roughly analogous, and that definitely wouldn’t be a good thing. But I’m at the point where I wonder whether or not the world wouldn’t be a little better off, if the Magnus Institute didn’t exist.

- Notes about the supplemental: One, this intervention has been a long time coming. My notes about the intervention in general are as follows:

- Given that Jon’s constant recording of his conversations is one of the points of contention, I find it… interesting that everyone seems to forget so quickly that Jon didn’t turn the recorder off.

- And finally we have it being pointed out to Jon, by Elias and others, that his behavior warrants firing, or at least being dragged before a disciplinary hearing. (I’m still suspicious of Elias. At this point, I think Gertrude’s killer has to be someone we’ve met before, and given that the focus is on Jon as the main character, it has to be someone he knows closely, for the revelation to carry its full impact. I don’t think it’s Martin. I don’t think it’s Tim. I know it wasn’t Not-Sasha, and seeing as Sasha is dead, what kind of significance would the revelation that she killed Gertrude even carry? I think it’s Elias, because his being the killer makes the threat the most immediate. He already holds power over Jon as his boss, and it turning out that he killed Jon’s immediate predecessor is, well… It’s more effective a reveal than if it was revealed that Tim or Martin did it, isn’t it?)

- “We care about you, Jon.” No, you don’t, Not-Sasha. Fuck off. (Also, that “and let’s have no more of this paranoia?” Fuck off again.)

- And so the intervention has come. Like I said, this has been a long time coming; it’s been twenty episodes since this shit began, and the team has been a lot more patient and a lot more charitable than Jon has really deserved. Even now, when Jon is admitting to their faces that he doesn’t trust them and he doesn’t take them at their word that they didn’t kill Gertrude, they’re more patient and more charitable with him than he really deserves.

I’m not sure if the intervention really took, and unfortunately, I’m afraid the fact that they were so patient and so charitable with him is a part of the reason why it didn’t take. I doubt Not-Sasha was ever too worried, but Martin and Tim must have been genuinely afraid that Jon was going to hurt them. Especially Tim, since Jon concentrated most of his stalking upon him and went so far as to watch his house at night. In that situation… Well, in that situation, I wouldn’t have been as nice as Tim; I would have called the cops on Jon’s sorry ass. But aside from the cop-calling, I would have been terrified. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep, because I’d be terrified that every stray noise was Jon breaking into the house to do… something.

And none of this occurs to Jonathan Sims, because Jonathan Sims is not a man overly given to self-reflection or critical examination of his own behavior. He really is more than a little self-centered, and I mean to a detrimental extent. He seems to have trouble seeing beyond himself, beyond his own reactions and feeling; he doesn’t give other people’s feelings the weight that he ought. Though they shouldn’t have to, it is unfortunately the case that to get through to Jon, Tim and Martin would have to explain in no uncertain terms just how his behavior was affecting them. How it was making them feel. How afraid they were of him.

- Another problem here is that if you’re looking at the murder of Gertrude Robinson from an outsider’s perspective, Jon is looking more suspicious than ever. From an outsider’s perspective, his isn’t the behavior of an innocent man. Everything he does screams GUILTY GUILTY I HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE GUILTY GUILTY. And he can’t see it, because he can’t see beyond his own perceptions.

- So there are cameras everywhere in the Magnus Institute except in the Archives? Yeah, that is not making me less suspicious, man.

- The fact that, by Jon, there’s no way Gertrude’s killer entered the Archive to do the deed through the Institute proper does add yet more significance to the tunnels below. The problem with that, the problem with any exploration of the tunnels, is that there’s a lot of shit down there.

#ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives

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buzzdixonwriter · 3 years ago

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Goofus And Gallant

“He called pa a drunk!”

“Well, that’s what he was.”

-- The Sons Of Katie Elder

I know / knew two writers, one living, one dead, contemporaries of one another, alike in certain ways, different in others, but similar enough for an apples-to-apples comparison.

The dead one we’ll call Gallant; the one still wasting oxygen we’ll call Goofus.

Oh, full disclosure: I do not like Goofus one little bit, and for ample reasons.

Gallant produced an impressive body of work. It would not be an overstatement to say said body of work remains enormously influential.

Gallant could fairly be described as a mercurial person. A fighter -- and more often than not a fighter for good causes, not just for the sake of fighting. Generous and helpful. Willing to go the extra mile for those he felt needed the help.

Gallant’s writing career proved long enough for some stories that expressed ideas and attitudes perfectly acceptable in the 1950s and 60s to be rendered…well, let’s be generous and say passe’ 70 years later.

To their credit, Gallant grew as a person, and in many cases learned better and did better as the 1960s segued into the 1970s and 80s.

Gallant also made mistakes in praising and defending some people and some organizations who later proved unworthy of such praise and defense. Those cases involve Gallant voicing opinions based on their best knowledge at the time, and later when the truth of said individuals and organizations came out, Gallant either muted or recanted those opinions.

Gallant also mentioned their own bad behavior several times in the public record, bad behavior documented and reported by eyewitnesses and victims. Behavior bad enough on occasion to warrant criminal prosecution of Gallant had police seen the behavior or any victims pressed charges. Behavior bad enough on occasion to cause physical harm.

I can’t speak to Goofus’ abilities as a writer other than to say the few times I read their work, it seemed professional and competent.

I don’t watch or read anything by Goofus because I studiously avoid anything having to do with Goofus.

I know from direct personal experience that Goofus is a liar, a coward, and utterly treacherous. I have seen Goofus betray and attack two organizations that originally welcomed Goofus, organizations devoted to promoting the best interests of creators.

I have seen Goofus maliciously lie about people who did them no harm, simply because Goofus exists in a universe where one is either high above (and thus worthy of ass-smooching) or far below (and worthy only of contempt, even if smooching Goofus’ ass).

There are no equals in Goofus’ universe.

I have had Goofus lie to my face about business related matters, and I have seen Goofus lie about their own behavior in a given situation even though there was ample documentation of what Goofus actually said and did.

I have seen Goofus falsify the work of others to smear their reputations.

So when I refer to Goofus as a sac of human excrement ///I have earned that right///.

Now, here’s the thing: ///There are some people who like Goofus and the work Goofus produces.

Fine by me; I bear no one any grudge for what they may or may not like. Most of these people have either never encountered Goofus face-to-face, or if they have, are perceived by Goofus as being so high in ranking as to render them safe from abuse.

So be it.

Some people report to gaining insights from Goofus’ work.

Sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie but I'll never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfuckers.

Some people report Goofus doing good deeds and charitable works.

If Goofus did, fine.

Doesn’t alter my perception of what Goofus did to people I know and care about one iota.

Doesn’t change the harm Goofus inflicted or attempted to inflict on friends of mine.

I’m a half-Italian hillbilly from Appalachia, folks.

We may forgive.

But we never forget.

And Goofus to date has done nothing to indicate they deserve forgiveness.

As Gallant’s life moved on, Gallant became aware certain boundaries of social acceptance changed.

At first Gallant railed against these moving boundaries -- “Toughen up! It’s a joke! Don’t censor me!”

But gradually, bit by bit, it sank in on Gallant that the times had indeed changed, and that Gallant had not changed with them.

Many of us loved Gallant.

We loved Gallant’s stories.

We loved Gallant’s fearless nature.

We loved the unbridled passion for what Gallant loved and believed in.

But we need to be honest and admit Gallant made mistakes, and on occasion Gallant acted deliberately badly to people who didn’t deserve what Gallant did to them.

There are people not of our coterie who hear us wax nostalgic about Gallant and point out the bad things Gallant did, and legitimately so in many cases where Gallant’s attitudes didn’t move fast enough with the times and people who should not have been subjected to abuse were.

Gallant wasn’t the first or only writer with these sorts of issues.

There are lots of writers like Gallant -- and artists, and musicians, and actors, and politicians, and doctors, and…well, the list goes on and on, doesn’t it.

Crappy behavior is crappy behavior, and we’re too often willing to forgive or overlook it because “Oh, that’s just Ernest being Ernest, that’s just Jack being Jack, that’s just Bill being Bill.”

We’re willing to overlook because we were not on the receiving end of Gallant’s abuse.

We’re willing to forgive because we feel we gain something from the transaction.

Look at all those cool stories.

Look at all those great times.

We don’t see this the way others see it: “You are defending and honoring a person who did bad things that made life worse for some people.”

Consider the case of Bill Cosby.

There are people who openly hope he dies soon so his reputation can be rehabilitated and they can openly enjoy his comedy again.

Why?

What will future generations lose by not hearing or seeing him?

All the positive influences he made have already been absorbed by the comedians who came after him.

All his charitable acts have already come to fruition.

How can we look at his work today and not feel disgusted by the rank hypocrisy permeating it?

And granted, Cosby’s actions proved far worse than what was laid on Gallant’s doorstep.

Nonetheless, the difference in either degree or magnitude does not negate the wholly reasonable reactions of a new generation who aren’t going to put up with that kind of bullshit anymore.

Not being honest about beloved creators and friends who did something bad is akin to those white supremacists who wish to eradicate all mention of slavery and jim crow and prejudice from public discourse.

For the white supremacists to acknowledge the evil of slavery and jim crow is to tacitly acknowledge they are wrong in defending those things.

It forces them to recognize at the very least they are enablers insofar as they block attempts to address those issues.

We must find a balance point.

We must acknowledge people are complex that few are wholly saints or monsters.

We must acknowledge, as painful as it feels, when those who did things we admire also did things that we should condemn.

I have come to terms with Gallant to this degree:

I can admire Gallant as an individual while fully acknowledging their flaws and shortcomings.

I can admire and advocate most of Gallant’s work while acknowledging some pieces contain harmful, outdated attitudes.

