“Why! Look! he’s dead, doctor!” I gasped1, standing2 aghast.
The sudden change in the thin sallow face, the lack of expression in the brilliant eyes, and the dropping of the jaw4 were sufficient to convince me that the stranger’s life had ebbed5 away.
The doctor bent6, placed his hand upon the prostrate7 man’s breast for a moment, and then, straightening himself, he turned to me and answered gravely:—
“Yes, Godfrey; it is as I feared from the first. Nothing could save him. Remember what I told you this morning—it was simply a matter of hours.”
“He appears to have been a rather strong, athletic8 man,” I remarked, looking down upon the wan9, furrowed10 face.
“Unusually so. The disease, however, has thoroughly11 wrecked12 his constitution. He was addicted13 to the morphia habit of late.” And pulling down the sheet he pointed14 to the marks of recent punctures15 upon the dead man’s forearm.
We were standing together in the small shabby bedroom of the boarding-house wherein I lived in Granville Gardens, facing the recreation ground close to Shepherd’s Bush Railway Station. The stifling16 July day was at an end, and the narrow room was lit by the soft hazy17 glow of the fast-fading London sunset.
Through the open window came the shouts of children at play upon the “green” opposite, mingled18 with the chatter19 of the passers-by and the ever-increasing whirr of the electric trams. Within that faded, smoke-grimed chamber20 of the dead was silence. Upon the bed between us lay the dead stranger—the man who was a mystery.
“Well, has he told you anything after all?” inquired my friend, Dr Tulloch.
“Very little,” was my reply. “He was uncommunicative. He had a reason, I believe, for concealing21 his identity.”
“Perhaps we shall discover something when we search his things,” my friend remarked.
“We’ll do that to-morrow,” I said. “It isn’t decent to do so at once.”
Then, as Tulloch bent again, to reassure22 himself that his patient was actually lifeless, a silence once more fell between us. The glow of the summer sunset deepened, shining through the smoke-haze, and lighting23 up those dead features for a moment, but next instant the doctor, having been satisfied that no spark of life remained, tenderly drew the sheet over the white sphinx-like countenance24.
The unfortunate man was a perfect stranger to us all.
On the previous day, at a little before six o’clock in the evening, he had called upon old Mrs Gilbert, who with her daughter kept the boarding-house where I chanced to be staying, and had, it appeared, taken a top room, where his two leather portmanteaux were placed. I knew nothing of the man’s advent25 until Miss Gilbert had tapped at the door of the sitting-room26 and informed me that she had a new guest, a foreign gentleman who could speak only a few words of broken English.
“This is his name,” she said, handing me a scrap27 of paper whereon he had written “Michele Massari.”
“An Italian,” I remarked. “There is a noble family of the Massari, in Ferrara. He may belong to it.”
“It’s fortunate, Mr Leaf, that you speak Italian,” Miss Gilbert said, laughing. “You’ll help us if we are in any difficulty, won’t you?”
“Most certainly,” I assured her, for I knew that a foreigner is often a great trouble in a purely28 English pension. Many people speak French or German, but few know Italian.
Then the landlady’s daughter, a pleasant-faced, florid young woman of about thirty, thanked me and withdrew.
The reason I found myself at Mrs Gilbert’s pension was in order to be near my old schoolfellow, Sammy Sampson, who had made the place his pied-à-terre in town for several years past. I had to spend six months in London upon business affairs, therefore we had agreed to share his sitting-room, a cosy29 little bachelor’s den3 leading from his bedroom at the back of the house.
An hour later at dinner the stranger made his appearance and, with my consent, was placed next to me. There were eleven guests in all—two married couples of the usual genre30 to be found in London boarding-houses of that order, and the rest men with various occupations “in the City.” We were usually a merry party, with Miss Gilbert at the head of the long table, and the chatter was generally amusing.
The advent of the stranger, however, awakened31 every one’s curiosity, and as he took his seat, glancing sharply around, there fell a dead silence.
He was a tall, thin, wiry man with sharp aquiline32 features, hair with silver threads in it, and fierce black moustaches carefully waxed. His eyes were black and penetrating33, his complexion34 sallow, his cheeks sunken, and the glance he gave at his fellow-guests was quick and apprehensive35, as though he feared recognition.
He wore evening dress, which was out of place at Mrs Gilbert’s, and also showed that he was not used to boarding-houses of that class. And as he bowed towards me and seated himself, I saw that upon his lean, claw-like hand was a fine diamond ring.
All eyes were directed upon him, and at once I detected that, being a foreigner, he was viewed with considerable disfavour and distrust. The guests at Mrs Gilbert’s were not cosmopolitan36. The only foreigners accepted at their own estimation in London boarding-houses are the Indian law students. Every girl believes her “tar-brush” table-companion to be a prince.
Signor Massari ate his tinned soup in silence. He had tucked the end of his napkin into his collar in true Italian fashion, and from the fact that attached to his watch-chain was a small golden hand with the index-finger pointing, I put him down as a superstitious37 Tuscan. That hand was the survival of a mediaeval Tuscan charm to avert38 the evil eye.
Having spent some years of an adventurous39 youth in old-world Tuscany, and being well acquainted with the soft musical tongue of the flower-scented land, I ventured presently to make a casual remark with my c’s well aspirated, as became the true-born Florentine.
My companion started, looking at me in quick suspicion. In his keen piercing eyes was a glance of sharp apprehension40 and inquiry—but only for a moment. Sight of me seemed instantly to dispel41 his fears, and his countenance resumed its normal appearance. But his response was a rather cold and formal one—in the patois42 of the Genoese. He evidently desired that I should not put him down as Tuscan.
