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Updated: June 8, 2025
THE days that elapsed before Major Fitz-David's dinner-party were precious days to me. My long interview with Miserrimus Dexter had disturbed me far more seriously than I suspected at the time. It was not until some hours after I had left him that I really began to feel how my nerves had been tried by all that I had seen and heard during my visit at his house.
A child would have gone in and pitied him. The room was getting darker and darker. We could just see the crouching figure of Miserrimus Dexter at the expiring fire and that was all. "Are we to have no light?" asked Mrs. Macallan. "And is this lady to see you, when the light comes, out of your chair?"
Clear your mind of one mistake," he continued, seriously, "which may fatally mislead you if you persist in pursuing your present course. Miserrimus Dexter, you may take my word for it, ceased to be your husband's friend on the day when your husband married his first wife. Dexter has kept up appearances, I grant you, both in public and in private.
They had mercifully allowed her to attend the funeral of Miserrimus Dexter in the hope that the ceremony might avail to convince her of his death. The anticipation was not realized; she still persisted in denying that "the Master" had left her.
Left by myself, I felt more anxious and more uncertain than ever when I thought of the experiment that was to be tried on the next day. Making due allowance for exaggeration, the description of Miserrimus Dexter on his departure from Mrs.
Yes, there was Miserrimus Dexter, arrayed in his pink jacket, fast asleep in Benjamin's favorite arm-chair! No coverlet hid his horrible deformity. Nothing was sacrificed to conventional ideas of propriety in his extraordinary dress. I could hardly wonder that the poor old housekeeper trembled from head to foot when she spoke of him. "Valeria," said Benjamin, pointing to the Portent in the chair.
I saw it with a sense of misgiving, with a doubt whether I had not delayed my visit until too late, which turned me cold from head to foot. Miserrimus Dexter spoke to Ariel, not to me. "Poor devil!" he said, patting her head complacently. "You don't understand a word of my stories, do you?
But I noticed that when his imagination cooled down he became Miserrimus Dexter again he no more believed himself than we believed him to be Napoleon or Shakespeare. Besides, some allowance is surely to be made for the solitary, sedentary life that he leads.
We stole out of the room on tiptoe, and left Miserrimus Dexter poet, composer, and madman in his peaceful sleep. ARIEL was downstairs in the shadowy hall, half asleep, half awake, waiting to see the visitors clear of the house. Without speaking to us, without looking at us, she led the way down the dark garden walk, and locked the gate behind us.
"Dexter something reminds me of Miserrimus Dexter. He has put your Diary back again in the drawer, and he presses me for an answer to his proposals. Has this false wretch any conscience? If he has, even he will suffer when my death answers him. "The nurse has been in my room again. I have sent her away. I have told her I want to be alone. "How is the time going? I cannot find my watch.
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