'Mr. Villiers to see you, sir.'
'Dear me, Villiers, it is very kind of you to look me up; I have not seen you for many months; I should think nearly a year. Come in, come in. And how are you, Villiers? Want any advice about investments?'
'No, thanks, I fancy everything I have in that way is pretty safe. No, Clarke, I have really come to consult you about a rather curious matter that has been brought under my notice of late. I am afraid you will think it all rather absurd when I tell my tale. I sometimes think so myself, and that's just why I made up my mind to come to you, as I know you're a practical man.'
Mr. Villiers was ignorant of the 'Memoirs to prove the Existence of the Devil.'
'Well, Villiers, I shall be happy to give you my advice, to the best of my ability. What is the nature of the case?'
'It's an extraordinary thing altogether. You know my ways; I always keep my eyes open in the streets, and in my time I have chanced upon some queer customers, and queer cases too, but this, I think, beats all. I was coming out of a restaurant one nasty winter night about three months ago; I had had a capital dinner and a good bottle of Chianti, and I stood for a moment on the pavement, thinking what a mystery there is about London streets and the companies that pass along them. A bottle of red wine encourages these fancies, Clarke, and I dare say I should have thought a page of small type, but I was cut short by a beggar who had come behind me, and was making the usual appeals.[201] Of course I looked round, and this beggar turned out to be what was left of an old friend of mine, a man named Herbert. I asked him how he had come to such a wretched pass, and he told me. We walked up and down one of those long dark Soho streets, and there I listened to his story. He said he had married a beautiful girl, some years younger than himself, and, as he put it, she had corrupted7 him body and soul. He wouldn't go into details; he said he dare not, that what he had seen and heard haunted him by night and day, and when I looked in his face I knew he was speaking the truth. There was something about the man that made me shiver. I don't know why, but it was there. I gave him a little money and sent him away, and I assure you that when he was gone I gasped8 for breath. His presence seemed to chill one's blood.'
'Isn't all this just a little fanciful, Villiers? I suppose the poor fellow had made an imprudent marriage, and, in plain English, gone to the bad.'
'Well, listen to this.' Villiers told Clarke the story he had heard from Austin.
'You see,' he concluded, 'there can be but little doubt that this Mr. Blank, whoever he was, died of sheer terror; he saw something so awful, so terrible, that it cut short his life. And what he saw, he most certainly saw in that house, which, somehow or other, had got a bad name in the neighbourhood. I had the curiosity to go and look at the place for myself. It's a saddening kind of street; the houses are old enough to be mean and dreary9, but not old enough to be quaint10. As far as I could see most of them are let in lodgings11, furnished and unfurnished, and almost every door has three bells to it. Here and there the ground floors[202] have been made into shops of the commonest kind; it's a dismal12 street in every way. I found Number 20 was to let, and I went to the agent's and got the key. Of course I should have heard nothing of the Herberts in that quarter, but I asked the man, fair and square, how long they had left the house, and whether there had been other tenants14 in the meanwhile. He looked at me queerly for a minute, and told me the Herberts had left immediately after the unpleasantness, as he called it, and since then the house had been empty.'
Mr. Villiers paused for a moment.
'I have always been rather fond of going over empty houses; there's a sort of fascination15 about the desolate16 empty rooms, with the nails sticking in the walls, and the dust thick upon the window-sills. But I didn't enjoy going over Number 20, Paul Street. I had hardly put my foot inside the passage before I noticed a queer, heavy feeling about the air of the house. Of course all empty houses are stuffy17, and so forth18, but this was something quite different; I can't describe it to you, but it seemed to stop the breath. I went into the front room and the back room, and the kitchens downstairs; they were all dirty and dusty enough, as you would expect, but there was something strange about them all. I couldn't define it to you, I only know I felt queer. It was one of the rooms on the first floor, though, that was the worst. It was a largish room, and once on a time the paper must have been cheerful enough, but when I saw it, paint, paper, and everything were most doleful. But the room was full of horror; I felt my teeth grinding as I put my hand on the door, and when I went in, I thought I should have fallen fainting to the floor. However, I pulled[203] myself together, and stood against the end wall, wondering what on earth there could be about the room to make my limbs tremble, and my heart beat as if I were at the hour of death. In one corner there was a pile of newspapers littered about on the floor, and I began looking at them; they were papers of three or four years ago, some of them half torn, and some crumpled19 as if they had been used for packing. I turned the whole pile over, and amongst them I found a curious drawing; I will show it you presently. But I couldn't stay in the room; I felt it was overpowering me. I was thankful to come out, safe and sound, into the open air. People stared at me as I walked along the street, and one man said I was drunk. I was staggering about from one side of the pavement to the other, and it was as much as I could do to take the key back to the agent and get home. I was in bed for a week, suffering from what my doctor called nervous shock and exhaustion20. One of those days I was reading the evening paper, and happened to notice a paragraph headed: "Starved to Death." It was the usual style of thing; a model lodging-house in Marylebone, a door locked for several days, and a dead man in his chair when they broke in. "The deceased," said the paragraph, "was known as Charles Herbert, and is believed to have been once a prosperous country gentleman. His name was familiar to the public three years ago in connection with the mysterious death in Paul Street, Tottenham Court Road, the deceased being the tenant13 of the house Number 20, in the area of which a gentleman of good position was found dead under circumstances not devoid21 of suspicion." A tragic22 ending, wasn't it? But after all, if what he told me were[204] true, which I am sure it was, the man's life was all a tragedy, and a tragedy of a stranger sort than they put on the boards.'