Though somewhat puzzled I allowed the incident to pass. Yet I made a mental note of it. Signor Massari, I decided43, was a somewhat queer customer. He was a man with enemies—and he feared them. That fact was quite evident.
We chatted in Italian, much to Miss Gilbert’s fussy44 satisfaction, but our conversation was rather formal and strained. He had no intention, it seemed, to have anything to do with his fellow-guests, and he only tolerated me because it would have been uncivil not to do so.
A friend in Italy had recommended him to Mrs Gilbert’s, he explained. He had only arrived from the Continent at 4:50 that evening, and had come straight there in a cab.
“Then this is your first visit to London?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I was here once before—long ago.” And I thought he sighed slightly, as though the recollection of the previous visit was painful.
His was a sad face; hard, furrowed—a countenance that bore trouble written indelibly upon it. He ate but little, and drank only a glass of mineral water.
I tried to get him to tell me from what province of Italy he came, but he studiously avoided all my ingenious questions. He spoke45 of Italy vaguely47, and yet with the tenderness of one who loved his fatherland. Among all the nations of Europe, the Italian is surely the most patriotic48 and the most eager to serve his country.
On several occasions remarks, meant to be courteous49, were addressed to him in English by my companions, but it was plain that he did not understand our tongue. Or if he did, he gave no sign.
Therefore, from the very first moment of his entry into our boarding-house circle we put him down as a complete mystery.
Sammy Sampson, my irresponsible friend, sat opposite me and, as usual, kept the table laughing at his clever witticisms50. Once I saw the Italian scowl51 in displeasure, and wondered whether he had conceived the idea that my friend was joking at his expense.
The stranger was not aware that I had detected the fierce look of hatred52 that, for a single instant, showed in his dark shining eyes. It was an expression that I did not like—an expression of fierce, relentless53, even murderous resentment54.
I was about to assure him of Sammy’s utter disinclination to poke46 fun at any foreigner, when I saw that if I did so I should only aggravate55 the situation. Therefore I let it pass.
The Italian was a man of refinement56, exquisite57 of manner towards the ladies as was all his race, and though I cannot explain it he struck me as being well-born, and superior to those sitting at table with him. Yet he vouchsafed58 but little as regards himself. Italy was his home—that was all. And Italy is a great place; a country of a hundred nations. The Venetian is of a different race from the Sicilian, the Tuscan from the Calabrian. I still suspected he was a Tuscan, yet he spoke the Italian tongue so well that at one moment I put him down as a born Florentine, while at the next as a Livornese or a Roman.
He saw that I knew Italy and the Italians, and was purposely endeavouring to mislead me.
That same night, just after midnight, Jane, one of the maids-of-all-work, rapped at my door, saying:—
“Please, sir, the Italian gentleman’s been taken awful ill. We can’t make out what ’e wants. Would you kindly59 go to ’im?”
I dressed hurriedly, and, ascending60 to the stranger’s room, asked, in Italian, permission to enter.
A faint voice responded, and a moment later I was at the stranger’s bedside. The feeble light of the single candle showed a great change in his countenance, and I saw that he was suffering severely61 and seemed to be choking.
“I—I thank you very much, signore, for coming to me,” he said, with considerable difficulty. “I am having one of my bad attacks—I—I—”
“Had you not better see a doctor? I’ll call a friend of mine, if you’ll allow me.”
“Yes. Perhaps it would really be best,” was his reply, and I saw that his hands were clenched62 in sudden pain.
Therefore, after telling Sammy of the foreigner’s illness, I put on my hat and went round into the Holland Road for my friend Tulloch.
The latter came with me at once, and as soon as I had interpreted the stranger’s symptoms, and he had made a careful examination, he turned to me and said in English:—
“The man’s very bad—cancer in the stomach. He’s evidently been near death half a dozen times, and this will probably prove fatal. Don’t frighten him, Godfrey, but just put it to him as quietly as you can. Tell him that he’s really very much worse than he thinks.”
“Is it worth while to tell the poor fellow the truth?” I argued. “It may only have a bad effect upon him.”
“His other doctors have, no doubt, already warned him. Besides it’s only fair that he should know his danger. I never keep the truth from a patient when things are desperate, like this.”
“Then you hold out but little hope of him?”
Bob Tulloch, who had been with me at Charterhouse, stroked his dark beard and replied in the negative, while the stranger, who had been watching us very closely, said in Italian in a low faint voice:—
“I know! I know! I’m dying—dying!” and he laughed curiously63, almost triumphantly64. “I’m dying—and I shall escape them. Ah! signore,” he added, with his bright black eyes fixed65 upon mine, “if you only knew the truth—the terrible, awful truth—you would pity me—you would, I am convinced, stand my friend. You would not believe the evil that men say of me.”
“Then tell me the truth,” I urged quickly, bending down to him in eagerness.
But he only shook his head and clenched his even white teeth.
“No,” he said, with a fierce imprecation in Italian. “Mine is a secret—her secret—a secret that I have kept until now—a secret that none shall know!”
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1
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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2
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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4
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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5
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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6
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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8
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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9
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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10
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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12
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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13
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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14
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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15
punctures
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| n.（尖物刺成的）小孔( puncture的名词复数 )；（尤指）轮胎穿孔；（尤指皮肤上被刺破的）扎孔；刺伤v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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16
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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17
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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18
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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19
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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20
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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21
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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22
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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23
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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24
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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25
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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26
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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27
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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28
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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29
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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30
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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31
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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32
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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33
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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34
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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35
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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36
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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37
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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38
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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39
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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40
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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41
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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42
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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44
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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45
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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46
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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47
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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48
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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49
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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50
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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51
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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52
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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53
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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54
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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55
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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56
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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57
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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58
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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59
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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60
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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61
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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62
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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64
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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65
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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