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    Chapter 6

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    Chapter 6
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    Incident of Dr. Lanyon

    Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the
    death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr.
    Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had
    never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all
    disreputable: tales came out of the man's cruelty, at once so
    callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates,
    of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of
    his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left
    the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply
    blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to
    recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet
    with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of
    thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.
    Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began
    for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations
    with his friends, became once more their familiar guest and
    entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he
    was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was
    much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and
    brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for
    more than two months, the doctor was at peace.

    On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor's with
    a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had
    looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were
    inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door
    was shut against the lawyer. "The doctor was confined to the
    house," Poole said, "and saw no one." On the 15th, he tried again,
    and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two
    months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of
    solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in
    Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr.

    There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came
    in, he was shocked at the change which had taken place in the
    doctor's appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly
    upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen
    away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much
    these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer's
    notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to
    testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely
    that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson
    was tempted to suspect. "Yes," he thought; he is a doctor, he
    must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the
    knowledge is more than he can bear." And yet when Utterson
    remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of great firmness
    that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.

    "I have had a shock," he said, "and I shall never recover. It
    is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it;
    yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we
    should be more glad to get away."

    "Jekyll is ill, too," observed Utterson. "Have you seen him?"

    But Lanyon's face changed, and he held up a trembling hand.
    "I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll," he said in a loud,
    unsteady voice. "I am quite done with that person; and I beg that
    you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead."

    "Tut-tut," said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable
    pause, "Can't I do anything?" he inquired. "We are three very old
    friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others."

    "Nothing can be done," returned Lanyon; "ask himself."

    "He will not see me," said the lawyer.

    "I am not surprised at that," was the reply. "Some day,
    Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right
    and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if
    you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God's sake, stay
    and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic,
    then in God's name, go, for I cannot bear it."

    As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll,
    complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause
    of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a
    long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly
    mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. "I
    do not blame our old friend," Jekyll wrote, but I share his view
    that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of
    extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt
    my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must
    suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a
    punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of
    sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that
    this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so
    unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this
    destiny, and that is to respect my silence." Utterson was amazed;
    the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had
    returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect
    had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age;
    and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole
    tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change
    pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon's manner and words,
    there must lie for it some deeper ground.

    A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something
    less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral,
    at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of
    his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy
    candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the
    hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. "PRIVATE: for
    the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE, and in case of his predecease
    to be destroyed unread," so it was emphatically superscribed; and
    the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. "I have buried one
    friend to-day," he thought: "what if this should cost me another?"
    And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the
    seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and
    marked upon the cover as "not to be opened till the death or
    disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll." Utterson could not trust his
    eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will
    which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
    idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketted.
    But in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion
    of the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and
    horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A
    great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition
    and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but
    professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent
    obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his
    private safe.

    It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it;
    and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired
    the society of his surviving friend with the same eagerness. He
    thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and
    fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to
    be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak
    with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds
    of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of
    voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable
    recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate.
    The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to
    the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even
    sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not
    read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson
    became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that
    he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits.
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