CHAPTER II
'It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,' she said. 'It is anotherfact, that I am going to be married again.'
There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her.Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile--there wassomething at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it wentaway suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting onhis first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace patientsand the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certaintender regret.
The lady went on.
'My approaching marriage,' she said, 'has one embarrassing circumstanceconnected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged toanother lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad: that lady, mind,being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin. Ihave innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects inlife. Innocently, I say--because he told me nothing of his engagementuntil after I had accepted him. When we next met in England--and whenthere was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge--hetold me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He had his excuseready; he showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing him fromhis engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never readin my life. I cried over it--I who have no tears in me for sorrows ofmy own! If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I wouldhave positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it--withoutanger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes even for hishappiness--the firmness of it, I say, left him no hope. He appealed tomy compassion; he appealed to his love for me. You know what womenare. I too was soft-hearted--I said, Very well: yes! In a week more(I tremble as I think of it) we are to be married.'
She did really tremble--she was obliged to pause and compose herself,before she could go on. The Doctor, waiting for more facts, began tofear that he stood committed to a long story. 'Forgive me forreminding you that I have suffering persons waiting to see me,' hesaid. 'The sooner you can come to the point, the better for mypatients and for me.'
The strange smile--at once so sad and so cruel--showed itself again onthe lady's lips. 'Every word I have said is to the point,' sheanswered. 'You will see it yourself in a moment more.'
She resumed her narrative.
'Yesterday--you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday--I wasamong the visitors at one of your English luncheon parties. A lady, aperfect stranger to me, came in late--after we had left the table, andhad retired to the drawing-room. She happened to take a chair near me;and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name, as she knewme. It was the woman whom I had robbed of her lover, the woman who hadwritten the noble letter. Now listen! You were impatient with me fornot interesting you in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy yourmind that I had no enmity of feeling towards the lady, on my side. Iadmired her, I felt for her--I had no cause to reproach myself. Thisis very important, as you will presently see. On her side, I havereason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained toher, and that she understood I was in no way to blame. Now, knowingall these necessary things as you do, explain to me, if you can, why,when I rose and met that woman's eyes looking at me, I turned cold fromhead to foot, and shuddered, and shivered, and knew what a deadly panicof fear was, for the first time in my life.'
The Doctor began to feel interested at last.
'Was there anything remarkable in the lady's personal appearance?' heasked.
'Nothing whatever!' was the vehement reply. 'Here is the truedescription of her:--The ordinary English lady; the clear cold blueeyes, the fine rosy complexion, the inanimately polite manner, thelarge good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin: these, andnothing more.'
'Was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her,that took you by surprise?'
'There was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been preferred toher; and perhaps some astonishment also, not to see a more engaging andmore beautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limitsof good breeding, and both not lasting for more than a few moments--sofar as I could see. I say, "so far," because the horrible agitationthat she communicated to me disturbed my judgment. If I could have gotto the door, I would have run out of the room, she frightened me so! Iwas not even able to stand up--I sank back in my chair; I staredhorror-struck at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with agentle surprise. To say they affected me like the eyes of a serpent isto say nothing. I felt her soul in them, looking into mine--looking,if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. I tellyou my impression, in all its horror and in all its folly! That womanis destined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of mylife. Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in methat I was not aware of myself, until I felt them stirring under herlook. If I commit faults in my life to come--if I am even guilty ofcrimes--she will bring the retribution, without (as I firmly believe)any conscious exercise of her own will. In one indescribable moment Ifelt all this--and I suppose my face showed it. The good artlesscreature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. "I am afraidthe heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smellingbottle?" I heard her say those kind words; and I remember nothingelse--I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the company had all gone;only the lady of the house was with me. For the moment I could saynothing to her; the dreadful impression that I have tried to describeto you came back to me with the coming back of my life. As soon Icould speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about the womanwhom I had supplanted. You see, I had a faint hope that her goodcharacter might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was askilful piece of hypocrisy--in short, that she secretly hated me, andwas cunning enough to hide it. No! the lady had been her friend fromher girlhood, was as familiar with her as if they had beensisters--knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapableof hating anybody, as the greatest saint that ever lived. My one lasthope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in thepresence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for ever. Therewas one more effort I could make, and I made it. I went next to theman whom I am to marry. I implored him to release me from my promise.He refused. I declared I would break my engagement. He showed meletters from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dearfriends--all entreating him to think again before he made me his wife;all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are somany vile lies. "If you refuse to marry me," he said, "you admit thatthese reports are true--you admit that you are afraid to face societyin the character of my wife." What could I answer? There was nocontradicting him--he was plainly right: if I persisted in my refusal,the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. Iconsented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it--and lefthim. The night has passed. I am here, with my fixed conviction--thatinnocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life. Iam here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answer it.For the last time, sir, what am I--a demon who has seen the avengingangel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a derangedmind?'
Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview.
He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. Thelonger he had listened to her, the more irresistibly the conviction ofthe woman's wickedness had forced itself on him. He tried vainly tothink of her as a person to be pitied--a person with a morbidlysensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities for evil which liedormant in us all, and striving earnestly to open her heart to thecounter-influence of her own better nature; the effort was beyond him.A perverse instinct in him said, as if in words, Beware how you believein her!
'I have already given you my opinion,' he said. 'There is no sign ofyour intellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged, thatmedical science can discover--as I understand it. As for theimpressions you have confided to me, I can only say that yours is acase (as I venture to think) for spiritual rather than for medicaladvice. Of
one thing be assured: what you have said to me in this roomshall not pass out of it. Your confession is safe in my keeping.'
She heard him, with a certain dogged resignation, to the end.
'Is that all?' she asked.
'That is all,' he answered.
She put a little paper packet of money on the table. 'Thank you, sir.There is your fee.'
With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward, with anexpression of despair so defiant and so horrible in its silent agonythat the Doctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sight of it.The bare idea of taking anything from her--not money only, but anythingeven that she had touched--suddenly revolted him. Still withoutlooking at her, he said, 'Take it back; I don't want my fee.'
She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward, she saidslowly to herself, 'Let the end come. I have done with the struggle: Isubmit.'
She drew her veil over her face, bowed to the Doctor, and left the room.
He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servantclosed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity--utterly unworthyof him, and at the same time utterly irresistible--sprang up in theDoctor's mind. Blushing like a boy, he said to the servant, 'Followher home, and find out her name.' For one moment the man looked at hismaster, doubting if his own ears had not deceived him. Doctor Wybrowlooked back at him in silence. The submissive servant knew what thatsilence meant--he took his hat and hurried into the street.
The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. A sudden revulsion offeeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection ofwickedness in the house, and had he caught it? What devil hadpossessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant? Hehad behaved infamously--he had asked an honest man, a man who hadserved him faithfully for years, to turn spy! Stung by the barethought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door.The servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back. But onerefuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him--the refuge ofwork. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients.
If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he wouldhave done it that afternoon. Never before had he made himself solittle welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off untilto-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written, theopinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home earlierthan usual--unutterably dissatisfied with himself.
The servant had returned. Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him. Theman reported the result of his errand, without waiting to be asked.
'The lady's name is the Countess Narona. She lives at--'
Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged theall-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, andentered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused stilllay in its little white paper covering on the table. He sealed it upin an envelope; addressed it to the 'Poor-box' of the nearestpolice-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it tothe magistrate the next morning. Faithful to his duties, the servantwaited to ask the customary question, 'Do you dine at home to-day, sir?'
After a moment's hesitation he said, 'No: I shall dine at the club.'
The most easily deteriorated of all the moral qualities is the qualitycalled 'conscience.' In one state of a man's mind, his conscience isthe severest judge that can pass sentence on him. In another state, heand his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other inthe comfortable capacity of accomplices. When Doctor Wybrow left hishouse for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal fromhimself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear whatthe world said of the Countess Narona.