I can accept that many will never appreciate Gallant either as an individual or a writer because of Gallant’s well documented multitude of shortcomings and offensive-bordering-on-criminal behavior.

So be it.

It is up to us, Gallant’s friends and admirers, to do better going forward, to take the good ideals we gleamed and present them to the next generations without the baggage of a problematic creator. This doesn’t require canceling Gallant, but it doesn’t require ignoring those affected by Gallant’s bad actions, either.

I personally have come to terms with Goofus to this degree:

I bear no grudge against those who like Goofus as an individual or a writer.

I will have nothing to do with Goofus or their work.

I will not condemn those who defend Goofus as a friend or as a writer.

And I plan to live long enough to piss on Goofus’ grave.

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theninjasanctuary · 4 years ago

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The usual year-in-review post. Putting it behind a break because it is long and pretty boring.

Conflicted about giving a verdict, because obviously this year has been shit in so many respects even if I personally really didn’t suffer much beyond minor inconveniences and some anxiety and stress and an unsurprising death in the family. Yet in other respects, ngl, this has still been a better year than I’ve had in a while. It boils down to being in a relatively safe corner of the world and now being paid enough to make ends meet, basically, because I got a new job in a more or less secure field. (I was doing ok-ish last year as well, considering, but it was at the expense of taking on too much extra work, in hindsight I’ve no idea how I even managed teaching 3 classes last autumn semester.) I started it in a half-time capacity, but then switched to full-time in September when we found a replacement for my previous half-time position. I’m making local medium wage now and probably will for the next 4 years, and thus a massive source of stress in my life is just gone for the time being. I’m not buying-cars-or-real-estate rich, but I can afford not to worry, and let me tell you, that is so fucking nice.

No, I haven’t been particularly smart about it. Yes, I did sort out the situation with my retirement savings plans at the end of December, and increased monthly contributions, but throughout the year, I’ve been spending furiously and, disregarding minor charitable donations, pretty selfishly. I’ve done a lot, A LOT of shopping, mostly online. Some of it was warranted to make up for all the lean years - it was not too soon to get new sheets, the old ones were literally becoming threadbare, the rug was looking miserable, the sofa was de facto broken, the hallway was depressing, etc. I don’t regret any expenses on nesting, including furniture and reno (with the possible exception of a pendant light I changed my mind about when it was too late to return it, but I still kind of like it and will find a use for it eventually). There’s an underlying pessimism, leading to a sense of urgency to check these things off the list before the good times run out again. As I’ve said before, I feel it’ll be easier to cope with precarity when I’ve established a baseline of relative comfort.

But there’s also no point in denying that a considerable chunk of the expenses this year built up from just comfort shopping out of anxiety and boredom. It’s not even a good self-soothing tactic, is it. Yet here we are, and the wardrobe has been upgraded and then some, again, but at least nearly all of it was either second-hand or reasonably priced. Too many favourites to list, but finding the perfect jeans (and getting 2 pairs) seems like an achievement worth noting. (I also had 2 pairs of my previous favourites, Uniqlo denim joggers from... 2017?, but my thighs destroyed them both by late last year. The new ones are lasting better in comparison.) Of course there was fairly little chance to wear all of these nice things, with the exception of loungewear. I last wore a dress in August. Hopefully things will eventually improve in this respect.

Bought lots of skincare, too. I am habitually mindful of getting the best value for money, but have definitely splurged on things here and there, and tried new stuff more than I used to. There are vague thoughts on perhaps simplifying the routines. Also, there’s been a shift towards stuff I can easily get in Europe, because there were issues with getting things from Korea or Japan, and I guess the novelty has worn off a bit, I can’t be bothered to sheet mask more than twice a month, max, and things I like keep getting discontinued.

In contrast to all of the above, saved on travel, obviously. Due to all plans getting cancelled from March onwards, only left the country once this year, to Paris around Valentine’s day (it was mostly excellent and done in a budget-conscious manner). It is odd that I don’t really miss travel all that much either. Low-key dreading the next opportunity because it seems like a major source of anxiety after a long break. There were a few local day trips with friends or family over the summer and autumn, which I cherished, as well as the too-few chances to go out somewhere and see people (amid second-wave hindsight, wish I’d done it more during the summer). Even my introverted ass misses socializing by this point, despite also feeling that I’ve become really bad at it. As anyone ought to have realized after reading this far, I’m probably more boring than ever, too.

Regrets also involve not getting out more and not getting enough exercise. Yes, even considering I’ve been going to weekly workouts with a physiotherapist/private trainer since June (using a compensation scheme paid for by work, but that covers about half of it) that has mostly fixed the issues I was having with my shoulders and clearly upped my general fitness level. The problem is, the workouts at home were on the easy and occasional side, and I have only gone on a handful of long walks all year. Part of it is scheduling, part of it is route issues and wanting to avoid public transportation because of the pandemic, and part of it was my tendency to get blisters for no good reason, but I fixed that with another late-in-the-year purchase of cold-weather-appropriate Skechers.

In surprise achievements during this year: for the first time since actively having an ED, I have become mostly ok with weighing myself like a rational adult (no more than once a month though, and I take care to do it at a time where I’m not bloated, so the ‘rational’ part remains arguable). I didn’t really think this would ever happen, but it’s a side effect of the physio sessions. It feels a bigger achievement than the 5 or so kg of actual weight I’ve lost - I felt fat af in the late spring, and ngl, cookies and ice cream featured heavily on the lockdown menu. I also cut all the way back on sugar since May until late November or so, and intend to keep it up once sugar-binge-season is over.

Ceiling-to-floor reno of a complicated hallway space on top of everything else that’s been going on is also a fucking achievement, even if it took too long and the guy is coming to put up 2 more lights next week.

I’ve been reading more just for recreation. Not ‘enough’, whatever that means, and not always or even mostly at reasonable times, but it counts and has made this year more tolerable.

Items still on the to-do-list for next year: getting glasses, ffs. I have had the prescription since June. I want to go with the boyf and make him get new ones too, but zero fucking progress, and the environment isn’t helping, hard to shop for glasses with a mask on. Same goes for driving school, can’t do all of it online, but it needs to get done. Also, kitchen reno, even though at the moment that feels like too much, but I ought to make plans and order the supplies during winter and spring, and then hire the same guy to get it done quickly in the summer.

Resolutions: I guess my last remaining grandparent dying has contributed to feeling I’m sick and tired of kidulting. I want to get a fucking grip, get my finances in order, set adult goals and muster the will to work towards them. And I want to continue working on my fitness level. That’s about it.

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gospelmusic · 4 years ago

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Catholic Daily Reading + Reflection: 8 November 2020 - The Church Waits For Her Spouse

Readings at Mass for Sunday November 8, 2020

Thirty- Second Sunday of the Year Vestment: Green Today’s Rosary: The Glorious Mystery Death Anniversary: KANU: Most Revd Patrick Sheehan, OSA., 8 November 2012 Theme of the Sunday: The Church Waits for Her Spouse. The first Christians used to often say, “The Lord is coming!” and they were always ready to receive him. The theme of vigilance links together the three readings today. The second reading describes expectation and vigilance in the community of Thessalonica. The gospel continues the theme in a parable about vigilance. The first reading can be taken as a commentary on the gospel. The gospel teaches us that “those (virgins) who prepare themselves for the coming of the Lord are wise,” while the first reading says that our most precious gift is the wisdom that comes from God. Entrance Antiphon Let my prayer come into your presence. Incline your ear to my cry for help, O Lord. Collect Almighty and merciful God, graciously keep from us all adversity, so that, unhindered in mind and body alike, we may pursue in freedom of heart the things that are yours. Through our Lord. ..

FIRST READING

Wisdom is found by those who seek her. A reading from the Book of Wisdom (Wisdom 6: 12-16) Wisdom is radiant and unfading, and she is easily discerned by those who love her, and is found by those who seek her. She hastens to make herself known to those who desire her. He who rises early to seek her will have no difficulty, for he will find her sitting at his gates. To fix one’s thought on her is perfect understanding, and he who is vigilant on her account will soon be free from care, because she goes about seeking those worthy of her, and she graciously appears to them in their paths, and meets them in every thought. The word of the Lord. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

RESPONSORIAL PSALM Psalm 63:2.3-4.5-6.7-8 (R.cf.2b)

R. For you my soul is thirsting, O Lord, my God. O God, you are my God; at dawn I seek you; for you my soul is thirsting. For you my flesh is pining, Like a dry, weary land without water. R. I have come before you in the sanctuary, To behold your strength and your glory. Your loving mercy is better than life: My lips will speak your praise. R. I will bless you all my life: in your name I will lift up my hands. My soul shall be filled as with a banquet: With joyful lips, my mouth shall praise you. R. When I remember you upon my bed, I muse on you through the watches of the night. For you have been my strength: In the shadow of your wings I rejoice. R.

SECOND READING

God will bring with him through Jesus those who have fallen asleep. A reading from the first letter of Saint Paul to the Thessalonians (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18) (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); We would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, shall not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first; then we who are alive, who are left, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air; and so shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words. The word of the Lord.

ALLELUIA Matthew 24:42a.44

Alleluia. Watch, therefore, and be ready; the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect. Alleluia.

GOSPEL

Behold, the bridegroom. Come out to meet him. A reading from the holy Gospel according to Matthew (Matthew 25:1 -13) At that time: Jesus told his disciples this parable: “The kingdom of heaven shall be compared to ten maidens who took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. For when the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, they all slumbered and slept. But at midnight there was a cry, ‘Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ “Then all those maidens rose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ “But the wise replied, ‘Perhaps there will not be enough for us and for you; go rather to the dealers and buy for yourselves.’ “And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the marriage feast; and the door was shut. Afterward the other maidens came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us. ’ But he replied, ‘Truly, I say to you, I do not know you. ’ “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); The Gospel of the Lord.

PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL

The Bridegroom is here! PRIEST: My brothers and sisters, as we wait for Christ’s second coming in glory, let us pray to God our Father that we may be always watchful, and keep our eyes fixed on the Lord. READER: For the Church, the Bride of Christ, pause that she may always be clothed in the beauty of God’s grace as she sets aside everything else except her unending vigil for the Lord’s coming. pause Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For scientists who work to alleviate human suffering, (pause) that they may have the patience to continue their scientific work, however demanding and unrewarding it may be, and never lose sight of their vocation, as they strive to eradicate disease and human misery. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For those who are bereaved, (pause) that their waiting to be reunited with their loved ones may be based on their belief in the resurrection, and may they not grieve, as those who have no hope. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. For a greater understanding of our faith, (pause) that we may keep the lamp of faith alight, by which we recognize Christ in our world, and thus discover what is truly important in life. (pause) Hear us, O Lord; come, Lord Jesus, come we pray Oh Lord. PRIEST: We make our private petitions in silence to God, our loving Father. Father, we pray that we may always be found watching, so that we will not miss your Son in our lives. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Today's Reflection

Christians believe in the resurrection of the dead. This is the hope we have through the resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord. St Paul in I Thess. 4:13-18 is very consoling. He offers us the hope not to mourn our departed relatives/friends like those who have no hope. There is no holidays or break in our spiritual life so we have to be alert always. It is a continuous striving. We have to watch therefore, for we “do not know the day or the hour in which the son of man will come”. We should be like the wise virgins in today’s parable carrying along with us always the oil, which symbolizes righteousness and good deeds. Our decision to follow Christ and to live according to his commandments should not be procrastinated. It is not the goodness of others that will save us on the last day but our own goodness/good deeds.

Personal Devotional

"Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth, " 2 Timothy 2:15 - Thank God for the gift of this day - Pray for mercy for the times you have sought self-glorification in charitable deeds. - Ask for the grace of the Lord to give freely so that you can receive freely

Let Us Pray

Thanks be to you, my Lord Jesus Christ, for all the benefits which you have given me, for all the pains and insults which you have borne for me. O most merciful Redeemer, friend and brother, may I know you more clearly, love you more dearly, and follow you more nearly, day by day. Amen.

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years ago

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Green Tea

Sheridan Le Fanu (1872)

PROLOGUE

Martin Hesselius, the German Physician

Through carefully educated in medicine and surgery, I have never practiced either. The study of each continues, nevertheless, to interest me profoundly. Neither idleness nor caprice caused my secession from the honorable calling which I had just entered. The cause was a very trifling scratch inflicted by a dissecting knife. This trifle cost me the loss of two fingers, amputated promptly, and the more painful loss of my health, for 1 have never been quite well since, and have seldom been twelve months together in the same place.

In my wanderings I became acquainted with Dr. Martin Hesselius, a wanderer like myself, like me a physician, and like me an enthusiast in his profession. Unlike me in this, that his wanderings were voluntary, and he a man, if not of fortune, as we estimate fortune in England, at least in what our forefathers used to term "easy circumstances." He was an old man when 1 first saw him; nearly five-and-thirty years my senior. In Dr. Martin Hesselius, 1 found my master. His knowledge was immense, his grasp of a case was an vintuition. He was the very man to inspire a young enthusiast, like me, with awe and delight. My admiration has stood the test of time and survived the separation of death. I am sure it was well-founded. For nearly twenty years I acted as his medical secretary. His immense collection of papers he has left in my care, to be arranged, indexed and bound. His treatment of some of these cases is curious. He writes in two distinct characters. He describes what he saw and heard as an intelligent layman might, and when in this style of narrative he had seen the patient either through his own hall-door, to the light of day, or through the gates of darkness to the caverns of the dead, he returns upon the narrative, and in the terms of his art and with all the force and originality of genius, proceeds to the work of analysis, diagnosis and illustration. Here and there a case strikes me as of a kind to amuse or horrify a lay reader with an interest quite different from the peculiar one which it may possess for an expert. With slight modifications, chiefly of language, and of course a change of names, I copy the following.

The narrator is Dr. Martin Hesselius. I find it among the voluminous notes of cases which he made during a tour in England about sixty-four years ago. It is related in series of letters to his friend Professor Van Loo of Leyden. The professor was not a physician, but a chemist, and a man who read history and metaphysics and medicine, and had, in his day, written a play. The narrative is therefore, if somewhat less valuable as a medical record, necessarily written in a manner more likely to interest an unlearned reader. These letters, from a memorandum attached, appear to have been returned on the death of the professor, in 1819, to Dr. Hesselius. They are written, some in English, some in French, but the greater part in German. I am a faithful, though I am conscious, by no means a graceful translator, and although here and there ! omit some passages, and shorten others, and disguise names, I have interpolated nothing.

CHAPTER I

Dr. Hesselius Relates How He Met the Rev. Mr. Jennings

The Rev. Mr. Jennings is tall and thin. He is middle-aged, and dresses with a natty, old-fashioned, high-church precision. He is naturally a little stately, but not at all stiff. His features, without being handsome, are well formed, and their expression extremely kind, but also shy. I met him one evening at Lady Mary Haddock's. The modesty and benevolence of his countenance are extremely prepossessing. We were but a small party, and he joined agreeably enough in the conversation, He seems to enjoy listening very much more than contributing to the talk; but what he says is always to the purpose and well said. He is a great favourite of Lady Mary's, who it seems, consults him upon many things, and thinks him the most happy and blessed person on earth. Little knows she about him. The Rev. Mr. Jennings is a bachelor, and has, they say sixty thousand pounds in the funds. He is a charitable man. He is most anxious to be actively employed in his sacred profession, and yet though always tolerably well elsewhere, when he goes down to his vicarage in Warwickshire, to engage in the actual duties of his sacred calling, his health soon fails him, and in a very strange way. So says Lady Mary.

There is no doubt that Mr. Jennings' health does break down in, generally, a sudden and mysterious way, sometimes in the very act of officiating in his old and pretty church at Kenlis. It may be his heart, it may be his brain. But so it has happened three or four times, or oftener, that after proceeding a certain way in the service, he has on a sudden stopped short, and after a silence, apparently quite unable to resume, he has fallen into solitary, inaudible prayer, his hands and his eyes uplifted, and then pale as death, and in the agitation of a strange shame and horror, descended trembling, and got into the vestry-room, leaving his congregation, without explanation, to themselves. This occurred when his curate was absent. When he goes down to Kenlis now, he always takes care to provide a clergyman to share his duty, and to supply his place on the instant should he become thus suddenly incapacitated.

When Mr. Jennings breaks down quite, and beats a retreat from the vicarage, and returns to London, where, in a dark street off Piccadilly, he inhabits a very narrow house, Lady Mary says that he is always perfectly well. I have my own opinion about that. There are degrees of course.

We shall see.

Mr. Jennings is a perfectly gentlemanlike man. People, however, remark something odd. There is an impression a little ambiguous. One thing which certainly contributes to it, people ! think don't remember; or, perhaps, distinctly remark. But I did, almost im mediately. Mr. Jennings has a way of looking sidelong upon the carpet, as if his eye followed the movements of something there. This, of course, is not always. It occurs now and then. But often enough to give a certain oddity, as I have said, to his manner, and in this glance traveling along the floor there is something both shy and anxious. A medical philosopher, as you are good enough to call me, elaborating theories by the aid of cases sought out by himself, and by him watched and scrutinized with more time at command, and consequently infinitely more minuteness than the ordinary practitioner can afford, falls insensibly into habits of observation, which accompany him everywhere, and are exercised, as some people would say, impertinently, upon every subject that presents itself with the least likelihood of rewarding inquiry. There was a promise of this kind in the slight, timid, kindly, but reserved gentleman, whom I met for the first time at this agreeable little evening gathering. I observed, of course, more than I here set down; but I reserve all that borden on the technical for a strictly scientific paper. I may remark, that when I here speak of medical science, I do so, as I hope some day to see it more generally understood, in a much more comprehensive sense than its generally material treatment would warrant. I believe the entire natural world is but the ultimate expression of that spiritual world from which, and in which alone, it has its life. I believe that the essential man is a spirit, that the spirit is an organized substance, but as different in point of material from what we ordinarily understand by matter, as light or electricity is; that the material body is, in the most literal sense, a vesture, and death consequently no interruption of the living man's existence, but simply his extrication from the natural body --a process which commences at the moment of what we term death, and the completion of which, at furthest a few days later, is the resurrection "in power." The person who weighs the consequences of these positions will probably see their practical bearing upon medical science. This is, however, by no means the proper place for displaying the proofs and discussing the consequences of this too generally unrecognized state of facts. In pursuance of my habit, I was covertly observing Mr. Jennings, with all my caution--l think he perceived it--and I saw plainly that he was as cautiously observing me. Lady Mary happening to address me by my name, as Dr. Hesselius, I saw that he glanced at me more sharply, and then became thoughtful for a few minutes.

After this, as I conversed with a gentleman at the other end of the room, I saw him look at me more steadily, and with an interest which I thought I understood. I then saw him take an opportunity of chatting with Lady Mary, and was, as one always is, perfectly aware of being the subject of a distant inquiry and answer.

This tall clergyman approached me by-and-by; and in a little time we had got into conversation.

