Lord Alberan glanced at me and then looked hard at the Russian. A swiftly passing surprise shewed that he recognized Sarakoff. Leonora mentioned our names casually, took up a cigarette and dropped into a chair.
"Yes," she continued, "these gentlemen have put the germ into the water that supplies Birmingham." She struck a match and lit the cigarette. I noticed she actually smoked very little, but seemed to like to watch the burning cigarette. "Do sit down. What are you standing for, Geoffrey?"
Lord Alberan's attitude relaxed. He had evidently decided on his course of action.
"That is very interesting," he observed, as if he had never seen Sarakoff before. "A germ that is going to keep us all young. It reminds me of the Arabian Nights. I should like to see it."
"You've seen it already," replied Sarakoff, imperturbably.
Lord Alberan's cold eyes looked steadily before him. His mouth tightened.
"Really?"
"You saw it at Charing Cross Station the night before last."
"At Charing Cross Station?"
I tried to signal to the Russian, but he seemed determined to proceed.
"Yes—you thought I was an anarchist. You saw the contents of my bag. Six tubes containing a blue-coloured gelatine. Perhaps, Lord Alberan, you remember now."
"I remember perfectly," he exclaimed, smiling slightly. "Yes, I regret my mistake. One has to be careful."
"Did you think my Alexis was an anarchist?" cried Leonora. "You are the stupidest of Englishmen."
It was obvious that Alberan did not like this. He glanced at a thin gold watch that he carried in his waistcoat pocket.
"I will not interrupt you any longer," he remarked gravely. "You are quite occupied, I see, and I much apologize for intruding."
"Don't be still more stupid," she said lazily."Sit down. Tell me how you like the idea of never dying."
"I am afraid I cannot entertain the idea seriously." He hesitated and then looked firmly at Sarakoff. "Do I understand, sir, that you have actually put some germ into the Birmingham water-supply?"
The Russian nodded.
"You'll hear about it in a day or two," he said quietly.
"You had permission to do this?"
"No, I had no permission."
"Are you aware that you are making a very extraordinary statement, sir?"
"Perfectly."
Lord Alberan became very red. The lower part of his face seemed to expand. His eyes protruded.
"Don't gobble," said Leonora.
"Gobble?" stuttered Alberan, turning upon her. "How dare you say I gobble?"
"But you are gobbling."
"I refuse to stay here another moment. I will leave immediately. As for you, sir, you shall hear from me in course of time. To-morrow I am compelled to go abroad again,but when I return I shall institute a vigorous and detailed enquiry into your movements, which are highly suspicious, sir,—highly suspicious." He moved to the door and then turned. "Mademoiselle, I wish you good-night." He bowed stiffly and went out.
"Thank heaven, I've got rid of him for good," murmured Leonora. "He proposed to me last week, Alexis."
"And what did you say?" asked Sarakoff.
"I said I would see, but things are different now." She turned her eyes straight in his direction. "That is, if you have told me the truth, Alexis. Oh, isn't it wonderful!" She jumped up and threw out her arms. "Suppose that it all comes true, Alexis! Immortality—always to be young and beautiful!"
"It will come true," he said.
She lowered her arms slowly and looked at him.
"I wonder how long love will last?"
Next day the first news of the Sarakoff-Harden bacillus appeared in a small paragraph in an evening paper, and immediately I saw it, I hurried back to the house in Harley Street where Sarakoff was writing a record of our researches.
"Listen to this," I cried, bursting excitedly into the room. I laid the paper on the table and pointed to the column. "Curious disease among trout in Wales," I read. "In the Elan reservoirs which have long been famed for their magnificent trout, which have recently increased so enormously in size and number that artificial stocking is entirely unnecessary, a curious disease has made its appearance. Fish caught there this morning are reported to have an unnatural bluish tint, and their flesh, when cooked, retains this hue. It is thought that some disease has broken out. Against thistheory is the fact that no dead fish have been observed. The Water Committee of the City Council of Birmingham are investigating this matter."
Sarakoff pushed his chair back and twisted it round towards me. For some moments we stared at each other with almost scared expressions. Then a smile passed over the Russian's face.
"Ah, we had forgotten that. A bluish tint! Of course, it was to be expected."
"Yes," I cried, "and what is more, the bluish tint will show itself in every man, woman or child infected with the bacillus. Good heavens, fancy not thinking of that ourselves!"
Sarakoff picked up the paper and read the paragraph for himself. Then he laid it down. "It is strange that one so persistently neglects the obvious in one's calculations. Of course there will be a bluish tint." He leaned back and pulled at his beard. "I should think it will show itself in the whites of the eyes first, just as jaundice shews itself there. Leonora won't like that—it won't suit her colouring. You see that these fish, when cooked, retained the bluish hue. That is very interesting."
"It's very bad luck on the trout."
"Why?"
"After getting the bacillus into their system, they blunder on to a hook and meet their death straight away."
"The bacillus is not proof against death by violence," replied Sarakoff gravely. "That is a factor that will always remain constant. We are agreed in looking on all disease as eventually due to poisons derived from germ activity, but a bang on the head or asphyxiation or prussic acid or a bullet in the heart are not due to a germ. Yes, these poor trout little knew what a future they forfeited when they took the bait."
"The bacillus is in Birmingham by now," I said suddenly. I passed my hand across my brow nervously, and glanced at the manuscript lying before Sarakoff. "You had better keep those papers locked up. I spent an awful day at the hospital. It dawned on me that the whole medical profession will want to tear us in pieces before the year is out."
"In theory they ought not to."
"Who cares for theory, when it is a question of earning a living? As I walked along thestreet to-day, I could have shrieked aloud when I saw everybody hurrying about as if nothing were going to happen. This is unnerving me. It is so tremendous."
