The reason of my sudden surprise was not because I recognized her, but on account of her perfect and amazing beauty. Every doctor sees some pretty faces in the course of practise, but having been asked to set down the chief details of this romance, I must here confess that never in all my life had I set eyes upon such a sweet and charming countenance1.
I judged her to be about twenty, and the manner in which she entered the dingy2 consulting-room that reeked3 with the pungent4 odour of iodoform showed that, although not well dressed, she was nevertheless modest and well bred. She wore a plain, black tailor-made skirt, a trifle the worse for wear, a white cotton blouse, a small black hat, and black gloves. But her face held me fascinated; I could not take my eyes off it. It was oval, regular, with beautifully-moulded cheeks, a small, well-formed mouth, and fine arched brows, while the eyes, dark and sparkling, looked out at me half in wonder, half in fear. Hers was a kind of half-tragic beauty, a face intensely sweet in its expression, yet with a distinct touch of sadness in its composition, as though her heart were burdened by some secret.
This latter fact seemed patent to me from the very first instant of our meeting.
“Is Dr. Whitworth in?” she inquired, in a soft, rather musical voice, when I bowed and indicated a chair.
“No,” I responded, “he’s not. My name is Pickering, and I am acting5 for the doctor, who is away on a holiday.”
“Oh!” she ejaculated, and I thought I detected that her jaw6 dropped slightly, as though she were disappointed. “Will Dr. Whitworth be away long?”
“Another fortnight, I believe. He is not very well, and has gone to Cornwall. Are you one of his patients? If so, I shall be delighted to do what I can for you.”
“No,” she responded; “but my brother is, and, being taken worse, wanted to consult him.”
“I shall be very pleased to see him, if you think he would care for it,” I said rather eagerly, I believe, if the truth were told.
She seemed undecided. When a person is in the habit of being attended by one medical man, a fresh one is always at a disadvantage. People have such faith in their “own doctor,” a faith that is almost a religion, often misplaced, and sometimes fatal. The old-fashioned family doctor with his out-of-date methods, his white waistcoat, and his cultivated gravity still flourishes, even in these enlightened days of serums7 and light cures. And in order to impress their patients, they sometimes prescribe unheard of medicines that are not to be found even in “Squire.”
“Dr. Whitworth has attended my brother for several years, and has taken a great interest in his case,” she said reflectively.
“What is his ailment8?” I inquired.
“An internal one. All the doctors he has seen appear to disagree as to its actual cause. He suffers great pain at times. It is because he is worse that I have come here.”
“Perhaps I can prescribe something to relieve it,” I suggested. “Would you like me to see him? I am entirely9 at your disposal.”
“You are extremely kind, doctor,” she replied. “But we live rather a long way off, and I am afraid at this time of night——”
“Oh, the hour is nothing, I assure you,” I laughed, interrupting her. “If I can do anything to make your brother more comfortable, I’ll do so.”
She was still undecided. Somehow I could not help thinking that she regarded me with a strange fixed10 look—a glance which indeed surprised me. Having regard to the strange dénouement of the interview, I now recollect11 every detail of it, and can follow accurately12 the working of her mind.
“Well,” she said at last, rather reluctantly it seemed, “if you are quite sure the distance is not too far, it would be most kind of you to come. I’m sure you could give Frank something to allay13 his pain. We live at Dartmouth Hill, Blackheath.”
“Oh, that’s not so very far,” I exclaimed, eager to be her companion. “A cab will soon take us there.”
“Dr. Whitworth usually comes over to visit my brother once a week—every Thursday. Did he tell you nothing of his case?”
“No. Probably he considers him a private patient, while I am left in charge of the poorer people who come to the dispensary.”
“Ah! I understand,” she said, drawing the black boa tighter around her throat, as though ready for departure.
I made some inquiries14 regarding the region where her brother’s pain was situated15, and, placing a morphia case and bottles of various narcotics16 in my well-worn black bag, put on my hat and announced my readiness to accompany her.
As I turned again to her I could not fail to notice that the colour in her face a moment before had all gone out of it. She was ashen17 pale, almost to the lips. The change in her had been sudden, and I saw that as she stood she gripped the back of her chair, swaying to and fro as though every moment she might collapse18 in a faint.
