THE HAUNTED HOTEL
A Mystery of Modern Venice
by
Wilkie Collins (1824-1889)
(after the edition of Chatto & Windus, London, 1879)
THE FIRST PART
CHAPTER I
In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London physicianreached its highest point. It was reported on good authority that hewas in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the practiceof medicine in modern times.
One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor hadjust taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work in hisconsulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients attheir own houses to fill up the rest of his day--when the servantannounced that a lady wished to speak to him.
'Who is she?' the Doctor asked. 'A stranger?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I see no strangers out of consulting-hours. Tell her what the hoursare, and send her away.'
'I have told her, sir.'
'Well?'
'And she won't go.'
'Won't go?' The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. He was ahumourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situationwhich rather amused him. 'Has this obstinate lady given you her name?'he inquired.
'No, sir. She refused to give any name--she said she wouldn't keep youfive minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till to-morrow.There she is in the consulting-room; and how to get her out again ismore than I know.'
Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women(professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more thanthirty years; he had met with them in all their varieties--especiallythe variety which knows nothing of the value of time, and neverhesitates at sheltering itself behind the privileges of its sex. Aglance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his roundsamong the patients who were waiting for him at their own houses. Hedecided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open underthe circumstances. In other words, he decided on taking to flight.
'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked.
'Yes, sir.'
'Very well. Open the house-door for me without making any noise, andleave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room. Whenshe gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her. If she asks whenI am expected to return, say that I dine at my club, and spend theevening at the theatre. Now then, softly, Thomas! If your shoescreak, I am a lost man.'
He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant ontip-toe.
Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did Thomas's shoescreak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Whatever theexplanation may be, the event that actually happened was beyond alldoubt. Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the dooropened--the lady appeared on the threshold--and laid her hand on hisarm.
'I entreat you, sir, not to go away without letting me speak to youfirst.'
The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closedgently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor's arm.
Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect ininclining him to grant her request. The influence that instantlystopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence ofher face. The startling contrast between the corpse-like pallor of hercomplexion and the overpowering life and light, the glittering metallicbrightness in her large black eyes, held him literally spell-bound. Shewas dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middleheight, and (apparently) of middle age--say a year or two over thirty.Her lower features--the nose, mouth, and chin--possessed the finenessand delicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign racesthan among women of English birth. She was unquestionably a handsomeperson--with the one serious drawback of her ghastly complexion, andwith the less noticeable defect of a total want of tenderness in theexpression of her eyes. Apart from his first emotion of surprise, thefeeling she produced in the Doctor may be described as an overpoweringfeeling of professional curiosity. The case might prove to besomething entirely new in his professional experience. 'It looks likeit,' he thought; 'and it's worth waiting for.'
She perceived that she had produced a strong impression of somekind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.
'You have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said.'Comfort one more, to-day.'
Without waiting to be answered, she led the way back into the room.
The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her in thepatients' chair, opposite the windows. Even in London the sun, on thatsummer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed inon her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly, with the steely steadiness ofthe eyes of an eagle. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin lookedmore fearfully white than ever. For the first time, for many a longyear past, the Doctor felt his pulse quicken its beat in the presenceof a patient.
Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared, strangelyenough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to havetaken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to speak first, theDoctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase, what he could dofor her.
The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight atthe light, she said abruptly: 'I have a painful question to ask.'
'What is it?'
Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor's face.Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the'painful question' in these extraordinary words:
'I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'
Some men might have been amused, and some might have been alarmed.Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. Wasthis the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly byappearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman, whosemalady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain?'Why do you come to me?' he asked sharply. 'Why don't you consult adoctor whose special employment is the treatment of the insane?'
She had her answer ready on the instant.
'I don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said, 'for the very reasonthat he is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging everybodyby lines and rules of his own laying down. I come to you, because mycase is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous inyour profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. Are yousatisfied?'
He was more than satisfied--his first idea had been the right idea,after all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to his professionalposition. The capacity which had raised him to fame and fortune washis capacity (unrivalled among his brethren) for the discovery ofremote disease.
'I am at your disposal,' he answered. 'Let me try if I can find outwhat is the matter with you.'
He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered;and they led to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was,mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied withquestions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither hishand nor his stethoscope could discover anything that was amiss. Withthe admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguishedhim from the time when he was a student, he still subjected her to onetest after another. The result was always the same. Not only wasthere no tendency to brain disease--there was not even a perceptiblederangement of the nervous system. 'I can find nothing the matter withyou,' he said. 'I can't even account for the extraordinary pallor ofyour complexion. You completely puzzle me.'
'The pallor of my complexion is nothing,' she answered a littleimpatiently. 'In my early life I had a narrow escape from death bypoisoning. I have never had a complexion since-
-and my skin is sodelicate, I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. But that isof no importance. I wanted your opinion given positively. I believedin you, and you have disappointed me.' Her head dropped on her breast.'And so it ends!' she said to herself bitterly.
The Doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more correctto say that his professional pride was a little hurt. 'It may end inthe right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to help me.'
She looked up again with flashing eyes, 'Speak plainly,' she said.'How can I help you?'
'Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to makethe right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do much,but not all. For example, something must have occurred--somethingquite unconnected with the state of your bodily health--to frighten youabout yourself, or you would never have come here to consult me. Isthat true?'
She clasped her hands in her lap. 'That is true!' she said eagerly.'I begin to believe in you again.'
'Very well. You can't expect me to find out the moral cause which hasalarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical causeof alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) I can do nomore.'
She rose, and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said.'But, mind, I shall mention no names!'
'There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.'
'The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'I have only my own impressionsto confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when youhear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you--Iwill begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, theywon't do much to help you.'
She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began thestrangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor'sears.