Sarakoff picked up his pen, and traced out a pattern in the blotting-pad before him.
"The Water Committee of Birmingham are investigating the matter," he observed. "It will be amusing to hear their report. What will they think when they make a bacteriological examination of the water in the reservoir? It will stagger them."
The next morning I was down to breakfast before my friend and stood before the fire eagerly scanning the papers. At first I could find nothing that seemed to indicate any further effects of the bacillus. I was in the act of buttering a piece of toast when my eye fell on one of the newspapers lying beside me. A heading in small type caught my eye.
"The measles epidemic in Ludlow." I picked the paper up.
"The severe epidemic of measles which began last week and seemed likely to spread through the entire town, has mysteriously abated. Not only are no further cases reported,but several doctors report that those already attacked have recovered in an incredibly short space of time. Doubt has been expressed by the municipal authorities as to whether the epidemic was really measles."
I adjusted my glasses to read the paragraph again. Then I got up and went into my study. After rummaging in a drawer I pulled out and unrolled a map of England. The course of the aqueduct from Elan to Birmingham was marked by a thin red line. I followed it slowly with the point of my finger and came on the town of Ludlow about half-way along. I stared at it.
"Of course," I whispered at length, my finger still resting on the position of the town. "All these towns on the way are supplied by the aqueduct. I hadn't thought of that. The bacillus is in Ludlow."
For about a minute I did not move. Then I rolled up the map and went up to Sarakoff's bedroom. I met the Russian on the landing on his way to the bathroom.
"The bacillus is in Ludlow," I said in a curiously small voice. I stood on the top stair, holding on to the bannister, my bigglasses aslant on my nose, and the map hanging down in my limp grasp.
I had to repeat the sentence before Sarakoff heard me.
"Where's Ludlow?"
I sank on my knees and unrolled the map on the floor and pointed directly with my finger.
Sarakoff went down on all fours and looked at the spot keenly.
"Ah, on the line of the aqueduct! But how do you know it is there?"
"It has cut short an epidemic of measles. The doctors are puzzled."
Sarakoff nodded. He was looking at the names of the other towns that lay on the course of the aqueduct.
"Cleobury-Mortimer," he spelt out. "No news from there?"
"None."
"And none from Birmingham yet?"
"None."
"We'll have news to-morrow." He raised himself on his knees. "Trout and then measles!" he said, and laughed. "This is only the beginning. No wonder the Ludlow doctors are puzzled."
The same evening there was further news of the progress of the bacillus. From Cleobury-Mortimer, ten miles from Ludlow, and twenty from Birmingham, it was reported that the measles epidemic there had been cut short in the same mysterious manner as noticed in Ludlow. But next morning a paragraph of considerable length appeared which I read out in a trembling voice to Sarakoff.
"It was reported a short time ago that the trout in the Elan reservoirs appeared to be suffering from a singular disease, the effect of which was to tint their scales and flesh a delicate bluish colour. The matter is being investigated. In the meanwhile it has been noticed, both in Ludlow and Cleobury-Mortimer, and also in Knighton, that the peculiar bluish tint has appeared amongst the inhabitants. Our correspondent states that it is most marked in the conjunctivæ, or whites of the eyes. There must undoubtedly be some connection between this phenomenon and the condition of the trout in the Elan reservoirs, as all the above-mentioned towns lie close to, and receive water from, the great aqueduct. The most remarkable thing, however, is that thebluish discolouration does not seem to be accompanied by any symptoms of illness in those whom it has affected. No sickness or fever has been observed. It is perhaps nothing more than a curious coincidence that the abrupt cessation of the measles epidemic in Ludlow and Cleobury-Mortimer, reported in yesterday's issue, should have occurred simultaneously with the appearance of bluish discolouration among the inhabitants."
On the same evening, I was returning from the hospital and saw the following words on a poster:—
"Blue Disease in Birmingham."
I bought a paper and scanned the columns rapidly. In the stop-press news I read:—
"The Blue Disease has appeared in Birmingham. Cases are reported all over the city. The Public Health Department are considering what measures should be adopted. The disease seems to be unaccompanied by any dangerous symptoms."
I stood stock-still in the middle of the pavement. A steady stream of people hurrying from business thronged past me. A newspaper boy was shouting something down thestreet, and as he drew nearer, I heard his hoarse voice bawling out:—
"Blue Disease in Birmingham."
He passed close to me, still bawling, and his voice died away in the distance. Men jostled me and glanced at me angrily.... But I was lost in a dream. The paper dropped from my fingers. In my mind's eye I saw the Sarakoff-Harden bacillus in Birmingham, teeming in every water-pipe in countless billions, swarming in the carafes on dining-room tables, and in every ewer and finger-basin, infecting everything it came in contact with. And the vision of Birmingham and the whole stretch of country up to the Elan watershed passed before me, stained with a vivid blue.
The following day while walking to the hospital, I noticed a group of people down a side street, apparently looking intently at something unusual. I turned aside to see what it was. About twenty persons, mostly errand boys, were standing round a sandwich-board man. At the outskirts of the circle, I raised myself on tip-toe and peered over the heads of those in front. The sandwich-board man's back was towards me.
"What's the matter?" I asked of my neighbour.
"One of the blue freaks from Birmingham," was the reply.
My first impulse was to fly. Here I was in close proximity to my handiwork. I turned and made off a few paces. But curiosity overmastered me, and I came back. The man wasnow facing me, and I could see him distinctly through a gap in the crowd. It was a thin, unshaven face with straightened features and gaunt cheeks. The eyes were deeply sunken and at that moment turned downwards. His complexion was pale, but I could see a faint bluish tinge suffusing the skin, that gave it a strange, dead look. And then the man lifted his eyes and gazed straight at me. I caught my breath, for under the black eye brows, the whites of the eyes were stained a pure sparrow-egg blue.