When two people, who like reading, and know books and places, having traveled, wish to discourse, it is very strange if they can't find topics. It was not accident that brought him near me, and led him into conversation. He knew German and had read my Essays on Metaphysical Medicine which suggest more than they actually say. This courteous man, gentle, shy, plainly a man of thought and reading, who moving and talking among us, was not altogether of us, and whom I already suspected of leading a life whose trans actions and alarms were carefully concealed, with an impenetrable reserve from, not only the world, but his best beloved friends- was cautiously weighing in his own mind the idea of taking a certain step with regard to me. I penetrated his thoughts without his being aware of it, and was careful to say nothing which could betray to his sensitive vigilance my suspicions respecting his position, or my surmises about his plans respecting myself.

We chatted upon indifferent subjects for a time but at last he said:

"I was very much interested by some papers of yours, Dr. Hesselius, upon what you term Metaphysical Medicine--I read them in German, ten or twelve years ago--have they been translated?"

"No, I'm sure they have not--I should have heard. They would have asked my leave, I think."

"I asked the publishers here, a few months ago, to get the book for me in the original German; but they tell me it is out of print."

"So it is, and has been for some years; but it flatters me as an author to find that you have not forgotten my little book, although," I added, laughing, "ten or twelve years is a considerable time to have managed without it; but I suppose you have been turning the subject over again in your mind, or something has happened lately to revive your interest in it."

At this remark, accompanied by a glance of inquiry, a sudden embarrassment disturbed Mr. Jennings, analogous to that which makes a young lady blush and look foolish. He dropped his eyes, and folded his hands together uneasily, and looked oddly, and you would have said, guiltily, for a moment.

I helped him out of his awkwardness in the best way, by appearing not to observe it, and going straight on, I said: "Those revivals of interest in a subject happen to me often; one book suggests an other, and often sends me back a wild-goose chase over an interval of twenty years. But if you still care to possess a copy, I shall be only too happy to provide you; I have still got two or three by me --and if you allow me to present one I shall be very much honored."

"You are very good indeed," he said, quite at his ease again, in a moment: "I almost despaired--I don't know how to thank you.

"Pray don't say a word; the thing is really so little worth that I am only ashamed of having offered it, and if you thank me any more I shall throw it into the fire in a fit of modesty."

Mr. Jennings laughed. He inquired where I was staying in London, and after a little more conversation on a variety of subjects, he took his departure. CHAPTER II The Doctor Questions Lady Mary and She Answers

"I like your vicar so much, Lady Mary," said I, as soon as he was gone. "He has read, traveled, and thought, and having also suffered, he ought to be an accomplished companion."

"So he is, and, better still,' he is a really good man," said she. "His advice is invaluable about my schools, and all my little undertakings at Dawlbridge, and he's so painstaking, he takes so much trouble--you have no idea wherever he thinks he can be o~ use: he's so good-natured and so sensible."

"It is pleasant to hear so good an account of his neighbourly virtues. I can only testify to his being an agreeable and gentle companion, and in addition to what you have told me, I think 1 can tell you two or three things about him," said I. "Really!" "Yes, to begin with, he's unmarried." "Yes, that's right---go on."

"He has been writing, that is he was, but for two or three years perhaps, he has not gone on with his work, and the book was upon some rather abstract subject--perhaps theology."

"Well, he was writing a book, as you say; I'm not quite sure what it was about, but only that it was nothing that I cared for; very likely you are right, and he certainly did stop--yes."

"And although he only drank a little coffee here to-night, he likes tea, at least, did like it extravagantly."

"Yes, that's quite true."

"He drank green tea, a good deal, didn't he?" I pursued.

"Well, that's very odd! Green tea was a subject on which we used almost to quarrel."

"But he has quite given that up," said I. "So he has."

"And, now, one more fact. His mother or his father, did you know them?"

"Yes, both; his father is only ten years dead, and their place is near Dawlbridge. We knew them very well," she answered.

"Well, either his mother or his father--l should rather think his father, saw a ghost," said I.

"Well, you really are a conjurer, Dr. Hesselius." "Conjurer or no, haven't I said right?" I answered merrily.

"You certainly have, and it was his father: he was a silent, whimsical man, and he used to bore my father about his dreams, and at last he told him a story about a ghost he had seen and talked with, and a very odd story it was. I remember it particularly, because 1 was so afraid of him. This story was long before he died--when I was quite a child--and his ways were so silent and moping, and he used to drop in sometimes, in the dusk, when I was alone in the drawing-room, and I used to fancy there were ghosts about him." I smiled and nodded. "And now, having established my character as a conjurer, I think I must say good-night!' said I. "But how did you find it out?"

"By the planets, of course, as the gypsies do," I answered, and so, gaily we said good-night.

Next morning I sent the little book he had been inquiring after, and a note to Mr. Jennings, and on returning late that evening, I found that he had called at my lodgings, and left his card. He asked whether I was at home, and asked at what hour he would be most likely to find me. Does he intend opening his case, and consulting me "professionally," as they say? I hope so. I have already conceived a theory about him. It is supported by Lady Mary's answers to my parting questions. I should like much to ascertain from his own lips. But what can I do consistently with good breeding to invite a confession? Nothing. I rather think he meditates one. At all events, my dear Van L., I shan't make myself difficult of access; I mean to re turn his visit tomorrow. It will be only civil in return for his polite ness, to ask to see him. Perhaps something may come of it.

Whether much, little, or nothing, my dear Van L., you shall hear.

CHAPTER III

Dr. Hesselius Picks Up Something in Latin Books

Well, I have called at Blank Street.

On inquiring at the door, the servant told me that Mr. Jennings was engaged very particularly with a gentleman, a clergyman from Kenlis, his parish in the country. Intending to reserve my privilege, and to call again, I merely intimated that I should try an- other time, and had turned to go, when the servant begged my pardon, and asked me, looking at me a little more attentively than well-bred persons of his order usually do, whether I was Dr. Hesselius; and, on learning that I was, he said, "Perhaps then, sir, you would allow me to mention it to Mr. Jennings, for I am sure he wishes to see you." The servant returned in a moment, with a message from Mr. Jennings, asking me to go into his study, which was in effect his back drawing-room, promising to be with me in a very few minutes. This was really a study--almost a library. The room was lofty, with two tall slender windows, and rich dark curtains. It was much larger than I had expected, and stored with books on every side, from the floor to the ceiling. The upper carpet-- for to my tread it felt that there were two or three--was a Turkey carpet. My steps fell noiselessly. The bookcases standing out, placed the windows, particularly narrow ones, in deep recesses. The effect of the room was, although extremely comfortable, and even luxurious, decidedly gloomy, and aided by the silence, almost oppressive. Perhaps, however, I ought to have allowed something for association. My mind had connected peculiar ideas with Mr. Jennings. I stepped into this perfectly silent room, of a very silent house, with a peculiar foreboding; and its darkness, and solemn clothing of books, for except where two narrow looking-glasses were set in the wall, they were everywhere, helped this somber feeling.

While awaiting Mr. Jennings' arrival, I amused myself by looking into some of the books with which his shelves were laden. Not among these, but immediately under them, with their backs up ward, on the floor, I lighted upon a complete set of Swedenborg's "Arcana Celestia," in the original Latin, a very fine folio set, bound in the natty livery which theology affects, pure vellum, namely, gold letters, and carmine edges. There were paper markers in several of these volumes, I raised and placed them, one after the other, upon the table, and opening where these papers were placed, I read in the solemn Latin phraseology, a series of sentences indicated by a penciled line at the margin. Of these I copy here a few, translating them into English.

"When man's interior sight is opened, which is that of his spirit, then there appear the things of another life, which cannot possibly be made visible to the bodily sight."....

"By the internal sight it has been granted me to see the things that are in the other life, more clearly than I see those that are in the world. From these considerations, it is evident that external vision exists from interior vision, and this from a vision still more interior, and so on." .... "There are with every man at least two evil spirits.".... "With wicked genii there is also a fluent speech, but harsh and grating. There is also among them a speech which is not fluent, wherein the dissent of the thoughts is perceived as something secretly creeping along within it." "The evil spirits associated with man are, indeed from the hells, but when with man they are not then in hell, but are taken out thence. The place where they then are, is in the midst between heaven and hell, and is called the world of spirits--when the evil spirits who are with man, are in that world, they are not in any infernal torment, but in every thought and affection of man, and so, in all that the man himself enjoys. But when they are remitted into their hell, they return to their former state.".... "If evil spirits could perceive that they were associated with man, and yet that they were spirits separate from him, and if they could flow in into the things of his body, they would attempt by a thousand means to destroy him; for they hate man with a deadly hatred." .... "Knowing, therefore, that I was a man in the body, they were continually striving to destroy me, not as to the body only, but especially as to the soul; for to destroy any man or spirit is the very delight of the life of all who are in hell; but I have been continually protected by the Lord. Hence it appears how dangerous it is for man to be in a living consort with spirits, unless he be in the good of faith." .... "Nothing is more carefully guarded from the knowledge of associate spirits than their being thus conjoint with a man, for if they knew it they would speak to him, with the intention to destroy him." .... "The delight of hell is to do evil to man, and to hasten his eternal ruin."

A long note, written with a very sharp and fine pencil, in Mr. Jennings' neat hand, at the foot of the page, caught my eye. Expecting his criticism upon the text, I read a word or two, and stopped, for it was something quite different, and began with these words, Deus misereatur mei--"May God compassionate me." Thus warned of its private nature, I averted my eyes, and shut the book, replacing all the volumes as I had found them, except one which interested me, and in which, as men studious and solitary in their habits will do, I grew so absorbed as to take no cognisance of the outer world, nor to remember where I was. I was reading some pages which refer to "representatives" and "correspondents," in the technical language of Swedenborg, and had arrived at a passage, the substance of which is, that evil spirits, when seen by other eyes than those of their infernal associates, pre sent themselves, by "correspondence," in the shape of the beast ()fera) which represents their particular lust and life, in aspect direful and atrocious. This is a long passage, and particularises a number of those bestial forms.

