Somerset maughan

cher ami
,' said Dr Porhoët, looking at him. 'Will 
you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?' 
'I should like something,' he answered, with a look of utter 
weariness. 
'Sit still for a minute or two, and you shall tell us what you want to 
when you are a little rested.' 
Dr Porhoët had not seen Arthur since that afternoon in the previous 
year when, in answer to Haddo's telegram, he had gone to the 
studio in the Rue Campagne Première. He watched him anxiously 
while Arthur drank his coffee. The change in him was 
extraordinary; there was a cadaverous exhaustion about his face, 
and his eyes were sunken in their sockets. But what alarmed the 
good doctor most was that Arthur's personality seemed thoroughly 
thrown out of gear. All that he had endured during these nine 
months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the matter-of-
fact sureness, which had distinguished him. He was now 
unbalanced and neurotic. 
Arthur did not speak. With his eyes fixed moodily on the ground, he 
wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. It revolted 
him to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of 

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his tether and needed the doctor's advice. He found himself obliged 
to deal with circumstances that might have existed in a world of 
nightmare, and he was driven at last to take advantage of his 
friend's peculiar knowledge. 
Returning to London after Margaret's flight, Arthur Burdon had 
thrown himself again into the work which for so long had been his 
only solace. It had lost its savour; but he would not take this into 
account, and he slaved away mechanically, by perpetual toil seeking 
to deaden his anguish. But as the time passed he was seized on a 
sudden with a curious feeling of foreboding, which he could in no 
way resist; it grew in strength till it had all the power of an 
obsession, and he could not reason himself out of it. He was sure 
that a great danger threatened Margaret. He could not tell what it 
was, nor why the fear of it was so persistent, but the idea was there 
always, night and day; it haunted him like a shadow and pursued 
him like remorse. His anxiety increased continually, and the 
vagueness of his terror made it more tormenting. He felt quite 
certain that Margaret was in imminent peril, but he did not know 
how to help her. Arthur supposed that Haddo had taken her back to 
Skene; but, even if he went there, he had no chance of seeing her. 
What made it more difficult still, was that his chief at St Luke's was 
away, and he was obliged to be in London in case he should be 
suddenly called upon to do some operation. But he could think of 
nothing else. He felt it urgently needful to see Margaret. Night after 
night he dreamed that she was at the point of death, and heavy 
fetters prevented him from stretching out a hand to help her. At last 
he could stand it no more. He told a brother surgeon that private 
business forced him to leave London, and put the work into his 
hands. With no plan in his head, merely urged by an obscure 
impulse, he set out for the village of Venning, which was about 
three miles from Skene. 
It was a tiny place, with one public-house serving as a hotel to the 
rare travellers who found it needful to stop there, and Arthur felt 
that some explanation of his presence was necessary. Having seen at 
the station an advertisement of a large farm to let, he told the 
inquisitive landlady that he had come to see it. He arrived late at 
night. Nothing could be done then, so he occupied the time by 
trying to find out something about the Haddos. 

---

Oliver was the local magnate, and his wealth would have made him 
an easy topic of conversation even without his eccentricity. The 
landlady roundly called him insane, and as an instance of his 
queerness told Arthur, to his great dismay, that Haddo would have 
no servants to sleep in the house: after dinner everyone was sent 
away to the various cottages in the park, and he remained alone 
with his wife. It was an awful thought that Margaret might be in the 
hands of a raving madman, with not a soul to protect her. But if he 
learnt no more than this of solid fact, Arthur heard much that was 
significant. To his amazement the old fear of the wizard had grown 
up again in that lonely place, and the garrulous woman gravely told 
him of Haddo's evil influence on the crops and cattle of farmers who 
had aroused his anger. He had had an altercation with his bailiff, 
and the man had died within a year. A small freeholder in the 
neighbourhood had refused to sell the land which would have 
rounded off the estate of Skene, and a disease had attacked every 
animal on his farm so that he was ruined. Arthur was impressed 
because, though she reported these rumours with mock scepticism 
as the stories of ignorant yokels and old women, the innkeeper had 
evidently a terrified belief in their truth. No one could deny that 
Haddo had got possession of the land he wanted; for, when it was 
put up to auction, no one would bid against him, and he bought it 
for a song. 
As soon as he could do so naturally, Arthur asked after Margaret. 
The woman shrugged her shoulders. No one knew anything about 
her. She never came out of the park gates, but sometimes you could 
see her wandering about inside by herself. She saw no one. Haddo 
had long since quarrelled with the surrounding gentry; and though 
one old lady, the mother of a neighbouring landowner, had called 
when Margaret first came, she had not been admitted, and the visit 
was never returned. 
'She'll come to no good, poor lady,' said the hostess of the inn. 'And 
they do say she's a perfect picture to look at.' 
Arthur went to his room. He longed for the day to come. There was 
no certain means of seeing Margaret. It was useless to go to the park 
gates, since even the tradesmen were obliged to leave their goods at 
the lodge; but it appeared that she walked alone, morning and 

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afternoon, and it might be possible to see her then. He decided to 
climb into the park and wait till he came upon her in some spot 
where they were not likely to be observed. 
Next day the great heat of the last week was gone, and the 
melancholy sky was dark with lowering clouds. Arthur inquired for 
the road which led to Skene, and set out to walk the three miles 
which separated him from it. The country was grey and barren. 
There was a broad waste of heath, with gigantic boulders strewn as 
though in pre-historic times Titans had waged there a mighty battle. 
Here and there were trees, but they seemed hardly to withstand the 
fierce winds of winter; they were old and bowed before the storm. 
One of them attracted his attention. It had been struck by lightning 
and was riven asunder, leafless; but the maimed branches were 
curiously set on the trunk so that they gave it the appearance of a 
human being writhing in the torture of infernal agony. The wind 
whistled strangely. Arthur's heart sank as he walked on. He had 
never seen a country so desolate. 
He came to the park gates at last and stood for some time in front of 
them. At the end of a long avenue, among the trees, he could see