"I came from Birmingham yesterday," I heard him saying. "There ain't nothing the matter with me."
"You ought to go to a fever hospital," said someone.
"We don't want that blue stuff in London," added another.
"Perhaps it's catching," said the first speaker.
In a flash everyone had drawn back. The sandwich-board man stood in the centre of the road alone looking sharply round him. Suddenly a wave of rage seemed to possess him. He shook his fist in the air, and even as he shook it, his eyes caught the blue sheen of thetense skin over the knuckles. He stopped, staring stupidly, and the rage passed from his face, leaving it blank and incredulous.
"Lor' lumme," he muttered. "If that ain't queer."
He held out his hand, palm downwards. And from the pavement I saw that the man's nails were as blue as pieces of turquoise.
The sun came out from behind a passing cloud and sent a sudden flame of radiance over the scene in the side street—the sandwich-board man, his face still blank and incredulous, staring stupidly at his hands; the crowd standing well back in a wide semi-circle; I further forward, peering through my spectacles and clutching my umbrella convulsively. Then a tall man, in morning coat and top-hat, pushed his way through and touched the man from Birmingham on the shoulder.
"Can you come to my house?" he asked in an undertone. "I am a doctor and would like to examine you."
I shifted my gaze and recognized Dr. Symington-Tearle. The man pointed to his boards.
"How about them things?"
"Oh, you can get rid of them. I'll pay you. Here is my card with the address. I'll expect you in half-an-hour, and it will be well worth while your coming."
Symington-Tearle moved away, and a sudden spasm of jealousy affected me as I watched the well-shaped top-hat glittering down the street in the strong sunlight. Why should Symington-Tearle be given an opportunity of impressing a credulous world with some fantastic rubbish of his own devising? I stepped into the road.
"Do you want a five-pound note?" I asked. The man jumped with surprise. "Very well. Come round to this address at once."
I handed him my card. My next move was to telephone to the hospital to say I would be late, and retrace my footsteps homewards.
My visitor arrived in a very short time, after handing over his boards to a comrade on the understanding of suitable compensation, and was shown into my study. Sarakoff was present, and he pored over the man's nails and eyes and skin with rapt attention. At last he enquired how he felt.
"Ain't never felt so well in me life," said theman. "I was saying to a pal this morning 'ow well I felt."
"Do you feel as if you were drunk?" asked Sarakoff tentatively.
"Well, sir, now you put it that way, I feel as if I'd 'ad a good glass of beer. Not drunk, but 'appy."
"Are you naturally cheerful?"
"I carn't say as I am, sir. My profession ain't a very cheery one, not in all sorts and kinds of weather."
"But you are distinctly more cheerful this morning than usual?"
"I am, sir. I don't deny it. I lost my temper sudden like when that crowd drew away from me as if I'd got the leprosy, and I'm usually a mild and forbearin' man."
"Sit down," said Sarakoff. The man obeyed, and Sarakoff began to examine him carefully. He told him once or twice not to speak, but the man seemed in a loquacious mood and was incapable of silence for more than a minute of time.
"And I ain't felt so clear 'eaded not for years," he remarked. "I seem to see twice as many things to what I used to, and everythingseems to 'ave a new coat of paint. I was saying to a pal early this morning what a very fine place Trafalgar Square was and 'ow I'd never seemed to notice it before, though I've known it all my life. And up Regent Street I begun to notice all sort o' little things I'd never seen before, though it was my old beat 'afore I went to Birmingham. O' course it may be because I been out o' London a spell. But blest if I ever seed so many fine shop windows in Regent Street before, or so many different colours."
"Headache?"
"Bless you, no, sir. Just the opposite, if you understand." He looked round suddenly. "What's that noise?" he asked. "It's been worryin' me since I came in here."
We listened intently, but neither I nor Sarakoff could hear anything.
"It comes from there." The man pointed to the laboratory door. I went and opened it and stood listening. In a corner by the window a clock-work recording barometer was ticking with a faint rhythm.
"That's the noise," said the man from Birmingham. "I knew it wasn't no clock, 'cause it's too fast."
Sarakoff glanced significantly at me.
"All the senses very acute," he said. "At least, hearing and seeing." He took a bottle from the laboratory and uncorked it in one corner of the study. "Can you smell what this is?"
The man, sitting ten feet away, gave one sniff.
"Ammonia," he said promptly, and sneezed. "This 'ere Blue Disease," said the man after a long pause, "is it dangerous?"
He spread out his fingers, squeezing the turquoise nails to see if the colour faded. He frowned to find it fixed. I was standing at the window, my back to the room and my hands twisting nervously with each other behind me.
"No, it is not dangerous," said Sarakoff. He sat on the edge of the writing-table, swinging his legs and staring meditatively at the floor. "It is not dangerous, is it, Harden?"
I replied only with a jerky, impatient movement.
"What I mean," persisted the man, "is this—supposin' the police arrest me, when I go back to my job. 'Ave they a right? 'Ave people a right to give me the shove—to put me in a 'orspital? That crowd roundme in the street—it confused me, like—as if I was a leper." He paused and looked up at Sarakoff enquiringly. "What's the cause of it?"
"A germ—a bacillus."
"Same as what gives consumption?"
Sarakoff nodded. "But this germ is harmless," he added.
"Then I ain't going to die?"
"No. That's just the point. You aren't going to die," said the Russian slowly. "That's what is so strange."
I jumped round from the window.
"How do you know?" I said fiercely. "There's no proof. It's all theory so far. The calculations may be wrong."