“You are unwell,” I said quickly.
“A—a little faintness. That is all,” she gasped19.
Without a moment’s delay I got her seated, and rushing into the dispensary obtained restoratives, which in a few minutes brought her back to her former self.
“How foolish!” she remarked, as though disgusted with herself. “Forgive me, doctor; I suppose it is because I have been up two nights with my brother and am tired out.”
“Of course; that accounts for it. You have over-taxed your strength. Have you no one who can take your place?”
“No,” she responded, with a strange sadness which seemed an index to her character; “I have, unfortunately, no one. Frank is rather irritable20, and will have nobody about him except myself.”
Brother and sister appeared devoted21 to each other.
She spoke22 of him in a tone betraying that deep fraternal affection which nowadays is not common.
I waited while the boy Siddons closed the surgery and put out the lights, and then, having locked the outer door, we walked together to the cab-stand at the top of Beresford Street and entered a hansom, giving directions to drive to Blackheath.
The man seemed rather surprised at such an order at such an hour, but nevertheless, nothing loth to take a fare outside the radius23, he whipped up, and drove straight down the Boyson Road, through into Albany Road, one of the decayed relics24 of bygone Camberwell when the suburb was fashionable in the days of George the Third, and on into that straight, never-ending thoroughfare, the Old Kent Road.
Seated side by side our conversation naturally turned upon conversational25 subjects, and presently she remarked upon the great heat of the day just closed, whereupon I told her how oppressed I had been by it, because of my recent voyage where the sea breeze was always fresh and the spray combined with the brilliant sunshine.
“Ah!” she sighed, “I would so much like to go abroad. I’ve never been farther than Paris, and, after all, that’s so much like London. I would dearly like a voyage up the Mediterranean26. The ports you put into must have been a perfect panorama27 of the various phases of life.”
“Yes,” I said, “the Italian is so different from the Syrian, the Syrian from the African, and the African from the Spanish. It is all so fresh and new. You would be charmed with it. The only disagreeable part is the return to hot and overcrowded London.”
“Myself, I hate London,” was her remark. “The fresh open country always appeals to me, and Blackheath, you know, is better than nothing at all.”
I had to confess that I was not acquainted with Blackheath. Apart from my term at the hospital and a year or two doing locum tenens work in London I knew more of the country than of the Metropolis28. Unless one is a London-born man one never knows and never in his heart loves London. He may delight in its attractions, its social advantages, and its pecuniary29 possibilities, but at heart he shudders30 at the greyness of its streets, the grime of the houses, and the hustling31, whirling, selfish crowds. To the man country-born, be he peer or commoner, London is always intolerable for any length of time; he sighs for the open air, the green of Nature, the gay songs of the birds, and the freedom of everything. Unfortunately, however, the country is not fashionable, save in autumn for shooting and in winter for hunting, even though the London season may be, to the great majority, an ordeal32 only to be borne in order to sustain the social status.
I ask of you, my readers—who perhaps work in the City and go to and from the suburbs with clock-work regularity—whether you would not be prepared to accept a lower wage if you could carry on that same profession in the country and live in a house with a real garden instead of one of a row of jerry-built “desirable residences” so crowded together that what was once a healthy and splendid suburb is nowadays as cramped33 as any street in Central London? You know your house, a place that was run up in six weeks by a speculative34 builder; you know your garden, a dried-up, stony35 strip of back yard, where even the wallflowers have a difficulty in taking root; you know your daily scramble36 to get into a train for the City—nay, the hard fight to keep a roof over your head and the vulpine animal from the door. Yes, you would move into the country if you only could, for your wife and children would then be strong and well, instead of always sickly and ailing37. But what is the use of moralizing? There is no work for you in the country, so you are one of millions of victims who, like yourself, are compelled to stifle38 and scramble in London, or to starve.
All this we discussed quite philosophically39 as we rode together through that hot summer’s night, first past shops and barrows where lights still burned, and then away down the broad road, dark save for the long row of street-lamps stretching away into the distance.
I found her a bright and interesting companion. She seemed of a rather reflective turn of mind, but through all her conversation ran that vein40 of sadness which from the first had impressed itself upon me. From what she led me to believe, her brother and she were in rather straitened circumstances, owing to the former’s long illness. He had been head cashier with a firm in Cannon41 Street, but had been compelled to resign three years ago and had not earned a penny since. I wondered whether she worked at something, typewriting or millinery, in order to assist the household, but she told me nothing and I did not presume to ask.
