Tulloch left half an hour later, and Sammy, whose curiosity had been aroused concerning the foreigner, entered the room and inquired after the patient.
But hoping to learn more from the stricken man, I sent my friend back to bed and remained there through the night, administering to the patient what my friend Tulloch had ordered.
The long hours dragged on in silence. Only the ticking of the cheap American clock broke the quiet. Lying upon his back the stranger fixed1 his dark eyes upon me, until his hard gaze caused me quite an uncomfortable feeling. It is unpleasant to have a dying man’s eyes fixed so attentively2 upon one. Therefore I shifted my chair, but even then I could not escape that intent penetrating3 gaze. He seemed as if he were reading my very soul.
If I spoke4 he answered only in low monosyllables. Whenever I attempted to put a question he made a quick gesticulation, indicating his impossibility to reply. And so passed the whole long vigil until day broke in brightening grey, and the sun shone forth5 again.
Yet the man’s hard stony6 stare was horrifying7. Somehow it utterly8 unnerved me.
Had Tulloch not declared that the fellow was dying, I should certainly have left him; yet I felt it was my duty as a man to remain there, for was I not the only person in that household acquainted with the Italian tongue?
Ever and anon he clenched9 his teeth tightly and drew a long hard breath, as though bitterly vengeful at thought of some incident of the past.
“Accidenti!” was an ejaculation that escaped his lips now and then, and by it I knew that he was praying that an accident might befall his enemies—whoever they were. He uttered the most bitter curse that an Italian could utter.
Presently, about five o’clock, just as the sun’s rays entering through the opening between the dingy10 old rep curtains fell across the threadbare carpet in a golden bar, he became quiet again.
“Ah, signore,” he said gratefully, “it is really extremely good of you to put yourself out on my account—a perfect stranger.”
“Nothing, nothing,” I assured him. “It is only what you would do for me if I were ill in a foreign country where I could not speak the language.”
“Ay, that I would,” he declared. And after a pause he added: “Nearness to death causes us to make strange friendships—doesn’t it?”
“Why?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Well—in me, for instance, you are making a strange friend,” he said, with a queer, harsh laugh.
“Why strange?”
“Because you are utterly unaware11 of who or what I am.”
“I know your name—that is all,” I responded quietly. “You know the name by which I choose to be known here. It is not likely that I should disclose my real identity.”
“Why not?”
“Because—well, there are strong reasons,” was his vague answer, and his mouth shut with a snap, as though he discerned that he had already said too much. Then a moment later he added: “As I’ve already told you, you have made a strange acquaintance in me. You will probably be surprised if ever you really do ascertain12 the truth, which is, however, not very likely, I think. At least I hope not.”
I recollected13 that he had spoken of a secret—some woman’s secret—which he intended, at all hazards, to preserve. What was it, I wondered?
The thin drawn14 face upon the white pillow wore a wild, desperate expression. The stranger had actually laughed in triumph at the suggestion of death. A man must be desperate ere he can face the open grave with a smile upon his lips.
After a few minutes he raised his thin yellow finger beckoning15 me closer, and in a fainter voice said:—
“You are the only friend I have in this great capital, Signor Leaf,”—for at table I had told him my name and something about my wandering life on the Continent—“you will not allow them to bury me as a pauper16? There is money—see, in that left-hand top drawer—over there. Will you get my purse?”
I rose, opened the drawer he indicated, and handed him a bulky red morocco wallet, one of those in which Italians carry their paper currency.
He opened it and I saw that it was crammed17 with hundred-franc and even thousand-franc notes. In the wallet there was probably over a thousand pounds.
“Will you take charge of it?” he asked, handing it back. “I shall never want it again. Pay all the expenses, and I would ask of you one favour. Upon the stone over my grave put no name—only the words: ‘In Memory of one who was Unfortunate’—that is all.”
“And the balance of the money—to whom shall I hand that?”
He thought a few moments, his eyes fixed upon the low, smoke-blackened ceiling.
“If there is no just claimant within one year take five thousand francs as a souvenir of me, and present the remainder to a hospital—whatever hospital in London you think the most deserving. You will also find the directions for obtaining certain securities deposited in Italy. Obtain them and deal with them as you deem advisable.”
“But have you no relations?” I inquired, foreseeing a great difficulty in carrying out these verbal instructions.
“Relations! Bah! what are relations?” he cried excitedly. “Only an infernal encumbrance18. I suppose I have some somewhere—everybody has more or less.”
