'Well, Villiers, have you made any discoveries in the last three weeks?'
'I think so; I have here one or two memoranda6 which struck me as singular, and there is a statement to which I shall call your attention.'
'And these documents relate to Mrs. Beaumont? It was really Crashaw whom you saw that night standing7 on the doorstep of the house in Ashley Street?'
'As to that matter my belief remains8 unchanged, but neither my inquiries9 nor their results have any special relation to Crashaw. But my investigations10 have had a strange issue. I have found out who Mrs. Beaumont is!'
'Who she is? In what way do you mean?'
'I mean that you and I know her better under another name.'
'What name is that?'
'Herbert.'[227]
'Herbert!' Austin repeated the word, dazed with astonishment11.
'Yes, Mrs. Herbert of Paul Street, Helen Vaughan of earlier adventures unknown to me. You had reason to recognize the expression of her face; when you go home look at the face in Meyrick's book of horrors, and you will know the sources of your recollection.'
'And you have proof of this?'
'Yes, the best of proof; I have seen Mrs. Beaumont, or shall we say Mrs. Herbert?'
'Where did you see her?'
'Hardly in a place where you would expect to see a lady who lives in Ashley Street, Piccadilly. I saw her entering a house in one of the meanest and most disreputable streets in Soho. In fact, I had made an appointment, though not with her, and she was precise both to time and place.'
'All this seems very wonderful, but I cannot call it incredible. You must remember, Villiers, that I have seen this woman, in the ordinary adventure of London society, talking and laughing, and sipping12 her coffee in a commonplace drawing-room with commonplace people. But you know what you are saying.'
'I do; I have not allowed myself to be led by surmises13 or fancies. It was with no thought of finding Helen Vaughan that I searched for Mrs. Beaumont in the dark waters of the life of London, but such has been the issue.'
'You must have been in strange places, Villiers.'
'Yes, I have been in very strange places. It would have been useless, you know, to go to Ashley Street, and ask Mrs. Beaumont to give me a short sketch14 of[228] her previous history. No; assuming, as I had to assume, that her record was not of the cleanest, it would be pretty certain that at some previous time she must have moved in circles not quite so refined as her present ones. If you see mud on the top of a stream, you may be sure that it was once at the bottom. I went to the bottom. I have always been fond of diving into Queer Street for my amusement, and I found my knowledge of that locality and its inhabitants very useful. It is, perhaps, needless to say that my friends had never heard the name of Beaumont, and as I had never seen the lady, and was quite unable to describe her, I had to set to work in an indirect way. The people there know me; I have been able to do some of them a service now and again, so they made no difficulty about giving their information; they were aware I had no communication direct or indirect with Scotland Yard. I had to cast out a good many lines, though, before I got what I wanted, and when I landed the fish I did not for a moment suppose it was my fish. But I listened to what I was told out of a constitutional liking15 for useless information, and I found myself in possession of a very curious story, though, as I imagined, not the story I was looking for. It was to this effect. Some five or six years ago, a woman named Raymond suddenly made her appearance in the neighbourhood to which I am referring. She was described to me as being quite young, probably not more than seventeen or eighteen, very handsome, and looking as if she came from the country. I should be wrong in saying that she found her level in going to this particular quarter, or associating with these people, for from what I was told, I should think the worst den16 in London far too[229] good for her. The person from whom I got my information, as you may suppose, no great Puritan, shuddered18 and grew sick in telling me of the nameless infamies19 which were laid to her charge. After living there for a year, or perhaps a little more, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, and they saw nothing of her till about the time of the Paul Street case. At first she came to her old haunts only occasionally, then more frequently, and finally took up her abode20 there as before, and remained for six or eight months. It's of no use my going into details as to the life that woman led; if you want particulars you can look at Meyrick's legacy21. Those designs were not drawn22 from his imagination. She again disappeared, and the people of the place saw nothing of her till a few months ago. My informant told me that she had taken some rooms in a house which he pointed23 out, and these rooms she was in the habit of visiting two or three times a week and always at ten in the morning. I was led to expect that one of these visits would be paid on a certain day about a week ago, and I accordingly managed to be on