The man stared at me wonderingly. He saw me as a man fighting with some strange anxiety, with his forehead damp and shining, his spectacles aslant on his nose and the heavy folds of his frock-coat shaken with a sudden impetuosity.
"How do you know?" I repeated, shaking my fist in the air. "How do you know he isn't going to die?"
Sarakoff fingered his beard in silence, buthis eyes shone with a quiet certainty. To the man from Birmingham it must have seemed suddenly strange that we should behave in this manner. His mind was sharpened to perceive things. Yesterday, had he been present at a similar scene, he would probably have sat dully, finding nothing curious in my passionate attitude and the calm, almost insolent, inscrutability of Sarakoff. He forgot his turquoise finger nails, and stared, open-mouthed.
"Ain't going to die?" he said. "What do yer mean?"
"Simply that you aren't going to die," was Sarakoff's soft answer.
"Yer mean, not die of the Blue Disease?"
"Not die at all."
"Garn! Not die at all." He looked at me. "What's he mean, Mister?" He looked almost surprised with himself at catching the drift of Sarakoff's sentence. Inwardly he felt something insistent and imperious, forcing him to grasp words, to blunder into new meanings. Some new force was alive in him and he was carried on by it in spite of himself. He felt strung up to a pitch of nervous irritation. He got up from his chair and came forward, pointing at Sarakoff. "What's this?" he demanded. "Why don't you speak out? Yer cawn't hide it from me." He stopped. His brain, working at unwonted speed, had discovered a fresh suspicion. "Look 'ere, you two know something about this blue disease." He came a step closer, and looking cunningly in my face, said: "That's why you offered me a five-pound note, ain't it?"
I avoided the scrutiny of the sparrow-egg blue orbs close before me.
"I offered you the money because I wished to examine you," I said shortly. "Here it is. You can go now."
I took a note from a safe in the corner of the room, and held it out. The man took it, felt its crispness and stowed it away in a secure pocket. His thoughts were temporarily diverted by the prospect of an immediate future with plenty of money, and he picked up his hat and went to the door. But his turquoise finger nails lying against the rusty black of the hat brought him back to his suspicions. He paused and turned.
"My name's Wain," he said. "I'm telling you, in case you might 'ear of me again.'Erbert Wain. I know what yours is, remember, because I seed it on the door." He twisted his hat round several times in his hands and drew his brows together, puzzled at the speed of his ideas. Then he remembered the card that Symington-Tearle had given him.
He pulled it out and examined it. "I'm going across to see this gent," he announced. "It's convenient, 'im living so close. Perhaps he'll 'ave a word to say about this 'ere disease. Fair spread over Birmingham, so they say. It would be nasty if any bloke was responsible for it. Good day to yer." He opened the door slowly, and glanced back at us standing in the middle of the room watching him. "Look 'ere," he said swiftly, "what did 'e mean, saying I was never going to die and——" The light from the window was against his eyes, and he could not see the features of Sarakoff's face, but there was something in the outline of his body that checked him. "Guv'ner, it ain't true." The words came hoarsely from his lips. "I ain't never not going to die."
Sarakoff spoke.
"You are never going to die, Mr. Herbert Wain ... you understand?...Nevergoingto die, unless you get killed in an accident—or starve."
I jerked up my hand to stop my friend.
Wain stared incredulously. Then he burst into a roar of laughter and smacked his thigh.
"Gor lumme!" he exclaimed, "if that ain't rich. Never going to die! Live for ever! Strike me, if that ain't a notion!" The tears ran down his cheeks and he paused to wipe them away. "If I was to believe what you say," he went on, "it would fair drive me crazy. Live for ever—s'elp me, if that wouldn't be just 'ell. Good-day to yer, gents. I'm obliged to yer."
He went out into the sunlit street still roaring with laughter, a thin, ragged, tattered figure, with the shadow of immortality upon him.
The departure of Mr. Herbert Wain was a relief. I turned to Sarakoff at once and spoke with some heat.
"You were more than imprudent to give that fellow hints that we knew more about the Blue Disease than anybody else," I exclaimed. "This may be the beginning of incalculable trouble."
"Nonsense," replied the Russian. "You are far too apprehensive, Harden. What can he do?"
"What may he not do?" I cried bitterly. "Do you suppose London will welcome the spread of the germ? Do you think that people will be pleased to know that you and I were responsible for its appearance?"
"When they realize that it brings immortality with it, they will hail us as the saviours of humanity."
"Mr. Herbert Wain did not seem to accept the idea of immortality with any pleasure," I muttered. "The suggestion seemed to strike him as terrible."
Sarakoff laughed genially.
"My friend," he said, "Mr. Herbert Wain is not a man of vision. He is a cockney, brought up in the streets of a callous city. To him life is a hard struggle, and immortality naturally appears in a poor light. You must have patience. It will take some time before the significance of this immortality is grasped by the people. But when it is grasped, all the conditions of life will change. Life will become beautiful. We will have reforms that, under ordinary circumstances, would have taken countless ages to bring about. We will anticipate our evolution by thousands of centuries. At one step we will reach the ultimate goal of our destiny."
"And what is that?"
"Immortality, of course. Surely you must see by now that all the activities of modern life are really directed towards one end—towards solving the riddle of prolonging life and at the same time increasing pleasure? Isn't that the inner secret desire that you doctors find in everypatient? So far a compromise has only been possible, but now that is all changed."
"I don't agree, Sarakoff. Some people must live for other motives. Take myself ... I live for science."
"It is merely your form of pleasure."
"That's a quibble," I cried angrily. "Science is aspiration. There's all the difference in the world between aspiration and pleasure. I have scarcely known what pleasure is. I have worked like a slave all my life, with the sole ambition of leaving something permanent behind me when I die."