CHAPTER IV

Four Eyes Were Reading the Passage

I was running the head of my pencil-case along the line as I read it, and something caused me to raise my eyes.

Directly before me was one of the mirrors I have mentioned, in which I saw reflected the tall shape of my friend, Mr. Jennings, leaning over my shoulder, and reading the page at which I was busy, and with a face so dark and wild that I should hardly have known him.

I turned and rose. He stood erect also, and with an effort laughed a little, saying: "I came in and asked you how you did, but without succeeding in awaking you from your book; so I could not restrain my curiosity, and very impertinently, I'm afraid, peeped over your shoulder. This is not your first time of looking into those pages. You have looked into Swedenborg, no doubt, long ago?"

"Oh dear, yes! I owe Swedenborg a great deal; you will discover traces of him in the little book on Metaphysical Medicine, which you were so good as to remember." Although my friend affected a gaiety of manner, there was a slight flush in his face, and I could perceive that he was inwardly much perturbed. "I'm scarcely yet qualified, I know so little of Swedenborg. I've only had them a fortnight," he answered, "and I think they are rather likely to make a solitary man nervous--that is, judging from the very little I have read---I don't say that they have made me so," he laughed; "and I'm so very much obliged for the book. I hope you got my note?"

I made all proper acknowledgments and modest disclaimers. "I never read a book that I go with, so entirely, as that of yours," he continued. "I saw at once there is more in it than is quite un folded. Do you know Dr. Harley?" he asked, rather abruptly. In passing, the editor remarks that the physician here named was one of the most eminent who had ever practiced in England.

I did, having had letters to him, and had experienced from him great courtesy and considerable assistance during my visit to England.

"I think that man one of the very greatest fools I ever met in my life," said Mr. Jennings.

This was the first time I had ever heard him say a sharp thing of anybody, and such a term applied to so high a name a little startled me.

"Really! and in what way?" I asked. "In his profession," he answered. I smiled.

"I mean this," he said: "he seems to me, one half, blind--I mean one half[ of all he looks at is dark--preternaturally bright and vivid all the rest; and the worst of it is, it seems wilful. I can't get him--I mean he won't--I've had some experience of him as a physician, but I look on him as, in that sense, no better than a paralytic mind, an intellect half dead. I'll tell you--I know I shall some time--all about it," he said, with a little agitation. "You stay some months longer in England. If I should be out of town during your stay [or a little time, would you allow me to trouble you with a letter?"

"I should be only too happy," I assured him.

"Very good of you. I am so utterly dissatisfied with Harley."

"A little leaning to the materialistic school," I said.

"A mere materialist," he corrected me; "you can't think how that sort of thing worries one who knows better. You won't tell any one--any of my friends you know--that I am hippish; now, [or instance, no one knows--not even Lady Mary--that I have seen Dr. Harley, or any other doctor.

So pray don't mention it; and, if I should have any threatening of an attack, you'll kindly let me write, or, should I be in town, have a little talk with you." I was full of conjecture, and unconsciously I found I had fixed my eyes gravely on him, for he lowered his for a moment, and he said: "1 see you think I might as well tell you now, or else you are forming a conjecture; but you may as well give it up. If you were guessing all the rest of your Iife, you will never hit on it."

He shook his head smiling, and over that wintry sunshine a black cloud suddenly came down, and he drew his breath in, through his teeth as men do in pain. "Sorry, of course, to learn that you apprehend occasion to consult any of us; but, command me when and how you like, and I need not assure you that your confidence is sacred."

He then talked of quite other things, and in a comparatively cheerful way and after a little time, I took my leave.

CHAPTER V

Dr. Hesselius is Summoned to Richmond

We parted cheerfully, but he was not cheerful, nor was I. There are certain expressions of that powerful organ of spirit--the human face--which, although I have seen them often, and possess a doctor's nerve, yet disturb me profoundly. One look of Mr. Jennings haunted me. It had seized my imagination with so dismal a power that I changed my plans for the evening, and went to the opera, feeling that I wanted a change of ideas.

I heard nothing of or from him for two or three days, when a note in his hand reached me. It was cheerful, and full of hope. He said that he had been for some little time so much better-quite well, in fact--that he was going to make a little experiment, and run down for a month or so to his parish, to try whether a little work might not quite set him up. There was in it a fervent religious expression of gratitude [or his restoration, as he now almost hoped he might call it.

A day or two later I saw Lady Mary, who repeated what his note had announced, and told me that he was actually in Warwickshire, having resumed his clerical duties at Kenlis; and she added, "I begin to think that he is really perfectly well, and that there never was anything the matter, more than nerves and fancy; we are all nervous, but I fancy there is nothing like a little hard work for that kind of weakness, and he has made up his mind to try it. I should not be surprised if he did not come back for a year." Notwithstanding all this confidence, only two days later 1 had this note, dated from his house off Piccadilly:

DEAR Sir,--I have returned disappointed. If I should feel at all able to see you, I shall write to ask you kindly to call. At present, I am too low, and, in fact, simply unable to say all I wish to say. Pray don't mention my name to my friends. I can see no one. By-and-by, please God, you shall hear from me. I mean to take a run into Shropshire, where some of my people are. God bless you! May we, on my return, meet more happily than I can now write.

About a week after this I saw Lady Mary at her own house, the last person, she said, left in town, and just on the wing for Brighton, for the London season was quite over. She told me that she had heard from Mr. Jenning's niece, Martha, in Shropshire. There was nothing to be gathered from her letter, more than that he was low and nervous. In those words, of which healthy people think so lightly, what a world of suffering is sometimes hidden! Nearly five weeks had passed without any further news of Mr. Jennings. At the end of that time I received a note from him. He wrote: "I have been in the country, and have had change of air, change of scene, change of faces, change of everything--and in everything ---but myself. I have made up my mind, so far as the most irresolute creature on earth can do it, to tell my case fully to you. If your engagements will permit, pray come to me to-day, to-morrow, or the next day; but, pray defer as little as possible. You know not how much I need help. I have a quiet house at Richmond, where I now am. Perhaps you can manage to come to dinner, or to lunch eon, or even to tea. You shall have no trouble in finding me out. The servant at Blank Street, who takes this note, will have a carriage at your door at any hour you please; and I am always to be found. You will say that I ought not to be alone. 1 have tried everything. Come and see."

I called up the servant, and decided on going out the same evening, which accordingly I did.

He would have been much better in a lodging-house, or hotel, I thought, as I drove up through a short double row of sombre elms to a very old-fashioned brick house, darkened by the foliage of these trees, which overtopped, and nearly surrounded it. It was a perverse choice, for nothing could be imagined more triste and silent. The house, I found, belonged to him. He had stayed for a day or two in town, and, finding it for some cause insupportable, had come out here, probably because being furnished and his own, he was relieved of the thought and delay of selection, by coming here.

The sun had already set, and the red reflected light of the western sky illuminated the scene with the peculiar effect with which we are all familiar. The hall seemed very dark, but, getting to the back drawing-room, whose windows command the west, I was again in the same dusky light. I sat down, looking out upon the richly-wooded landscape that glowed in the grand and melancholy light which was every moment fading. The corners of the room were already dark; all was growing dim, and the gloom was insensibly toning my mind, al ready prepared for what was sinister. I was waiting alone for his arrival, which soon took place. The door communicating with the front room opened, and the tall figure of Mr. Jennings, faintly seen in the ruddy twilight, came, with quiet stealthy steps, into the room.

We shook hands, and, taking a chair to the window, where there was still light enough to enable us to see each other's faces, he sat down beside me, and, placing his hand upon my arm, with scarcely a word of preface began his narrative.

CHAPTER VI

How Mr. Jennings Met His Companion

The faint glow of the west, the pomp of the then lonely woods of Richmond, were before us, behind and about us the darkening room, and on the stony face of the sufferer for the character of his face, though still gentle and sweet, was changed rested that dim, odd glow which seems to descend and produce, where it touches, lights, sudden though faint, which are lost, almost with out gradation, in darkness. The silence, too, was utter: not a dis tant wheel, or bark, or whistle from without; and within the de pressing stillness of an invalid bachelor's house.

I guessed well the nature, though not even vaguely the particulars of the revelations I was about to receive, from that fixed face of suffering that so oddly flushed stood out, like a portrait of Schalken's, before its background of darkness.

"It began," he said, "on the 15th of October, three years and eleven weeks ago, and two days--I keep very accurate count, for every day is torment. If I leave anywhere a chasm in my narrative tell me.

"About four years ago I began a work, which had cost me very much thought and reading. It was upon the religious metaphysics of the ancients."

"1 know," said I, "the actual religion of educated and thinking paganism, quite apart from symbolic worship? A wide and very interesting field."

"Yes, but not good for the mind--the Christian mind, I mean. Paganism is all bound together in essential unity, and, with evil sympathy, their religion involves their art, and both their manners, and the subject is a degrading fascination and the Nemesis sure. God forgive me!

"I wrote a great deal; I wrote late at night. I was always thinking on the subject, walking about, wherever I was, everywhere. It thoroughly infected me. You are to remember that all the material ideas connected with it were more or less of the beautiful, the subject itself delightfully interesting, and I, then, without a care." He sighed heavily. "I believe, that every one who sets about writing in earnest does his work, as a friend of mine phrased it, on something--tea, or coffee, or tobacco. I suppose there is a material waste that must be hourly supplied in such occupations, or that we should grow too abstracted, and the mind, as it were, pass out of the body, unless it were reminded often enough of the connection by actual sensation. At all events, I felt the want, and I supplied it. Tea was my companion-at first the ordinary black tea, made in the usual way, not too strong: but I drank a good deal, and increased its strength as I went on. I never, experienced an uncomfortable symptom from it. ! began to take a little green tea. I found the effect pleasanter, it cleared and intensified the power of thought so, I had come to take it frequently, but not stronger than one might take it for pleasure. I wrote a great deal out here, it was so quiet, and in this room. I used to sit up very late, and it became a habit with me to sip my tea--green tea--every now and then as my work proceeded. I had a little kettle on my table, that swung over a lamp, and made tea two or three times between eleven o'clock and two or three in the morning, my hours of going to bed. I used to go into town every day. I was not a monk, and, although I spent an hour or two in a library, hunting up authorities and looking out lights upon my theme, I was in no morbid state as far as I can judge. I met my friends pretty much as usual and enjoyed their society, and, on the whole, existence had never been, I think, so pleasant before.