“And don’t you know where yours are?”
“No, nor do I wish to know,” he snapped. “I am alone—you understand—entirely alone. And, moreover, I trust that if you are my friend, as you seem to wish to be, you will so far respect my memory as not to believe all that will probably be said against me. To you only I admit that I am not what I have represented myself to be—that is all. I accept your kindness, but, alas19! with considerable shame.”
I drew the Italian notes from the wallet, and counted them.
“There are twenty-eight thousand lire here,” I remarked, “one thousand one hundred and twenty pounds.”
“What does it concern me how much there is?” he asked, smiling. “Use it as I’ve directed. Indeed,” he added, after a pause, “you need not tell any one that you have it.”
“I shall tell my friend Sampson, or people may think that I’ve stolen it,” I said.
“Yes,” he remarked hoarsely20, with a sigh, “people are always ready to think ill of one, are they not?”
And then, as the bar of sunlight crept slowly across the worn-out carpet, a deep silence again fell, broken only by the stranger’s fierce, vengeful mutterings which to me conveyed no distinct meaning.
“Madonna mia!” he cried aloud once, cringing21 in excruciating pain. “How I suffer! I wonder how long it must be before I give out. Dio! Is this the punishment of hell?”
Then he turned his eyes upon me—those wide-open, horrified22 eyes—in a look the remembrance of which is even to-day still before me, the recollection of which I shall carry with me to the grave.
There was something indescribable about that expression, uncanny, fascinating, inhuman23. They were the eyes of a man who, though still alive, was obtaining his first glance into the awful mysteries of the eternity24.
At half-past seven Tulloch returned and brought him a soothing25 draught26, so that he slept, and I then left the sick-room to dress and breakfast.
With Mrs Gilbert, Sammy and I agreed that no word of the painful affair should be told to our fellow-guests, because illness in a boarding-house always causes the visitors to make excuses for departure. So we said nothing.
Sampson had some urgent business with his solicitor27 in the City that day, therefore I remained at home, acting28 as nurse to the unfortunate man whose end was now so near.
Three times during the day Tulloch returned, but all he did proved unavailing. The stranger could not possibly live, he said. It was a wonder that he had had strength to withstand the journey to England. It was the reaction that was proving fatal—internal haemorrhage.
Just before six o’clock, when I crept on tiptoe back to the mysterious man’s darkened room to see if he still slept, he called me eagerly in a low whisper, saying that he wished to speak to me in strict confidence.
I therefore seated myself at his bedside and bent29 down, so that the effort of speaking should be as little as possible.
“There is still one further favour I would beg of you, Signor Leaf. I wonder whether—whether you would grant it?” he asked very feebly, stretching out his thin hand until it rested upon my wrist.
“If it is within my power, I will,” I assured him.
“Then you see this!” he exclaimed, drawing from beneath his pillow a small flat packet in white paper about four inches square and secured by three large black oval seals evidently impressed by some old monastic seal of the middle ages.
“I want you,” he said, “to accept the responsibility of this. They are papers of considerable value to certain relatives in Italy. Will you take charge of it, and three years after my death hand it intact to the Italian Ambassador? I appeal to you to do so, for you are my only friend, and I am dying,” he added, in a tone of intense earnestness.
“If you wish,” I said, somewhat reluctant, however, to undertake such responsibility. And I took the packet, and, after examining the seals, transferred it to my pocket.
The mysterious Massari firmly declined my offer to go to the Italian Church in Hatton Garden and fetch a priest.
“I don’t wish to see anybody,” he snapped. “I have a reason. At least let me die in peace.”
And an hour later, just as Tulloch returned, he again fixed those bright staring eyes upon me and silently passed away, carrying with him his secret to the grave.
It concerned a woman. That much he had admitted. Who was the woman, I wondered? What was her secret?
“This man had a strange history, I feel convinced,” I remarked in a low voice to Tulloch as we left the chamber30 of death together and quietly closed the door.
“Yes,” he said. “He seemed a queer fellow. But in my profession, old chap, we often meet strange people, you know. Men, when they are dying, frequently have curious fancies and extraordinary hallucinations.”
And then we went down into Mrs Gilbert’s sitting-room31 to inform her of the unfortunate occurrence in her house.
I locked the sealed packet and the bulky wallet safely away in my despatch-box, and when Sammy returned a little later I told him all that had occurred.