It is enough to say that I found myself charmed by her, even on this first acquaintance. Although so modest and engaging, she seemed to possess wonderful tact42. But after all, now that I reflect, tact is in the fair sex inborn43, and it takes a clever man to outwit a woman when she is bent44 upon accomplishing an object.
She told me very little about herself. In fact, now I recall the curious circumstances, I see that she purposely refrained from doing so. To my leading questions she responded so na?vely that I was entirely misled.
How is it, I wonder, that every man of every age will run his head against a wall for the sake of a pretty woman? Given a face out of the ordinary rut of English beauty, a woman in London can command anything, no matter what her station. It has always been so the whole world over, even from the old days of Troy and Rome—a fair face rules the roost.
We had crossed a bridge over a canal—Deptford Bridge I think it is called—and began to ascend45 a long hill which she told me led on to Blackheath. She had grown of a sudden thoughtful, making few responses to my observations. Perhaps I had presumed too much, I thought; perhaps I had made some injudicious inquiry46 which annoyed her. But she was so charming, so sweet of temperament47, and so bright in conversation, that my natural desire to know all about her had led me into being a trifle more inquisitive48 than the circumstances warranted.
“Doctor,” she exclaimed suddenly, in a strange voice; “I hope you will not take as an offence what I am about to say,” and as she turned to me the light of a street lamp flashing full on her face revealed to me how white and anxious it had suddenly become.
“Certainly not,” I answered, not without surprise.
“Well, I have reconsidered my decision, and I think that in the circumstances you had better not see my brother, after all.”
“Not see your brother!” I exclaimed, surprised.
“No. I—I’m awfully49 sorry to have brought you out here so far, but if you will allow me to get out I can walk home and you can drive back.”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “Now I’m so close to your house I’ll see your brother. I can no doubt relieve his pain, and for that he would probably be thankful.”
“No,” she said, involuntarily laying her hand upon my sleeve, “I cannot allow you to accompany me farther;” and I felt her hand tremble.
Surely there is no accounting50 for the working of a woman’s mind, but I certainly believed her to be devoid51 of any such caprice as this.
I argued with her that if her brother were in pain it was only right that I should do what I could to relieve him. But she firmly shook her head.
“Forgive me, doctor,” she urged anxiously. “I know you must think me absurdly whimsical, but this decision is not the outcome of any mere53 whim52, I assure you. I have a reason why I absolutely insist upon us parting here.”
“Well, of course, if you really deny me the privilege of accompanying you as far as your house I can do nothing but submit,” I said very disappointedly. “I shall tell Dr. Whitworth of your call. What name shall I give him?”
“Miss Bristowe.”
“And are you quite determined54 that I shall go no farther?” I asked earnestly.
“Quite.”
I saw some hidden reason in this decision, but what it was I failed to make out. She was certainly most determined, and, further, she seemed to have been suddenly filled with an unusual excitement, betrayed in her white, almost haggard, face.
So I stopped the cab at last, just as we reached the dark Heath.
“I must say that I am very disappointed at this abrupt55 ending to our brief acquaintanceship,” I said, taking her hand and helping56 her out.
“Ah! doctor,” she sighed. Then, in a voice full of strange meaning, she added: “Perhaps one day you will learn the real reason of this decision. I thank you very much for accompanying me so far. Good-night.”
She allowed her hand to rest in mine for a moment; then turned and was lost in the darkness, leaving me standing57 beside the cab.
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收听单词发音
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1
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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3
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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4
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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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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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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7
serums
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| n.（动物体内的）浆液( serum的名词复数 )；血清；（一剂）免疫血清 | |
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8
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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10
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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11
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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13
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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14
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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15
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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16
narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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17
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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19
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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20
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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22
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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23
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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26
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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27
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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29
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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30
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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31
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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35
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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36
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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37
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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38
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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40
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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41
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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42
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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43
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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44
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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45
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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46
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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47
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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48
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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49
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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50
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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51
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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52
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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53
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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54
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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55
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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56
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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57
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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