The Parasite by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


Main
- books.jibble.org



My Books
- IRC Hacks

Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare

External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd

books.jibble.org

Previous Page | Next Page

Page 27

"There is no use talking," said I. "I only came here
to tell you,--and to tell you most solemnly,--that your
next outrage upon me will be your last." With that, as
I heard Wilson's step upon the stair, I walked from the
room. Ay, she may look venomous and deadly, but, for
all that, she is beginning to see now that she has as
much to fear from me as I can have from her. Murder!
It has an ugly sound. But you don't talk of murdering
a snake or of murdering a tiger. Let her have a care
now.

May 5. I met Agatha and her mother at the station at
eleven o'clock. She is looking so bright, so happy, so
beautiful. And she was so overjoyed to see me. What
have I done to deserve such love? I went back home
with them, and we lunched together. All the troubles
seem in a moment to have been shredded back from my
life. She tells me that I am looking pale and worried
and ill. The dear child puts it down to my loneliness
and the perfunctory attentions of a housekeeper. I
pray that she may never know the truth! May the
shadow, if shadow there must be, lie ever black across
my life and leave hers in the sunshine. I have just
come back from them, feeling a new man. With her by my
side I think that I could show a bold face to any thing
which life might send.

5 P. M. Now, let me try to be accurate. Let me try to
say exactly how it occurred. It is fresh in my mind,
and I can set it down correctly, though it is not
likely that the time will ever come when I shall forget
the doings of to-day.

I had returned from the Mardens' after lunch, and was
cutting some microscopic sections in my freezing
microtome, when in an instant I lost consciousness in
the sudden hateful fashion which has become only too
familiar to me of late.

When my senses came back to me I was sitting in a small
chamber, very different from the one in which I had
been working. It was cosey and bright, with chintz-
covered settees, colored hangings, and a thousand
pretty little trifles upon the wall. A small
ornamental clock ticked in front of me, and the hands
pointed to half-past three. It was all quite familiar
to me, and yet I stared about for a moment in a half-
dazed way until my eyes fell upon a cabinet photograph
of myself upon the top of the piano. On the other side
stood one of Mrs. Marden. Then, of course, I
remembered where I was. It was Agatha's boudoir.

But how came I there, and what did I want? A horrible
sinking came to my heart. Had I been sent here on some
devilish errand? Had that errand already been done?
Surely it must; otherwise, why should I be allowed to
come back to consciousness? Oh, the agony of that
moment! What had I done? I sprang to my feet in my
despair, and as I did so a small glass bottle fell from
my knees on to the carpet.

It was unbroken, and I picked it up. Outside was
written "Sulphuric Acid. Fort." When I drew the round
glass stopper, a thick fume rose slowly up, and a
pungent, choking smell pervaded the room. I recognized
it as one which I kept for chemical testing in my
chambers. But why had I brought a bottle of vitriol
into Agatha's chamber? Was it not this thick, reeking
liquid with which jealous women had been known to mar
the beauty of their rivals? My heart stood still as I
held the bottle to the light. Thank God, it was full!
No mischief had been done as yet. But had Agatha come
in a minute sooner, was it not certain that the hellish
parasite within me would have dashed the stuff into
her---- Ah, it will not bear to be thought of! But it
must have been for that. Why else should I have
brought it? At the thought of what I might have done
my worn nerves broke down, and I sat shivering and
twitching, the pitiable wreck of a man.

Previous Page | Next Page


Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sat 20th Dec 2025, 3:21