‘It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,’ she said. ‘It is another fact, that I am going to be married again.’
There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her. Doctor Wybrow was not favourably1 impressed by her smile — there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting2 on his first impression. His mind reverted3 to the commonplace patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certain tender regret.
The lady went on.
‘My approaching marriage,’ she said, ‘has one embarrassing circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad: that lady, mind, being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects4 in life. Innocently, I say — because he told me nothing of his engagement until after I had accepted him. When we next met in England — and when there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge — he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse ready; he showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from his engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never read in my life. I cried over it — I who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own! If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would have positively5 refused to marry him. But the firmness of it — without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his happiness — the firmness of it, I say, left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion6; he appealed to his love for me. You know what women are. I too was soft-hearted — I said, Very well: yes! In a week more (I tremble as I think of it) we are to be married.’
She did really tremble — she was obliged to pause and compose herself, before she could go on. The Doctor, waiting for more facts, began to fear that he stood committed to a long story. ‘Forgive me for reminding you that I have suffering persons waiting to see me,’ he said. ‘The sooner you can come to the point, the better for my patients and for me.’
The strange smile — at once so sad and so cruel — showed itself again on the lady’s lips. ‘Every word I have said is to the point,’ she answered. ‘You will see it yourself in a moment more.’
‘Yesterday — you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday — I was among the visitors at one of your English luncheon8 parties. A lady, a perfect stranger to me, came in late — after we had left the table, and had retired9 to the drawing-room. She happened to take a chair near me; and we were presented to each other. I knew her by name, as she knew me. It was the woman whom I had robbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter. Now listen! You were impatient with me for not interesting you in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy your mind that I had no enmity of feeling towards the lady, on my side. I admired her, I felt for her — I had no cause to reproach myself. This is very important, as you will presently see. On her side, I have reason to be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained to her, and that she understood I was in no way to blame. Now, knowing all these necessary things as you do, explain to me, if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman’s eyes looking at me, I turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered10, and shivered, and knew what a deadly panic of fear was, for the first time in my life.’
The Doctor began to feel interested at last.
‘Was there anything remarkable11 in the lady’s personal appearance?’ he asked.
‘Nothing whatever!’ was the vehement12 reply. ‘Here is the true description of her:— The ordinary English lady; the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosy13 complexion14, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, the too plump cheeks and chin: these, and nothing more.’
‘Was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her, that took you by surprise?’
‘There was natural curiosity to see the woman who had been preferred to her; and perhaps some astonishment15 also, not to see a more engaging and more beautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limits of good breeding, and both not lasting16 for more than a few moments — so far as I could see. I say, “so far,” because the horrible agitation17 that she communicated to me disturbed my judgment18. If I could have got to the door, I would have run out of the room, she frightened me so! I was not even able to stand up — I sank back in my chair; I stared horror-struck at the calm blue eyes that were only looking at me with a gentle surprise. To say they affected19 me like the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing. I felt her soul in them, looking into mine — looking, if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. I tell you my impression, in all its horror and in all its folly20! That woman is destined21 (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life. Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities22 of wickedness in me that I was not aware of myself, until I felt them stirring under her look. If I commit faults in my life to come — if I am even guilty of crimes — she will bring the retribution, without (as I firmly believe) any conscious exercise of her own will. In one indescribable moment I felt all this — and I suppose my face showed it. The good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. “I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle?” I heard her say those kind words; and I remember nothing else — I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the company had all gone; only the lady of the house was with me. For the moment I could say nothing to her; the dreadful impression that I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming back of my life. As soon I could speak, I implored23 her to tell me the whole truth about the woman whom I had supplanted24. You see, I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was a skilful25 piece of hypocrisy26 — in short, that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enough to hide it. No! the lady had been her friend from her girlhood, was as familiar with her as if they had been sisters — knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapable27 of hating anybody, as the greatest saint that ever lived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for ever. There was one more effort I could make, and I made it. I went next to the man whom I am to marry. I implored him to release me from my promise. He refused. I declared I would break my engagement. He showed me letters from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dear friends — all entreating28 him to think again before he made me his wife; all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are so many vile29 lies. “If you refuse to marry me,” he said, “you admit that these reports are true — you admit that you are afraid to face society in the character of my wife.” What could I answer? There was no contradicting him — he was plainly right: if I persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. I consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it — and left him. The night has passed. I am here, with my fixed30 conviction — that innocent woman is ordained31 to have a fatal influence over my life. I am here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answer it. For the last time, sir, what am I— a demon32 who has seen the avenging33 angel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion34 of a deranged35 mind?’
Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair, determined36 to close the interview.
He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly37 the conviction of the woman’s wickedness had forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person to be pitied — a person with a morbidly38 sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities for evil which lie dormant39 in us all, and striving earnestly to open her heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature; the effort was beyond him. A perverse40 instinct in him said, as if in words, Beware how you believe in her!
‘I have already given you my opinion,’ he said. ‘There is no sign of your intellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged, that medical science can discover — as I understand it. As for the impressions you have confided41 to me, I can only say that yours is a case (as I venture to think) for spiritual rather than for medical advice. Of one thing be assured: what you have said to me in this room shall not pass out of it. Your confession42 is safe in my keeping.’
She heard him, with a certain dogged resignation, to the end.
‘Is that all?’ she asked.
‘That is all,’ he answered.
She put a little paper packet of money on the table. ‘Thank you, sir. There is your fee.’
With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward, with an expression of despair so defiant43 and so horrible in its silent agony that the Doctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sight of it. The bare idea of taking anything from her — not money only, but anything even that she had touched — suddenly revolted him. Still without looking at her, he said, ‘Take it back; I don’t want my fee.’
She neither heeded44 nor heard him. Still looking upward, she said slowly to herself, ‘Let the end come. I have done with the struggle: I submit.’
She drew her veil over her face, bowed to the Doctor, and left the room.
He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servant closed the door on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity — utterly45 unworthy of him, and at the same time utterly irresistible46 — sprang up in the Doctor’s mind. Blushing like a boy, he said to the servant, ‘Follow her home, and find out her name.’ For one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears had not deceived him. Doctor Wybrow looked back at him in silence. The submissive servant knew what that silence meant — he took his hat and hurried into the street.
The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house, and had he caught it? What devil had possessed47 him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant? He had behaved infamously48 — he had asked an honest man, a man who had served him faithfully for years, to turn spy! Stung by the bare thought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door. The servant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back. But one refuge from his contempt for himself was now open to him — the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients.
If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he made himself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put off until to-morrow the prescription49 which ought to have been written, the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went home earlier than usual — unutterably dissatisfied with himself.
The servant had returned. Dr. Wybrow was ashamed to question him. The man reported the result of his errand, without waiting to be asked.
‘The lady’s name is the Countess Narona. She lives at —’
Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledged the all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused still lay in its little white paper covering on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed it to the ‘Poor-box’ of the nearest police-court; and, calling the servant in, directed him to take it to the magistrate50 the next morning. Faithful to his duties, the servant waited to ask the customary question, ‘Do you dine at home to-day, sir?’
After a moment’s hesitation51 he said, ‘No: I shall dine at the club.’
The most easily deteriorated52 of all the moral qualities is the quality called ‘conscience.’ In one state of a man’s mind, his conscience is the severest judge that can pass sentence on him. In another state, he and his conscience are on the best possible terms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices53. When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal54 from himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona.
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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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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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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9
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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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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31
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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32
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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34
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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35
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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41
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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43
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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44
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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48
infamously
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| 不名誉地 | |
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49
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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50
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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51
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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52
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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54
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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