'Yes, that is the story.'
'Well, really, Villiers, I scarcely know what to say about it. There are, no doubt, circumstances in the case which seem peculiar24, the finding of the dead man in the area of Herbert's house, for instance, and the extraordinary opinion of the physician as to the cause of death; but, after all, it is conceivable that the facts may be explained in a straightforward25 manner. As to your own sensations, when you went to see the house, I would suggest that they were due to a vivid imagination; you must have been brooding, in a semiconscious way, over what you had heard. I don't exactly see what more can be said or done in the matter; you evidently think there is a mystery of some kind, but Herbert is dead; where then do you propose to look?'
'I propose to look for the woman; the woman whom he married. She is the mystery.'
The two men sat silent by the fireside; Clarke secretly congratulating himself on having successfully kept up the character of advocate of the commonplace, and Villiers wrapt in his gloomy fancies.
'I think I will have a cigarette,' he said at last, and put his hand in his pocket to feel for the cigarette-case.
'Ah!' he said, starting slightly, 'I forgot I had something to show you. You remember my saying that I had found a rather curious sketch26 amongst the pile of old newspapers at the house in Paul Street? Here it is.'[205]
Villiers drew out a small thin parcel from his pocket. It was covered with brown paper, and secured with string, and the knots were troublesome. In spite of himself Clarke felt inquisitive27; he bent28 forward on his chair as Villiers painfully undid29 the string, and unfolded the outer covering. Inside was a second wrapping of tissue, and Villiers took it off and handed the small piece of paper to Clarke without a word.
There was dead silence in the room for five minutes or more; the two men sat so still that they could hear the ticking of the tall old-fashioned clock that stood outside in the hall, and in the mind of one of them the slow monotony of sound woke up a far, far memory. He was looking intently at the small pen-and-ink sketch of the woman's head; it had evidently been drawn30 with great care, and by a true artist, for the woman's soul looked out of the eyes, and the lips were parted with a strange smile. Clarke gazed still at the face; it brought to his memory one summer evening long ago; he saw again the long lovely valley, the river winding31 between the hills, the meadows and the cornfields, the dull red sun, and the cold white mist rising from the water. He heard a voice speaking to him across the waves of many years, and saying, 'Clarke, Mary will see the God Pan!' and then he was standing32 in the grim room beside the doctor, listening to the heavy ticking of the clock, waiting and watching, watching the figure lying on the green chair beneath the lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and his heart grew cold within him.
'That is the woman whom Herbert married.'
Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary after all. There certainly was Mary's face, but there was something else, something he had not seen on Mary's features when the white-clad girl entered the laboratory with the doctor, nor at her terrible awakening34, nor when she lay grinning on the bed. Whatever it was, the glance that came from those eyes, the smile on the full lips, or the expression of the whole face, Clarke shuddered35 before it in his inmost soul, and thought, unconsciously, of Dr. Phillips's words, 'the most vivid presentment of evil I have ever seen.' He turned the paper over mechanically in his hand and glanced at the back.
'Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as white as death.'
Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke fell back with a groan36, and let the paper drop from his hands.
'I don't feel very well, Villiers, I am subject to these attacks. Pour me out a little wine; thanks, that will do. I shall feel better in a few minutes.'
Villiers picked up the fallen sketch and turned it over as Clarke had done.
'You saw that?' he said. 'That's how I identified it as being a portrait of Herbert's wife, or I should say his widow. How do you feel now?'
'Better, thanks, it was only a passing faintness. I don't think I quite catch your meaning. What did you say enabled you to identify the picture?'
'This word—"Helen"—written on the back. Didn't I tell you her name was Helen? Yes; Helen Vaughan.'[207]
'Now, don't you agree with me,' said Villiers, 'that in the story I have told you to-night, and in the part this woman plays in it, there are some very strange points?'
'Yes, Villiers,' Clarke muttered, 'it is a strange story indeed; a strange story indeed. You must give me time to think it over; I may be able to help you or I may not. Must you be going now? Well, good-night, Villiers, good-night. Come and see me in the course of a week.'
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1
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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4
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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5
conjecturally
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| adj.推测的，好推测的 | |
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6
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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7
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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8
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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9
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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13
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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15
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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16
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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17
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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18
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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19
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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20
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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21
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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22
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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23
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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24
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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25
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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26
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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27
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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30
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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31
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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32
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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33
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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34
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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35
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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36
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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37
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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