"But you won't die," interposed the Russian. "That is the charm of the new situation."
"Then why should I work?" The question shaped itself in my mind and I uttered it involuntarily. I sat down and stared at the fire. A kind of dull depression came over me, and for some reason the picture of Sarakoff's butterflies appeared in my mind. I saw them with great distinctness, crawling aimlessly on the floor of their cage. "Why should I work?" I repeated.
Sarakoff merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Questions of that kind did notseem to bother him. His was a nature that escaped the necessity of self-analysis. But I was different, and our conversation had aroused a train of odd thought. What, after all, was it that kept my nose to the grindstone? Why had I slaved incessantly all my life, reading when I might have slept, examining patients when I might have been strolling through meadows, hurrying through meals when I might have eaten at leisure? What was the cause behind all the tremendous activity and feverish haste of modern people? When Sarakoff had said that I would not die, and that therein lay the charm of the new situation, it seemed as if scales had momentarily fallen from my eyes. I beheld myself as something ridiculous, comparable to a hare that persists in dashing along a country lane in front of the headlight of a motor car, when a turn one way or another would bring it to safety. A great uneasiness filled me, and with it came a determination to ignore these new fields of thought that loomed round me—a determination that I have seen in old men when they are faced by the new and contradictory—and I began to force my attention elsewhere. I was relieved when the door openedand my servant entered. She handed me a telegram. It was from Miss Annot, asking me to come to Cambridge at once, as her father was seriously ill. I scribbled a reply, saying I would be down that afternoon.
After the servant had left the room, I remained gazing at the fire, but my depression left me. In place of it I felt a quiet elation, and it was not difficult for me to account for it.
"I was wrong in saying that I had scarcely known what pleasure is," I observed at length, looking up at Sarakoff with a smile. "I must confess to you that there is one factor in my life that gives me great pleasure."
Sarakoff placed himself before me, hands in pockets and pipe in mouth, and gazed at me with an answering smile in his dark face.
"A woman?"
I flushed. The Russian seemed amused.
"I thought as much," he remarked. "This year I noticed a change in you. Your fits of abstraction suggested it. Well, may I congratulate you? When are you to be married?"
"That is out of the question at present," I answered hurriedly. "In fact, there is nodefinite arrangement—just a mutual understanding.... She is not free."
Sarakoff raised his shaggy eyebrows.
"Then she is already married?"
This cross-examination was intensely painful to me. Between Miss Annot and myself there was, I hoped, a perfect understanding, and I quite realized the girl's position. She was devoted to her father, who required her constant attention and care, and until she was free there could be no question of marriage, or even an engagement, for fear of wounding the old man's feelings. I quite appreciated her situation and was content to wait.
"No! She has an invalid father, and——"
"Rubbish!" said Sarakoff, with remarkable force. "Rubbish! Marry her, man, and then think of her father. Why, that sort of thing——" He drew a deep breath and checked himself.
I shook my head.
"That is impossible. Here, in England, we cannot do such things.... The girl's duty is plain. I am quite prepared to wait."
"To wait for what?"
I looked at him in unthinking surprise.
"Until Mr. Annot dies, of course."
Sarakoff remained motionless. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth, strolled to the window, and began to whistle to himself in subdued tones. A moment later he left the room. I picked up a time-table and looked out a train, a little puzzled by his behaviour.
I reached Cambridge early in the afternoon and took a taxi to the Annots' house. Miss Annot met me at the door.
"It is so good of you to come," she said with a faint smile. "My father behaved very foolishly yesterday. He insisted on inviting the Perrys to lunch, and he talked a great deal and insisted on drinking wine, with the result that in the night he had a return of his gastritis. He is very weak to-day and his mind seems to be wandering a little."
"You should not have allowed him to do that," I remonstrated. "He is in too fragile a state to run any risks."
"Oh, but I couldn't help it. The Perrys are such old friends of father's, and they were only staying one day in Cambridge. Father would have fretted if they had not come."
I had taken off my coat in the hall, and we were now standing in the drawing-room.
"You are tired, Alice," I said.
"I've been up most of the night," she replied, with an effort towards brightness. "But I do feel tired, I admit."
I turned away from her and went to the window. For the first time I felt the awkwardness of our position. I had a strong and natural impulse to comfort her, but what could I do? After a moment's reflection, I made a sudden resolution.
"Alice," I said, "you and I had better become engaged. Don't you think it would be easier for you?"
"Oh, don't," she cried. "Father would never endure the idea that I belonged to another man. He would worry about my leaving him continually. No, please wait. Perhaps it will not be——"
She checked herself. I remained silent, staring at the pattern of the carpet with a frown. To my annoyance, I could not keep Sarakoff's words out of my mind. And yet Alice was right. I felt sure that no one is a free agent in the sense that he or she can be guided solely by love. It is necessary to make a compromise. As these thoughts formed in my mind I again seemed to hear the loud voiceof Sarakoff, sounding in derision at my cautious views. A conflict arose in my soul. I raised my eyes and looked at Alice. She was standing by the mantelpiece, staring listlessly at the grate. A wave of emotion passed over me. I took a step towards her.
"Alice!" And then the words stuck in my throat. She turned her head and her eyes questioned me. I tried to continue, but something prevented me, and I became suddenly calm again. "Please take me up to your father," I begged her. She obeyed silently, and I followed her upstairs.
Mr. Annot was lying in a darkened room with his eyes closed. He was a very old man, approaching ninety, with a thin aquiline face and white hair. He lay very still, and at first I thought he was unconscious. But his pulse was surprisingly good, and his breathing deep and regular.
"He is sleeping," I murmured.
She leaned over the bed.
"He scarcely slept during the night," she whispered. "This will do him good."