My friend, a short, fair-haired, round-faced fellow of thirty-eight, a splendid type of the muscular athletic32 Englishman, flung himself into the big leather armchair with a cigarette and listened. Like mine, his life had been full of adventure. Some years before he had thrown up his commission in the Scots Greys in order to go on active service, anywhere so long as there was fighting. He had been through three South American revolutions; had served with the Americans in Cuba; had been mentioned in despatches for his services before Ladysmith, and was now contemplating33 volunteering for service against the Mad Mullah. Possessed34 of comfortable private means he was soldier, traveller, big-game hunter and champion tennis-player, a good all-round man bubbling over with good-humour, and a great favourite with the ladies.
“Well, Godfrey, old chap,” he remarked, stretching himself out when I had concluded my story. “Certainly the fellow’s a bit of a mystery. Do you know, I watched him very closely at table last night, and it somehow struck me that he feared to be recognised. Each time the door opened he started and looked apprehensively35 in its direction. Besides, a man of his stamp doesn’t usually come to a boarding-house of this sort. He’d go to the Savoy, or the Cecil. Depend upon it he had a motive36 in coming here, and that motive was in order to hide himself. He may have done something wrong in Italy and fled to London, as so many do. Who knows?”
Truth to tell, my friend’s suggestion exactly coincided with my own suspicion. Jane, the maid-of-all-work, had told me, to my surprise, that when she had entered his room that morning during my absence he had spoken to her in most excellent English! The fact, too, that he had refused to see a priest seemed to point to a fear lest his hiding-place might be discovered.
But he was dead, and I had, rather unwisely perhaps, accepted a curious responsibility. Even the money he had placed in my charge might be the proceeds of some theft!
That night I arranged with a neighbouring undertaker that the remains37 of the stranger should be taken away on the following night when the whole house was asleep, a service for which I received the heartfelt gratitude38 of Mrs Gilbert.
About seven o’clock the next evening when I returned from the club, Miss Gilbert met me excitedly in the hall, and asked whether I would mind stepping into her mother’s sitting-room for a moment.
Seated within, I found a tall, dark-haired, sweet-faced girl in neat black who looked at me with shy inquiry39 as I entered. I saw she was very beautiful. Her delicately moulded features were perfect, and upon her cheeks was the fresh bloom of youth. I judged her to be about twenty-five, with slim, narrow-waisted, graceful40 figure, eyes of soft dark brown, well-defined brows and tiny shell-like ears. Her air and manner was of the chic41 Parisienne, rather than the Londoner. The instant our gaze met I saw that she was a woman of exquisite42 sweetness—perhaps one of the most attractive I had ever seen in all my wide wanderings over the face of the globe.
“This lady desires to see you, Mr Leaf,” explained the landlady’s daughter. “She has called with regard to our friend, Signor Massari.”
I bowed to her, and as I did so she said quickly in English:—
“I am in active search of Signor Massari, and have come post-haste across Europe in order to find him. This lady says he has been here, but has left. You, I understand, speak Italian and have had several conversations with him?”
I glanced quickly at Miss Gilbert. She had not told the visitor the sad truth, therefore I was compelled to sustain the fiction that the dead man had left.
The landlady’s daughter, apparently43 unable to further evade44 her visitor’s eager questions, excused herself and left us alone together.
The instant she had gone the visitor rose with a quick frou-frou of silken underskirts, and closing the door turned to me with a deep earnest look, saying in a low voice scarcely above a whisper:—
“Let me confess the truth, sir! I am in a most deadly peril45, and yet utterly defenceless. I have come direct from Rome in order to overtake the man who has called himself Massari. I must find him, at all hazards. If he chooses to speak—to tell the truth—then he can save my life. If not, I’m lost. Will you help me to discover him? Perhaps you know where he has gone? I throw myself upon your sympathy—upon your mercy. See!” she cried hoarsely, with a wild look in her beautiful eyes, for she was indeed desperate, “I am begging of you, a perfect stranger, begging for my freedom, for my woman’s honour—nay for my life!”
I stood before her stunned46.
What could I reply? What would you have replied in such circumstances?
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1
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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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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3
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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4
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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5
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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6
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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7
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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8
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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9
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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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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11
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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12
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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13
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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15
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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16
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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17
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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20
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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22
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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23
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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24
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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25
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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26
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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27
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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28
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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30
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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31
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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32
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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33
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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34
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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36
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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37
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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38
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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39
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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40
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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41
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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42
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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43
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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44
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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45
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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46
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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