"I had met with a man who had some odd old books, German editions in medieval Latin, and I was only too happy to be permitted access to them. This obliging person's books were in the City, a very out-of-the-way part of it. I had rather out-stayed my intended hour, and, on coming out, seeing no cab near, I was tempted to get into the omnibus which used to drive past this house. It was darker than this by the time the 'bus had reached an old house, you may have remarked, with four poplars at each side of the door, and there the last passenger but myself got out. We drove along rather faster. It was twilight now. I leaned back in my corner next the door ruminating pleasantly.

"The interior of the omnibus was nearly dark. I had observed in the corner opposite to me at the other side, and at the end next the horses, two small circular reflections, as it seemed to me of a reddish light. They were about two inches apart, and about the size of those small brass buttons that yachting men used to put upon their jackets. I began to speculate, as listless men will, upon this trifle, as it seemed. From what center did that faint but deep red light come, and from what--glass beads, buttons, toy decorations-was it reflected? We were lumbering along gently, having nearly a mile still to go. I had not solved the puzzle, and it be came in another minute more odd, for these two luminous points, with a sudden jerk, descended nearer and nearer the floor, keeping still their relative distance and horizontal position, and then, as suddenly, they rose to the level of the seat on which I was sitting and I saw them no more.

"My curiosity was now really excited, and, before I had time to think, I saw again these two dull lamps, again together near the floor; again they disappeared, and again in their old corner I saw them. "So, keeping my eyes upon them, I edged quietly up my own side, towards the end at which I still saw these tiny discs of red.

"There was very little light in the 'bus. It was nearly dark. I leaned forward to aid my endeavor to discover what these little circles really were. They shifted position a little as I did so. I began now to perceive an outline of something black, and 1 soon saw, with tolerable distinctness, the outline of a small black monkey, pushing its face forward in mimicry to meet mine; those were its eyes, and I now dimly saw its teeth grinning at me. "I drew back, not knowing whether it might not meditate a spring. 1 fancied that one of the passengers had forgot this ugly pet, and wishing to ascertain something of its temper, though not caring to trust my fingers to it, I poked my umbrella softly towards it. It remained immovable--up to it--through it. For through it, and back and forward it passed, without the slightest resistance.

"I can't, in the least, convey to you the kind of horror that I felt. When I had ascertained that the thing was an illusion, as I then supposed, there came a misgiving about myself and a terror that fascinated me in impotence to remove my gaze from the eyes of the brute for some moments. As I looked, it made a little skip back, quite into the corner, and I, in a panic, found myself at the door, having put my head out, drawing deep breaths of the outer air, and staring at the lights and tress we were passing, too glad to reassure myself of reality. "I stopped the 'bus and got out. I perceived the man look oddly at me as I paid him. I dare say there was something unusual in my looks and manner, for I had never felt so strangely before."

CHAPTER VII

The Journey: First Stage

"When the omnibus drove on, and I was alone upon the road, I looked carefully round to ascertain whether the monkey had fol lowed me. To my indescribable relief ! saw it nowhere. I can't describe easily what a shock I had received, and my sense of genuine gratitude on finding myself, as I supposed, quite rid of it.

"I had got out a little before we reached this house, two or three hundred steps. A brick wall runs along the footpath, and inside the wall is a hedge of yew, or some dark evergreen of that kind, and within that again the row of fine trees which you may have remarked as you came. "This brick wall is about as high as my shoulder, and happening to raise my eyes I saw the monkey, with that stooping gait, on all fours, walking or creeping, close beside me, on top of the wall. I stopped, looking at it with a feeling of loathing and horror. As I stopped so did it. It sat up on the wall with its long hands on its knees looking at me. There was not light enough to see it much more than in outline, nor was it dark enough to bring the peculiar light of its eyes into strong relief. I still saw, however, that red foggy light plainly enough. It did not show its teeth, nor exhibit any sign of irritation, but seemed jaded and sulky, and was observing me steadily. "I drew back into the middle of the road. It was an unconscious recoil, and there I stood, still looking at it. It did not move.

"With an instinctive determination to try something--any thing, I turned about and walked briskly towards town with askance look, all the time, watching the movements of the beast. It crept swiftly along the wall, at exactly my pace.

"Where the wall ends, near the turn of the road, it came down, and with a wiry spring or two brought itself close to my feet, and continued to keep up with me, as I quickened my pace. It was at my left side, so dose to my leg that I felt every moment as if I should tread upon it.

"The road was quite deserted and silent, and it was darker every moment. I stopped dismayed and bewildered, turning as 1 did so, the other way--I mean, towards this house, away from which I had been walking. When I stood still, the monkey drew back to a distance of, I suppose, about five or six yards, and remained stationary, watching me. "I had been more agitated than I have said. I had read, of course, as everyone has, something about 'spectral illusions,' as you physicians term the phenomena of such cases. I considered my situation, and looked my misfortune in the face.

"These affections, I had read, are sometimes transitory and sometimes obstinate. I had read of cases in which the appearance, at first harmless, had, step by step, degenerated into something direful and insupportable, and ended by wearing its victim out. Still as I stood there, but for my bestial companion, quite alone, I tried to comfort myself by repeating again and again the assurance, 'the thing is purely disease, a well-known physical affection, as distinctly as small-pox or neuralgia. Doctors are all agreed on that, philosophy demonstrates it. I must not be a fool. I've been sitting up too late, and I daresay my digestion is quite wrong, and, with God's help, I shall be all right, and this is but a symptom of nervous dyspepsia.'

Did I believe all this? Not one word of it, no more than any other miserable being ever did who is once seized and riveted in this satanic captivity. Against my convictions, I might say my knowledge, I was simply bullying myself into a false courage.

"I now walked homeward. I had only a few hundred yards to go. I had forced myself into a sort of resignation, but I had not got over the sickening shock and the flurry of the first certainty of my misfortune.

"I made up my mind to pass the night at home. The brute moved dose betide me, and 1 fancied there was the sort of anxious drawing toward the house, which one sees in tired horses or dogs, sometimes as they come toward home.

"I was afraid to go into town, I was afraid of any one's seeing and recognizing me. I was conscious of an irrepressible agitation in my manner. Also, I was afraid of any violent change in my habits, such as going to a place of amusement, or walking from home in order to fatigue myself. At the hall door it waited till I mounted the steps, and when the door was opened entered with me.

"I drank no tea that night. I got cigars and some brandy and water. My idea was that I should act upon my material system, and by living for a while in sensation apart from thought, send myself forcibly, as it were, into a new groove. I came up here to this drawing-room. 1 sat just here. The monkey then got upon a small table that then stood there. It looked dazed and languid. An irrepressible uneasiness as to its movements kept my eyes always upon it. Its eyes were half closed, but I could see them glow. It was looking steadily at me. In all situations, at all hours, it is awake and looking at me. That never changes.

"I shall not continue in detail my narrative of this particular night. I shall describe, rather, the phenomena of the first year, which never varied, essentially. I shall describe the monkey as it appeared in daylight. In the dark, as you shall presently hear, there are peculiarities. It is a small monkey, perfectly black. It had only one peculiarity--a character of malignity--unfathomable malignity. During the first year looked sullen and sick. But this character of intense malice and vigilance was always underlying that surly languor. During all that time it acted as if on a plan of giving me as little trouble as was consistent with watching me. Its eyes were never off me. I have never lost sight of it, except in my sleep, light or dark, day or night, since it came here, excepting when it withdraws for some weeks at a time, unaccountably.

"In total dark it is visible as in daylight. I do not mean merely its eyes. It is all visible distinctly in a halo that resembles a glow of red embers, and which accompanies it in all its movements.

"When it leaves me for a time, it is always at night, in the dark, and in the same way. It grows at first uneasy, and then furious, and then advances towards me, ginning and shaking, its paws clenched, and, at the same time, there comes the appearance of fire in the grate. I never have any fire. I can't sleep in the room where there is any, and it draws nearer and nearer to the chimney, quivering, it seems, with rage, and when its fury rises to the high est pitch, it springs into the grate, and up the chimney, and 1 see it no more.

"When first this happened, I thought I was released. 1 was now a new man. A day passed--a night--and no return, and a blessed week--a week--another week. 1 was always on my knees, Dr. Hesselius, always, thanking God and praying. A whole month passed of liberty, but on a sudden, it was with me again."

CHAPTER VIII

The Second Stage

"It was with me, and the malice which before was torpid under a sullen exterior, was now active.

It was perfectly unchanged in every other respect. This new energy was apparent in its activity and its looks, and soon in other ways.

"For a time, you will understand, the change was shown only in an increased vivacity, and an air of menace, as if it were always brooding over some atrocious plan. Its eyes, as before, were never off me."

"Is it here now?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "it has been absent exactly a fortnight and a day--fifteen days. It has sometimes been away so long as nearly two months, once for three. Its absence always exceeds a fortnight, al though it may be but by a single day. Fifteen days having past since I saw it last, it may return now at any moment."

"Is its return," I asked, "accompanied by any peculiar manifestation?"