the look-out in company with my cicerone at a quarter to ten, and the hour and the lady came with equal punctuality. My friend and I were standing under an archway, a little way back from the street, but she saw us, and gave me a glance that I shall be long in forgetting. That look was quite enough for me; I knew Miss Raymond to be Mrs. Herbert; as for Mrs. Beaumont she had quite gone out of my head. She went into the house, and I watched it till four o'clock, when she came out, and then I followed her. It was a long chase, and I had to be very careful to keep a long way in the background, and yet not lose sight of the[230] woman. She took me down to the Strand24, and then to Westminster, and then up St. James's Street, and along Piccadilly. I felt queerish when I saw her turn up Ashley Street; the thought that Mrs. Herbert was Mrs. Beaumont came into my mind, but it seemed too improbable to be true. I waited at the corner, keeping my eye on her all the time, and I took particular care to note the house at which she stopped. It was the house with the gay curtains, the house of flowers, the house out of which Crashaw came the night he hanged himself in his garden. I was just going away with my discovery, when I saw an empty carriage come round and draw up in front of the house, and I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Herbert was going out for a drive, and I was right. I took a hansom and followed the carriage into the Park. There, as it happened, I met a man I know, and we stood talking together a little distance from the carriage-way, to which I had my back. We had not been there for ten minutes when my friend took off his hat, and I glanced round and saw the lady I had been following all day. "Who is that?" I said, and his answer was, "Mrs. Beaumont; lives in Ashley Street." Of course there could be no doubt after that. I don't know whether she saw me, but I don't think she did. I went home at once, and, on consideration, I thought that I had a sufficiently25 good case with which to go to Clarke.'
'Why to Clarke?'
'Because I am sure that Clarke is in possession of facts about this woman, facts of which I know nothing.'
'Well, what then?'
Mr. Villiers leaned back in his chair and looked[231] reflectively at Austin for a moment before he answered:
'My idea was that Clarke and I should call on Mrs. Beaumont.'
'You would never go into such a house as that? No, no, Villiers, you cannot do it. Besides, consider; what result ...'
'I will tell you soon. But I was going to say that my information does not end here; it has been completed in an extraordinary manner.
'Look at this neat little packet of manuscript; it is paginated, you see, and I have indulged in the civil coquetry of a ribbon of red tape. It has almost a legal air, hasn't it? Run your eye over it, Austin. It is an account of the entertainment Mrs. Beaumont provided for her choicer guests. The man who wrote this escaped with his life, but I do not think he will live many years. The doctors tell him he must have sustained some severe shock to the nerves.'
Austin took the manuscript, but never read it. Opening the neat pages at haphazard26 his eye was caught by a word and a phrase that followed it; and, sick at heart, with white lips and a cold sweat pouring like water from his temples, he flung the paper down.
'Take it away, Villiers, never speak of this again. Are you made of stone, man? Why, the dread27 and horror of death itself, the thoughts of the man who stands in the keen morning air on the black platform, bound, the bell tolling28 in his ears, and waits for the harsh rattle29 of the bolt, are as nothing compared to this. I will not read it; I should never sleep again.'
'Very good. I can fancy what you saw. Yes; it[232] is horrible enough; but after all, it is an old story, an old mystery played in our day, and in dim London streets instead of amidst the vineyards and the olive gardens. We know what happened to those who chanced to meet the Great God Pan, and those who are wise know that all symbols are symbols of something, not of nothing. It was, indeed, an exquisite30 symbol beneath which men long ago veiled their knowledge of the most awful, most secret forces which lie at the heart of all things; forces before which the souls of men must wither31 and die and blacken, as their bodies blacken under the electric current. Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken, cannot be imagined except under a veil and a symbol, a symbol to the most of us appearing a quaint32, poetic33 fancy, to some a foolish tale. But you and I, at all events, have known something of the terror that may dwell in the secret place of life, manifested under human flesh; that which is without form taking to itself a form. Oh, Austin, how can it be? How is it that the very sunlight does not turn to blackness before this thing, the hard earth melt and boil beneath such a burden?'
Villiers was pacing up and down the room, and the beads34 of sweat stood out on his forehead. Austin sat silent for a while, but Villiers saw him make a sign upon his breast.
