Haunted Castles by Ray Russell Page B

despair has been utter. It prevented me from making the long journey to England. But when I heard—sublime coincidence!—that my own wife had been acquainted with you, I took heart. Sir Robert, I entreat you to heal me, to lift from me this curse, to make me look once more like a man, that I may walk in the sun again, among my fellow human beings, as one of them, rather than as a fearsome gargoyle to be shunned and feared and ridiculed. Surely you cannot,
will
not deny me?”
    My feelings for Sardonicus, pendulum-like, again swung towards his favour. His story, his plight, had rent my heart, and I reverted to my earlier opinion that such a man should be forgiven much. The strange overheard conversation between Maude and him was momentarily forgotten. I said, “I will examine you, Mr. Sardonicus. You were right to ask me. We must never abandon hope.”
    He clasped his hands together. “Ah, sir! May you be blest forever!”
    I performed the examination then and there. Although I did not tell him this, never had I encountered muscles as rigid as those of his face. They could only be compared to stone, so inflexible were they. Still, I said, “Tomorrow we will begin treatment. Heat and massage.”
    â€œThese have been tried,” he said, hopelessly.
    â€œMassage differs from one pair of hands to another,” I replied. “I have had success with my own techniques, and therefore place faith in them. Be comforted then, sir, and share my faith.”
    He seized my hand in his. “I do,” he said. “I must. For if you—if even
you
, Sir Robert Cargrave, fail me . . .” He did not complete the sentence, but his eyes assumed an aspect so bitter, so full of hate, so strangely cold yet flaming, that they floated in my dreams that night.

VI
AN ABYSS OF HUMILIATION AND SHAME
    I slept not well, awakening many times in a fever compounded of drink and turbulent emotions. When the first rays of morning crept onto my pillow, I arose, little refreshed. After a cold tub and a light breakfast in my room, I went below to a salon whence music issued. Maude was already there, playing a pretty little piece upon the spinet. She looked up and greeted me. “Good morning, Sir Robert. Do you know the music of Mr. Gottschalk? He is an American pianist: this is his ‘Maiden’s Blush.’ Amiable, is it not?”
    â€œMost amiable,” I replied, dutifully, although I was in no mood for the embroideries of politesse.
    Maude soon finished the piece and closed the album. She turned to me and said, in a serious tone, “I have been told what you are going to do for my poor husband, Sir Robert. I can scarce express my gratitude.”
    â€œThere is no need to express it,” I assured her. “As a physician—as well as your old friend—I could not do less. I hope you understand, however, that a cure is not a certainty. I will try, and I will try to the limit of my powers, but beyond that I can promise nothing.”
    Her eyes shone with supplication: “Oh, cure him, Sir Robert! That I beg of you!”
    â€œI understand your feelings, madam,” I said. “It is fitting that you should hope so fervently for his recovery; a devoted wife could feel no other way.”
    â€œOh, sir,” she said, and into her voice crept now a harshness, “you misunderstand. My fervent hope springs from unalloyed selfishness.”
    â€œHow may that be?” I asked.
    â€œIf you do not succeed in curing him,” she told me, “I will suffer.”
    â€œI understand that, but—”
    â€œNo, you do not understand,” she said. “But I can tell you little more without offending. Some things are better left unspoken. Suffice it to be said that, in order to urge you towards an ultimate effort, to the ‘limit of your powers’ as you have just said, my husband intends to hold over your head the threat of my