"Nothing--no," he said. "It is simply with me again. On lifting my eyes from a book, or turning my head, I see it, as usual, looking at me, and then it remains, as before, for its appointed time. I have never told so much and so minutely before to any one."

I perceived that he was agitated, and looking like death, and he repeatedly applied his handkerchief to his forehead; I suggested that he might be cured, and told him that I would call, with pleasure, in the morning, but he said: "No, if you don't mind hearing it all now. I have got so far, and I should prefer making one effort of it. When I spoke to Dr. Harley, I had nothing like so much to tell. You are a philosophic physician. You give spirit its proper rank. If the thing is real----"

He paused looking at me with agitated inquiry.

"We can discuss it by-and-by, and very fully. I will give you all I think, " I answered after an interval.

"Well--very well. If it is anything real, I say, it is prevailing. little by little, and drawing me more interiorly into hell. Optic nerves, he talked of. Ah! well--there are other nerves of communication. May God Almighty help me! You shall hear. "It is power of action, I tell you, had increased. Its malice became, in a way, aggressive. About two years ago, some questions that were pending between me and the bishop having been settled, I went down to my parish in Warwickshire, anxious to find occupation in my profession. I was not prepared for what happened, although I have since thought I might have apprehended something like it. The reason of my saying so is this--"

He was beginning to speak with a great deal more effort and reluctance, and sighted often, and seemed at times nearly overcome. But at this time his manner was not agitated. It was more like that of a sinking patient, who has given himself up.

"Yes, but I will first tell you about Kenlis my parish.

"It was with me when I left this place for Drawlbridge. It was my silent traveling companion, and it remained with me at the vicarage. When I entered on the discharge of my duties, another change took place. The thing exhibited an atrocious determination to thwart me. It was with me in the church--in the reading desk--in the pulpit--within the communion rails. At last, it reached this extremity, that while I was reading to the congregation, it would spring upon the book and squat there, so that I was unable to see the page. This happened more than once.

"I left Drawlbridge for a time. I placed myself in Dr. Harley's hands. I did everything he told me. he gave my case a great deal of thought. It interested him, I think. He seemed successful.

For nearly three months I was perfectly free from a return. I began to think I was safe. With his full assent I returned to Drawlbridge.

"I traveled in a chaise. I was in good spirits. I was more--I was happy and grateful. I was returning , as I thought, delivered from a dreadful hallucination, to the scene of duties which I longed to enter upon. It was a beautiful sunny evening, everything looked serene and cheerful, and I was delighted, I remember looking out of the window to see the spire of my church at Kenlis among the trees, at the point where one has the earliest view of it. It is exactly where the little stream that bounds the parish passes under the road by a culvert, and where it emerges at the roadside, a stone with an old inscription is placed. As we passed this point, I drew my head in and sat down, and in the corner of the chaise was the monkey.

"For a moment I felt faint, and then quite wild with despair and horror, I called to the driver, and got out, and sat down at the road-side, and prayed to God silently for mercy. A despairing resignation supervened. My companion was with me as I reentered the vicarage. The same persecution followed. After a short struggle I submitted, and soon I left the place. "I told you," he said, "that all the beast has before this become in certain ways aggressive. I will explain a little. It seemed to be actuated by intense and increasing fury, whenever I said my prayers, or even meditated prayer. It amounted at last to a dreadful interruption. You will ask, how could a silent immaterial phantom effect that? It was thus, whenever I meditated praying; It was always before me, and nearer and nearer. "It used to spring on the table, on the back of the chair, on the chimney-piece, and slowly swing itself from side to side, looking at me all the time. There is in its motion an indefinable power to dissipate thought, and to contract one's attention to that monotony, till the ideas shrink, as it were, to a point, and at last to nothing--and unless I had started up , and shook off the catalepsy I have felt as if my mind were to a point of losing itself. There are no other ways," he sighed heavily; "thus, for instance, while I pray with my eyes closed, it comes closer and closer and closer, and I see it. I know it is not to be accounted for physically, but I do actually see it, though my lids are closed, and so it rocks my mind, as it were, and overpowers me, and I am obliged to rise from my knees. If you had ever yourself known this, you would be acquainted with desperation."

CHAPTER IX

The Third Stage

"I see, Dr. Hesselius, that you don't lose one word of my statement. I need not ask you to listen specially to what I am now going to tell you. They talk of the optic nerves, and of spectral illusions, as if the organ of fight was the only point assailable by the influences that have fastened upon me--l know better. For two years in my direful case that limitation prevailed. But as food is taken in softly at the lips, and then brought under the teeth, as the tip of the little finger caught in a mill crank will draw in the hand, and the arm, and the whole body, so the miserable mortal who has been once caught firmly by the end of the finest fibre of his nerve, is drawn in and in, by the enormous machinery of hell, until he is as 1 am. Yes, Doctor, as I am, for a while I talk to you, and implore relief, I feel that my prayer is for the impossible, and my pleading with the inexorable."

1 endeavoured to calm his visibly increasing agitation, and told him that he must not despair.

While we talked the night had overtaken us. The filmy moon light was wide over the scene which the window commanded, and I said: "Perhaps you would prefer having candles. This light, you know, is odd. I should wish you, as much as possible, under your usual conditions while I make my diagnosis, shall I call it--otherwise I don't care."

"All lights are the same to me," he said; "except when 1 read or write, I care not if night were perpetual. I am going to tell you what happened about a year ago. The thing began to speak to me."

"Speak! How do you mean--speak as a man does, do you mean?" "yes; speak in words and consecutive sentences, with perfect coherence and articulation; but there is a peculiarity. It is not like the tone of a human voice. It is not by my ears it reaches me-it comes like a singing through my head.

"This faculty, the power of speaking to me, will be my undoing. It won't let me pray, it interrupts me with dreadful blasphemies. I dare not go on, I could not. Oh! Doctor, can the skill, and thought, and prayers of man avail me nothing!"

"You must promise me, my dear sir, not to trouble yourself with unnecessarily exciting thoughts; confine yourself strictly to the narrative of facts; and recollect, above all, that even if the thing that infests you be, you seem to suppose a reality with an actual in dependent life and will, yet it can have no power to hurt you, unless it be given from above: its access to your senses depends mainly upon your physical condition--this is, under God, your com fort and reliance: we are all alike environed. It is only that in your case, the 'parties,' the veil of the flesh, the screen, is a little out of repair, and sights and sounds are transmitted. We must enter on a new course, sir,---be encouraged. I'll give to-night to the careful consideration of the whole case."

"You are very good, sir; you think it worth trying, you don't give me quite up; but, sir, you don't know, it is gaining such an influence over me: it orders me about, it is such a tyrant, and I'm growing so helpless. May God deliver me!"

"It orders you about--of course you mean by speech?"

"Yes, yes; it is always urging me to crimes, to injure others, or myself. You see, Doctor, the situation is urgent, it is indeed. When I was in Shropshire, a few weeks ago" (Mr. Jennings was speaking rapidly and trembling now, holding my arm with one hand, and looking in my face), "I went out one day with a party of friends for a walk: my persecutor, I tell you, was with me at the time. I lagged behind the rest: the country near the Dee, you know, is beautiful. Our path happened to lie near a coal mine, and at the verge of the wood is a perpendicular shaft, they say, a hundred and fifty feet deep. My niece had remained behind with me--she knows, of course nothing of the nature of my sufferings. She knew, however, that I had been ill, and was low, and she remained to prevent my being quite alone. As we loitered slowly on together, the brute that accompanied me was urging me to throw myself down the shaft. I tell you now--oh, sir, think of it!--the one consideration that saved me from that hideous death was the fear lest the shock of witnessing the occurrence should be too much for the poor girl. I asked her to go on and walk with her friends, saying that I could go no further. She made excuses, and the more I urged her the firmer she became. She looked doubtful and frightened. 1 suppose there was something in my looks or manner that alarmed her; but she would not go, and that literally saved me. You had no idea, sir, that a living man could be made so abject a slave of Satan," he said, with a ghastly groan and a shudder.

There was a pause here, and I said, "You were preserved nevertheless. It was the act of God. You are in His hands and in the power of no other being: be therefore confident for the future."

CHAPTER X

Home

I made him have candles lighted, and saw the room looking cheery and inhabited before I left him. I told him that he must regard his illness strictly as one dependent on physical, though subtle physical causes. 1 told him that he had evidence of God's care and love in the deliverance which he had just described, and that I had perceived with pain that he seemed to regard its peculiar features as indicating that he had been delivered over to spiritual reprobation. Than such a conclusion nothing could be, I insisted, less warranted; and not only so, but more contrary to [acts, as disclosed in his mysterious deliverance from that murderous in fluence during his Shropshire excursion. First, his niece had been retained by his side without his intending to keep her near him; and, secondly, there had been infused into his mind an irresistible repugnance to execute the dreadful suggestion in her presence.

As I reasoned this point with him, Mr. Jennings wept. He seemed comforted. One promise I exacted, which was that should the monkey at any time return, I should be sent for immediately; and, repeating my assurance that 1 would give neither time nor thought to any other subject until I had thoroughly investigated his case, and that to-morrow he should hear the result, 1 took my leave.