'I say again, Villiers, you will surely never enter such a house as that? You would never pass out alive.'
'Yes, Austin, I shall go out alive—I, and Clarke with me.'
'What do you mean? You cannot, you would not dare ...'[233]
'Wait a moment. The air was very pleasant and fresh this morning; there was a breeze blowing, even through this dull street, and I thought I would take a walk. Piccadilly stretched before me a clear, bright vista35, and the sun flashed on the carriages and on the quivering leaves in the park. It was a joyous36 morning, and men and women looked at the sky and smiled as they went about their work or their pleasure, and the wind blew as blithely37 as upon the meadows and the scented38 gorse. But somehow or other I got out of the bustle39 and the gaiety, and found myself walking slowly along a quiet, dull street, where there seemed to be no sunshine and no air, and where the few foot-passengers loitered as they walked, and hung indecisively about corners and archways. I walked along, hardly knowing where I was going or what I did there, but feeling impelled40, as one sometimes is, to explore still further, with a vague idea of reaching some unknown goal. Thus I forged up the street, noting the small traffic of the milk-shop, and wondering at the incongruous medley41 of penny pipes, black tobacco, sweets, newspapers, and comic songs which here and there jostled one another in the short compass of a single window. I think it was a cold shudder17 that suddenly passed through me that first told me that I had found what I wanted. I looked up from the pavement and stopped before a dusty shop, above which the lettering had faded, where the red bricks of two hundred years ago had grimed to black; where the windows had gathered to themselves the fog and the dirt of winters innumerable. I saw what I required; but I think it was five minutes before I had steadied myself and could walk in and ask for it in a cool voice and with[234] a calm face. I think there must even then have been a tremor42 in my words, for the old man who came out from his back parlour, and fumbled43 slowly amongst his goods, looked oddly at me as he tied the parcel. I paid what he asked, and stood leaning by the counter, with a strange reluctance44 to take up my goods and go. I asked about the business, and learnt that trade was bad and the profits cut down sadly; but then the street was not what it was before traffic had been diverted, but that was done forty years ago, "just before my father died," he said. I got away at last, and walked along sharply; it was a dismal45 street indeed, and I was glad to return to the bustle and the noise. Would you like to see my purchase?'
Austin said nothing, but nodded his head slightly; he still looked white and sick. Villiers pulled out a drawer in the bamboo table, and showed Austin a long coil of cord, hard and new; and at one end was a running noose46.
'It is the best hempen47 cord,' said Villiers, 'just as it used to be made for the old trade, the man told me. Not an inch of jute from end to end.'
Austin set his teeth hard, and stared at Villiers, growing whiter as he looked.
'You would not do it,' he murmured at last. 'You would not have blood on your hands. My God!' he exclaimed, with sudden vehemence48, 'you cannot mean this, Villiers, that you will make yourself a hangman?'
'No. I shall offer a choice, and leave Helen Vaughan alone with this cord in a locked room for fifteen minutes. If when we go in it is not done, I shall call the nearest policeman. That is all.'[235]
'I must go now. I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot bear this. Good-night.'
'Good-night, Austin.'
The door shut, but in a moment it was opened again, and Austin stood, white and ghastly, in the entrance.
'I was forgetting,' he said, 'that I too have something to tell. I have received a letter from Dr. Harding of Buenos Ayres. He says that he attended Meyrick for three weeks before his death.'
'And does he say what carried him off in the prime of life? It was not fever?'
'No, it was not fever. According to the doctor, it was an utter collapse49 of the whole system, probably caused by some severe shock. But he states that the patient would tell him nothing, and that he was consequently at some disadvantage in treating the case.'
'Is there anything more?'
'Yes. Dr. Harding ends his letter by saying: "I think this is all the information I can give you about your poor friend. He had not been long in Buenos Ayres, and knew scarcely any one, with the exception of a person who did not bear the best of characters, and has since left—a Mrs. Vaughan."'
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1
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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7
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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8
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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10
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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12
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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14
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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15
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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30
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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31
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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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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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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39
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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42
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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43
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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44
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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45
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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46
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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47
hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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48
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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49
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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