"His pulse could not be better," I murmured.
She peered at him more closely.
"Isn't he very pale?"
I stooped down, so that my face was close to hers. The old man certainly looked very pale. A marble-like hue lay over his features, and yet the skin was warm to the touch.
"How long has he been asleep?" I asked.
"He was awake over an hour ago, when I looked in last. He said then that he was feeling drowsy."
"I think we'll wake him up."
Alice hesitated.
"Won't you wait for tea?" she whispered. "He would probably be awake by then."
I shook my head.
"I must get back to London by five. Do you mind if we have a little more light?"
She moved to the window and raised the blind half way. I examined the old man attentively. There was no doubt about the curious pallor of his skin. It was like the pallor of extreme collapse, save for the presence of a faint colour in his cheeks which seemed to lie as a bright transparency over a dead background. My fingers again sought his pulse. It was full and steady. As I counted it my eyes rested on his hand.
I stooped down suddenly with an exclamation. Alice hurried to my side.
"Where did those friends of his come from?" I asked swiftly.
"The Perrys? From Birmingham."
"Was there anything wrong with them?"
"What do you mean?"
Before I could reply the old man opened his eyes. The light fell clearly on his face. Alice uttered a cry of horror. I experienced an extraordinary sensation of fear. Out of the marble pallor of Mr. Annot's face, two eyes, stained a sparrow-egg blue, stared keenly at us.
For some moments none of us spoke. Alice recovered herself first.
"What is the matter with him?" she gasped.
I was incapable of finding a suitable reply, and stood, tongue-tied, staring foolishly at the old man. He seemed a little surprised at our behaviour.
"Dr. Harden," he said, "I am glad to see you. My daughter did not tell me you were coming."
His voice startled me. It was strong and clear. On my previous visit to him he had spoken in quavering tones.
"Oh, father, how do you feel?" exclaimed Alice, kneeling beside the bed.
"My dear, I feel extremely well. I have not felt so well for many years." He stretched out his hand and patted his daughter's head."Yes, my sleep has done me good. I should like to get up for tea."
"But your eyes——" stammered Alice "Can you see, father?"
"See, my dear? What does she mean, Dr. Harden?"
"There is some discolouration of the conjunctivæ," I said hastily. "It is nothing to worry about."
At that moment Alice caught sight of his finger nails.
"Look!" she cried, "they're blue."
The old man raised his hands and looked at them in astonishment.
"How extraordinary," he murmured. "What do you make of that, doctor?"
"It is nothing," I assured him. "It is only pigmentation caused—er—caused by some harmless germ."
"I know what it is," cried Alice suddenly. "It's the Blue Disease. Father, you remember the Perrys were telling us about it yesterday at lunch. They said it was all over Birmingham, and that they had come south partly to escape it. They must have brought the infection with them."
"Yes," I said, "that is certainly the explanation. And now, Mr. Annot, let me assure you that this disease is harmless. It has no ill effects."
Mr. Annot sat up in bed with an exhibition of vigour that was remarkable in a man of his age.
"I can certainly witness to the fact that it causes no ill effects, Dr. Harden," he exclaimed. "This morning I felt extremely weak and was prepared for the end. But now I seem to have been endowed with a fresh lease of life. I feel young again. Do you think this Blue Disease is the cause of it?"
"Possibly. It is difficult to say," I answered in some confusion. "But you must not think of getting up, Mr. Annot. Rest in bed for the next week is essential."
"Humbug!" cried the old man, fixing his brilliant eyes upon me. "I am going to get up this instant."
"Oh, father, please don't be so foolish!"
"Foolish, child? Do you think I'm going to lie here when I feel as if my body and mind had been completely rejuvenated? I repeat I am going to get up. Nothing on earth will keep me in bed."
The old man began to remove the bedclothes. I made an attempt to restrain him, but was met by an outburst of irritation that warned me not to interfere. I motioned Alice to follow me, and together we left the room. As we went downstairs I heard a curious sound proceeding from Mr. Annot's bedroom. We halted on the stairs and listened. The sound became louder and clearer.
"Father is singing," said Alice in a low voice. Then she took out her handkerchief and began to sob.
We continued our way downstairs, Alice endeavouring to stifle her sobs, and I in a dazed condition of mind. I was stunned by the fact that that mad experiment of ours should have had such a sudden and strange result. It produced in me a fear that was far worse to bear than the vague anxiety I had felt ever since those fatal tubes of the Sarakoff-Harden bacillus had been emptied into the lake. I stumbled into the drawing-room and threw myself upon a chair. My legs were weak, and my hands were trembling.
"Alice," I said, "you must not allow thisto distress you. The Blue Disease is not dangerous."
She lifted a tear-stained face and looked at me dully.
"Richard, I can't bear it any longer. I've given half my life to looking after father. I simply can't bear it."
I sat up and stared at her. What strange intuition had come to her?
"What do you mean?"
She sobbed afresh.
"I can't endure the sight of him with those blue eyes," she went on, rather wildly. "Richard, I must get away. I've never been from him for more than a few hours at a time for the last fifteen years. Don't think I want him to die."
"I don't."
"I'm glad he's better," she remarked irrelevantly.
"So am I."
"The Perrys were saying that the doctors up in Birmingham think that the Blue Disease cut short other diseases, and made people feel better." She twisted her handkerchief for some moments. "Does it?" she asked, looking at me directly.
"I—er—I have heard it does."
An idea had come into my mind, and I could not get rid of it. Why should I not tell her all that I knew?
"I'm thirty-five," she remarked.
"And I'm forty-two." I tried to smile.
"Life's getting on for us both," she added.