Before getting into the carriage I told the servant that his master was far from well, and that he should make a point of fre quently looking into his room. My own arrangements 1 made with a view to being quite secure from interruption. I merely called at my lodgings, and with a traveling-desk and carpet-bag, set off in a hackney carriage for an inn about two miles out of town, called "The Horns," a very quiet and comfortable house, with good thick walls. And there I resolved, without the possibility of intrusion or distraction, to devote some hours of the night, in my comfortable sitting-room, to Mr. Jennings' case, and so much of the morning as it might require. (There occurs here a careful note of Dr. Hesselius' opinion on the case, and of the habits, dietary, and medicines which he prescribed. It is curious--some persons would say mystical. But, on the whole, I doubt whether it would sufficiently interest a reader of the kind I am likely to meet with, to warrant its being here reprinted. The whole letter was plainly written at the inn where he had hid himself for the occasion. The next letter is dated from his town lodgings.) I left town for the inn where I slept last night at half-past nine, and did not arrive at my room in town until one o'clock this after- noon. 1 found a letter m Mr. Jennings' hand upon my table. It. had not come by post, and, on inquiry, I learned that Mr. Jennings' servant had brought it, and on learning that I was not to return until to-day, and that no one could tell him my address, he seemed very uncomfortable, and said his orders from his master were that he was not to return without an answer.

I opened the letter and read:

Dear Dr. Hesselius.--It is here. You had not been an hour gone when it returned. It is speaking. It knows all that has happened. It knows every thing-it knows you, and is frantic and atrocious. It reviles. I send you this. It knows every word I have written--I write. This I promised, and I therefore write, but I fear very confused, very incoherently. I am so interrupted, disturbed.

Ever yours, sincerely yours,

ROBERT LYNDER JENNINGS.

"When did this come?" I asked.

"About eleven last night: the man was here again, and has been here three times to-day. The last time is about an hour since."

Thus answered, and with the notes ! had made upon his case in my pocket, I was in a few minutes driving towards Richmond, to see Mr. Jennings. I by no means, as you perceive, despaired of Mr. Jennings' case. He had himself remembered and applied, though quite in a mistaken way, the principle which I lay down in my Metaphysical Medicine, and which governs all such cases. I was about to apply it in earnest. I was profoundly interested, and very anxious to see and examine him while the "enemy" was actually present. I drove up to the sombre house, and ran up the steps, and knocked. The door, in a little time, was opened by a tall woman in black silk. She looked ill, and as if she had been crying. She curtseyed, and heard my question, but she did not answer. She turned her face away, extending her hand towards two men who were coming down-stairs; and thus having, as it were, tacitly made me over to them, she passed through a side-door hastily and shut it.

The man who was nearest the hall, I at once accosted, but being now close to him, I was shocked to see that both his hands were covered with blood.

I drew back a little, and the man, passing downstairs, merely said in a low tone, "Here's the servant, sir."

The servant had stopped on the stairs, confounded and dumb at seeing me. He was rubbing his hands in a handkerchief, and it was steeped in blood.

"Jones, what is it? what has happened?" I asked, while a sickening suspicion overpowered me.

The man asked me to come up to the lobby. I was beside him in a moment, and, frowning and pallid, with contracted eyes, he told me the horror which I already half guessed.

His master had made away with himself.

I went upstairs with him to the room--what I saw there I won't tell you. He had cut his throat with his razor. It was a frightful gash. The two men had laid him on the bed, and composed his limbs. It had happened, as the immense pool of blood on the floor declared, at some distance between the bed and the window. There was carpet round his bed, and a carpet under his dressing. table, but none on the rest of the floor, for the man said he did not like a carpet on his bedroom. In this sombre and now terrible room, one of the great elms that darkened the house was slowly moving the shadow of one of its great boughs upon this dreadful floor.

I beckoned to the servant, and we went downstairs together. I turned off the hall into an old-fashioned paneled room, and there standing, I heard all the servant had to tell. It was not a great deal.

"! concluded, sir, from your words, and looks, sir, as you left last night, that you thought my master was seriously ill. I thought it might be that you were afraid of a fit, or something. So I attended very close to your directions. He sat up late, till past three o'clock. He was not writing or reading. He was talking a great deal to him self, but that was nothing unusual. At about that hour 1 assisted him to undress, and left him in his slippers and dressing-gown. I went back softly in about half-an-hour. He was in his bed, quite undressed, and a pair of candles lighted on the table beside his bed. He was leaning on his elbow, and looking out at the other side of the bed when I came in. I asked him if he wanted anything, and he said No. "I don't know whether it was what you said to me, sir, or some thing a little unusual about him, but I was uneasy, uncommon uneasy about him last night.

"In another half hour, or it might be a little more, 1 went up again. 1 did not hear him talking as before. I opened the door a little. The candles were both out, which was not usual. I had a bedroom candle, and I let the light in, a little bit, looking softly round. I saw him sitting in that chair beside the dressing-table with his clothes on again. He turned round and looked at me. I thought it strange he should get up and dress, and put out the candles to sit in the dark, that way.

But I only asked him again if I could do anything for him. He said, No, rather sharp, I thought. He said, 'Tell me truth, Jones; why did you come again--you did not hear anyone cursing?' 'No, sir,' I said, wondering what he could mean.

"'No,' said he, after me, 'of course, no;' and I said to him, 'Wouldn't it be well, sir, you went to bed? It's just five o'clock;' and he said nothing, but, 'Very likely; good-night, Jones.' so I went, sir, but in less than an hour I came again. The door was fast, and he heard me, and called as I thought from the bed to know what I wanted, and he desired me not to disturb him again. I lay down and slept for a little. It must have been between six and seven when I went up again. The door was still fast, and he made no answer, so 1 did not like to disturb him, and thinking he was asleep, I left him till nine. It was his custom to ring when he wished me to come, and I had no particular hour for calling him. I tapped very gently, and getting no answer, I stayed away a good while, supposing he was getting some rest then. It was not till eleven o'clock I grew really uncomfortable about him--for at the latest he was never, that I could remember, later than half past ten. I got no answer. I knocked and called, and still no answer. So not being able to force the door, I called Thomas from the stables, and together we forced it, and found him in the shocking way you saw."

Jones had no more to tell. Poor Mr. Jennings was very gentle, and very kind. All his people were fond of him. I could see that the servant was very much moved. So, dejected and agitated, I passed from that terrible house, and its dark canopy of elms, and I hope I shall never see it more. While I write to you I feel like a man who has but half waked from a frightful and monotonous dream. My memory rejects the picture with incredulity and horror.

Yet I know it is true. It is the story of the process of a poison, a poison which excites the reciprocal action of spirit and nerve, and paralyses the tissue that separates those cognate functions of the senses, the external and the interior. Thus we find strange bed-fellows, and the mortal and immortal prematurely make acquaintance.

CONCLUSION

A Word for Those Who Suffer

My dear Van L--, you have suffered from an affection similar to that which 1 have just described. You twice complained of a re turn of it. Who, under God, cured you? Your humble servant, Martin Hesselius. Let me rather adopt the more emphasized piety o[ a certain good old French surgeon of three hundred years ago: "I treated, and God cured you."

Come, my friend, you are not to be hippish. Let me tell you a fact. 1 have met with, and treated, as my book shows, fifty-seven cases of this kind of vision, which 1 term indifferently "sublimated," "precocious," and "interior." There is another class of affections which are truly termed- though commonly confounded with those which I describe--spectral illusions.

These latter I look upon as being no less simply curable than a cold in the head or a trifling dyspepsia. It is those which rank in the first category that test our promptitude of thought. Fifty-seven such cases have I encountered, neither more nor less. And in how many of these have I failed? In no one single instance.There is no one affliction of mortality more easily and certainly reducible, with a little patience, and a rational confidence in the physician. With these simple conditions, 1 look upon the cure as absolutely certain. You are to remember that 1 had not even commenced to treat Mr. Jennings' case. 1 have not any doubt that 1 should have cured him perfectly in eighteen months, or possibly it might have ex tended to two years. Some cases are very rapidly curable, others extremely tedious. Every intelligent physician who will give thought and diligence to the task, will effect a cure. You know my tract on "The Cardinal Functions of the Brain." I there, by the evidence of innumerable facts, prove, as I think, the high probability of a circulation arterial and venous in its anism, through the nerves. Of this system, thus considered, the brain is the heart. The fluid, which is propagated hence through one class of nerves, returns in an altered state through another, and the nature of that fluid is spiritual, though not immaterial, any more than, as 1 before remarked, light or electricity are so. By various abuses, among which the habitual use of such agents . as green tea is one, this fluid may be affected as to its quality, but it is more frequently disturbed as to equilibrium. This fluid being that which we have in common with spirits, a congestion found on the masses of brain or nerve, connected with the interior sense, forms a surface unduly exposed, on which disembodied spirits may operate: communication is thus more or less effectually established. Between this brain circulation and the heart circulation there is an intimate sympathy. The seat, or rather the instrument of exterior vision, is the eye. The seat of interior vision is the nervous tissue and brain, immediately about and above the eyebrow. You remember how effectually I dissipated your pictures by the simple application of iced eau-de-cologne. Few cases, how ever, can be treated exactly alike with anything like rapid success. Cold acts powerfully as a repellant of the nervous fluid. Long enough continued it will even produce that permanent insensibility which we call numbness, and a little longer, muscular as well as sensational paralysis.

I have not, 1 repeat, the slightest doubt that 1 should have first dimmed and ultimately sealed that inner eye which Mr. Jennings had inadvertently opened. The same senses are opened in delirium tremens, and entirely shut up again when the overaction of the cerebral heart, and the prodigious nervous congestions that attend it, are terminated by a decided change in the state of the body. It is by acting steadily upon the body, by a simple process, that this result is produced--and inevitably produced--l have never yet failed. Poor Mr. Jennings made away with himself. But that catastrophe was the result of a totally different malady, which, as it were, projected itself upon the disease which was established. His case was in the distinctive manner a complication, and the com plaint under which he really succumbed, was hereditary suicidal mania. Poor Mr. Jennings I cannot call a patient of mine, for I had not even begun to treat his case, and he had not yet given me, I am convinced, his full and unreserved confidence. If the patient do not array himself on the side of the disease, his cure is certain.

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