"I know, Alice. I suggested that we should get engaged a short while ago. Now I suggest that we get married—as soon as possible." I got up and paced the room. "Why not?" I demanded passionately.
She shook her head, and appeared confused.
"It's impossible. Who could look after him? I should never be happy, Richard, as long as he was living."
I stopped before her.
"Not with me?"
"No, Richard. I should be left a great deal to myself. A doctor's wife always is. I've thought it out carefully. I would think of him."
After a long silence, I made a proposal that I had refused to entertain before.
"Well, there's no reason why he should not come and live with us. There is plenty of room in my house at Harley Street. Would that do?"
It was a relief to me when she said that she would not consent to an arrangement of that kind. I sat down again.
"Alice," I said quietly, "it is necessary that we should decide our future. There are special reasons."
She glanced at me enquiringly. There was a pause in which I tried to collect my thoughts.
"Your father," I continued, "is suffering from a very peculiar disease. It is wrong, perhaps, to call it a disease. You wouldn't call life a disease, would you?"
"I don't understand."
"No, of course not. Well, to put it as simply as possible, it is likely that your father will live a long time now. When he said he felt as if his mind and body had been rejuvenated he was speaking the truth."
"But he will be ninety next year," she said bluntly.
"I know. But that will make no difference. This germ, that is now in his body, has the power of arresting all further decay. Your father will remain as he is now for an indefinite period."
I met her eyes as steadily as I could, butthere was a quality in her gaze that caused me to look elsewhere.
"How do you know this?" she asked after a painful silence.
"I—er—I can't tell you." The colour mounted to my cheeks, and I began to tap the carpet impatiently with the toe of my boot. "You wouldn't understand," I continued in as professional a manner as I could muster. "You would need first to study the factors that bring about old age."
"Where did the Blue Disease come from? Tell me. I can surely understand that!"
"You have read the paper, haven't you?"
"I've read that no one understands what it is, and that the doctors are puzzled."
"How should I know where it comes from?"
She regarded me searchingly.
"You know something about it," she said positively. "Richard, you are keeping it back from me. I have a right to know what it is."
I was silent.
"If you don't tell me, how can I trust you again?" she asked. "Don't you see that there will always be a shadow between us?"
It was not difficult for me to guess that myguilty manner had roused her suspicions. She had seen my agitation, and had found it unaccountable. I resolved to entrust her with the secret of the germ.
"Do you remember that I once told you my friend, Professor Sarakoff, had succeeded in keeping butterflies alive for over a year?"
She nodded.
"He and I have been experimenting on those lines and he has found a germ that has the property of keeping human beings alive in the same way. The germ has escaped ... into the world ... and it is the cause of the Blue Disease."
"How did it escape?"
I winced. In her voice I was conscious of a terrible accusation.
"By accident," I stammered.
She jumped to her feet.
"I don't believe it! That is a lie!"
"Alice, you must calm yourself! I am trying to tell you exactly what happened."
"Was it by accident?"
The vision of that secret expedition to the water supply of Birmingham passed before me. I felt like a criminal. I could not raise myeyes; my cheeks were burning. In the silence that followed, the sound of Mr. Annot's voice became audible. Alice stood before me, rigid and implacable.
"It was—by accident," I said. I tried to look at her, and failed. She remained motionless for about a minute. Then she turned and left the room. I heard her go slowly upstairs. A door banged. Actuated by a sudden desire, I stepped into the hall, seized my coat and hat and opened the front door. I was just in time. As I gently closed the door I heard Mr. Annot on the landing above. He was singing some long-forgotten tune in a strange cracked voice.
I stood outside on the doorstep, listening, until, overcome by curiosity, I bent down and lifted the flap of the letter-box. The interior of the hall was plainly visible. Mr. Annot had ceased singing and was now standing before the mirror which hung beside the hatstand. He was a trifle unsteady, and swayed on his frail legs, but he was staring at himself with a kind of savage intensity. At last he turned away and I caught the expression on his face.... With a slight shiver, I let down the flap noiselessly.There was something in that expression that for me remains unnamable; and I think now, as I look back into those past times, that of all the signs which showed me that the Sarakoff-Harden bacillus was an offence against humanity, that strange look on the nonagenarian's face was the most terrible and obvious.
When I reached London it was dusk, and a light mist hung in the darkening air. The lamps were twinkling in the streets. I decided to get some tea in a restaurant adjoining the station. When I entered it was crowded, and the only seat that was empty was at a small table already occupied by another man. I sat down, and gave my order to the waitress, and remained staring moodily at the soiled marble surface of the table. My neighbour was engrossed in his paper.
During my journey from Cambridge I had come to a certain conclusion. Sarakoff was of the opinion that we should publish a statement about the germ of immortality, and now I was in agreement with him. For I had been reflecting upon the capacity of human mind for retaining secrets and had come to the conclusionthat it is so constructed that its power of retention is remarkably small. I felt that it would be a matter of extraordinary relief if everyone in that tea-shop knew the secret of the Blue Germ.
I began to study the man who sat opposite me. He was a quietly dressed middle-aged man. The expression on his rather pale, clean-shaven face suggested that he was a clerk or secretary. He looked reliable, unimaginative, careful and methodical. He was reading his newspaper with close attention. A cup of tea and the remains of a toasted muffin were at his elbow. It struck me that here was a very average type of man, and an immense desire seized upon me to find out what opinion he would pronounce if I were to tell him my secret. I waited until he looked up.
"Is there any news?" I asked.
He observed me for a moment as if he resented my question.
"The Blue Disease is spreading in London," he remarked shortly, and returned to his paper. I felt rebuffed, but reflected that this, after all, was how an average man might be expected to behave.
"A curious business," I continued. "I am a doctor, and therefore very much interested in it."
His manner changed. He assumed the attitude of the average man towards a doctor at once, and I was gratified to observe it.
"I was just thinking I'd like to hear what a doctor thinks about it," he said, laying down his paper. "I thought of calling in on Dr. Sykes on my way home to-night; he attends my wife. Do you know Dr. Sykes?"
"Which one?" I asked cautiously, not willing to disappoint him.
"Dr. Sykes of Harlesden," he said, with a look of surprise.
"Oh, yes, I know Dr. Sykes. Why did you think of going to see him?"
He smiled apologetically and pointed to the paper.
"It sounds so queer ... the disease. They say, up in Birmingham, that it's stopping all diseases in the hospitals ... everywhere. People getting well all of a sudden. Now I don't believe that."
"Have you seen a case yet?"
"Yes. A woman. In the street this afternoon as I was coming from lunch. The police took her. She was mad, I can tell you. There was a big crowd. She screamed. I think she was drunk." He paused, and glanced at me. "What do you think of it?"
I took a deep breath.
"I don'tthink, Iknow," I said, in as quiet a manner as possible. He stared a moment, and a nervous smile appeared and swiftly vanished. He seemed uncertain what to do.
"You've found out something?" he asked at length, playing with his teaspoon and keeping his eyes on the table. I regarded him carefully. I was not quite certain if he still thought I was a doctor.
"I'm not a lunatic," I said. "I'm merely stating a rather extraordinary fact. I know all about the germ of the Blue Disease."
He raised his eyes for an instant, and then lowered them. His hand had stopped trifling with the teaspoon.
"Yes," he said, "the doctors think it's due to a germ of some sort." He made a sort of effort and continued. "It is funny, some of these germs being invisible through microscopes. Measles and chickenpox and common thingslike that. They've never seen the germs that cause them, that's what the papers say. It seems odd—having something you can't see." He turned his head, and looked for his hat that hung on a peg behind him.
"One moment," I said. I took out my card-case. "I want you to read this card. Don't think I'm mad. I want to talk to you for a particular reason which I'll explain in a moment." He took the card hesitatingly and read it. Then he looked at me. "The reason why I am speaking to you is this," I said. "I want to find out what a decent citizen like yourself will think of something I know. It concerns the Blue Disease and its origin."
He seemed disturbed, and took out his watch.
"I ought to get home. My wife——"
"Is your wife ill?"
"Yes."
"What's the matter with her?"
He frowned.
"Dr. Sykes thinks it's lung trouble."
"Consumption?"
He nodded, and an expression of anxiety came over his face.
"Good," I exclaimed. "Now listen to what I have to say. Before the week is out your wife will be cured. I swear it."
He said nothing. It was plain that he was still suspicious.
"You read what they say in the papers about the Blue Disease cutting short other diseases? Well, that Blue Disease will be all over London in a day or two. Now do you understand?"
I saw that I had interested him. He settled himself on his chair, and began to examine me. His gaze travelled over my face and clothes, pausing at my cuff-links and my tie and collar. Then he looked at my card again. Inwardly he came to a decision.
"I'm willing to listen to what you've got to say," he remarked, "if you think it's worth saying."
"Thank you. I think it's worth hearing." I leaned my arms on the table in front of me. "This Blue Disease is not an accidental thing. It was deliberately planned, by two scientists. I was one of those scientists."
"You can't plan a disease," he remarked, after a considerable silence.
"You're wrong. We found a way of creating new germs. We worked at the idea of creating a particular kind of germ that would kill all other germs ... and we were successful. Then we let loose the germ on the world."
"How?"
"We infected the water supply of Birmingham at its origin in Wales."
I watched his expression intently.
"You mean that you did this secretly, without knowing what the result would be?" he asked at last.
"We foresaw the result to a certain extent."
He thought for some time.
"But you had no right to infect a water supply. That's criminal, surely?"
"It's criminal if the infection is dangerous to people. If you put cholera in a reservoir, of course it's criminal."
"But this germ...?"
"This germ does not kill people. It kills the germs in people."
"What's the difference?"
"All the difference in the world! It's like this.... By the way, what is your name?"
"Clutterbuck." The word escaped his lipsby accident. He looked annoyed. I smiled reassuringly.
"It's like this, Mr. Clutterbuck. If you kill all the germs in a person's body, that person doesn't die. He lives ... indefinitely. Now do you see?"
"No, I don't see," said Clutterbuck with great frankness. "I don't understand what you're driving at. You tell me that you're a doctor and you give me a card bearing a well-known specialist's name. Then you say you created a germ and put it in the Birmingham water supply and that the result is the Blue Disease. This germ, you say, doesn't kill people, but does something else which I don't follow. Now I was taught that germs are dangerous things, and it seems to me that if your story is true—which I don't believe—you are guilty of a criminal act." He pushed back his chair and reached for his hat. There was a flush on his face.
"Then you don't believe my tale?"
"No, I'm sorry, but I don't."
"Well, Mr. Clutterbuck, will you believe it when you see your wife restored to health in a few days' time?"
He paused and stared at me.
"What you say is impossible," he said slowly. "If you were a doctor you'd know that as well as I do."
"But the reports in the paper?"
"Oh, that's journalistic rubbish."
He picked up his umbrella and beckoned to the waitress. I made a last attempt.
"If I take you to my house will you believe me then?"
"Look here," he said in an angry tone, "I've had enough of this. I can't waste my time. I'm sure of one thing and that is that you're no doctor. You've got somebody's card-case. You don't look like a doctor and you don't speak like one. I should advise you to be careful."
He moved away from the table. Some neighbouring people stared at me for a moment and then went on eating. Mr. Clutterbuck paid at the desk and left the establishment. I had received the verdict of the average man.