There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought the society of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the smoking-room of his club.
Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in social conclave1 assembled. The room was well filled; but the flow of talk was still languid. The Doctor innocently applied2 the stimulant3 that was wanted. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona, he was answered by something like a shout of astonishment4. Never (the conclave agreed) had such an absurd question been asked before! Every human creature, with the slightest claim to a place in society, knew the Countess Narona. An adventuress with a European reputation of the blackest possible colour — such was the general description of the woman with the deathlike complexion5 and the glittering eyes.
Descending6 to particulars, each member of the club contributed his own little stock of scandal to the memoirs8 of the Countess. It was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whether she had ever been married to the Count whose widow she assumed to be. It was doubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels (under the name of Baron9 Rivar, and in the character of her brother) was her brother at all. Report pointed10 to the Baron as a gambler at every ‘table’ on the Continent. Report whispered that his so-called sister had narrowly escaped being implicated11 in a famous trial for poisoning at Vienna — that she had been known at Milan as a spy in the interests of Austria — that her ‘apartment’ in Paris had been denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling-house — and that her present appearance in England was the natural result of the discovery. Only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of this much-abused woman, and declared that her character had been most cruelly and most unjustly assailed12. But as the man was a lawyer, his interference went for nothing: it was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent in his profession. He was asked derisively13 what he thought of the circumstances under which the Countess had become engaged to be married; and he made the characteristic answer, that he thought the circumstances highly creditable to both parties, and that he looked on the lady’s future husband as a most enviable man.
Hearing this, the Doctor raised another shout of astonishment by inquiring the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to marry.
His friends in the smoking-room decided14 unanimously that the celebrated15 physician must be a second ‘Rip-van-Winkle,’ and that he had just awakened16 from a supernatural sleep of twenty years. It was all very well to say that he was devoted17 to his profession, and that he had neither time nor inclination18 to pick up fragments of gossip at dinner-parties and balls. A man who did not know that the Countess Narona had borrowed money at Homburg of no less a person than Lord Montbarry, and had then deluded19 him into making her a proposal of marriage, was a man who had probably never heard of Lord Montbarry himself. The younger members of the club, humouring the joke, sent a waiter for the ‘Peerage’; and read aloud the memoir7 of the nobleman in question, for the Doctor’s benefit — with illustrative morsels20 of information interpolated by themselves.
‘Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry, King’s County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished21 military services in India. Born, 1812. Forty-eight years old, Doctor, at the present time. Not married. Will be married next week, Doctor, to the delightful22 creature we have been talking about. Heir presumptive, his lordship’s next brother, Stephen Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate, and has issue, three daughters. Younger brothers of his lordship, Francis and Henry, unmarried. Sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to Sir Theodore Barville, Bart.; and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury, Esq., of Norbury Cross. Bear his lordship’s relations well in mind, Doctor. Three brothers Westwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry; and two sisters, Lady Barville and Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage; and not one of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it, if the Countess will only give them a chance. Add to these hostile members of the family another offended relative not mentioned in the ‘Peerage,’ a young lady —’
A sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped the coming disclosure, and released the Doctor from further persecution23.
‘Don’t mention the poor girl’s name; it’s too bad to make a joke of that part of the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful24 provocation25; there is but one excuse for Montbarry — he is either a madman or a fool.’ In these terms the protest expressed itself on all sides. Speaking confidentially26 to his next neighbour, the Doctor discovered that the lady referred to was already known to him (through the Countess’s confession) as the lady deserted27 by Lord Montbarry. Her name was Agnes Lockwood. She was described as being the superior of the Countess in personal attraction, and as being also by some years the younger woman of the two. Making all allowance for the follies28 that men committed every day in their relations with women, Montbarry’s delusion29 was still the most monstrous30 delusion on record. In this expression of opinion every man present agreed — the lawyer even included. Not one of them could call to mind the innumerable instances in which the sexual influence has proved irresistible31 in the persons of women without even the pretension32 to beauty. The very members of the club whom the Countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages) could have most easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while, were the members who wondered most loudly at Montbarry’s choice of a wife.
While the topic of the Countess’s marriage was still the one topic of conversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room whose appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Doctor Wybrow’s next neighbour whispered to him, ‘Montbarry’s brother — Henry Westwick!’
The new-comer looked round him slowly, with a bitter smile.
‘You are all talking of my brother,‘he said. ‘Don’t mind me. Not one of you can despise him more heartily33 than I do. Go on, gentlemen — go on!’
But one man present took the speaker at his word. That man was the lawyer who had already undertaken the defence of the Countess.
‘I stand alone in my opinion,’ he said, ‘and I am not ashamed of repeating it in anybody’s hearing. I consider the Countess Narona to be a cruelly-treated woman. Why shouldn’t she be Lord Montbarry’s wife? Who can say she has a mercenary motive34 in marrying him?’
Montbarry’s brother turned sharply on the speaker. ‘I say it!’ he answered.
The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his ground as firmly as ever.
‘I believe I am right,’ he rejoined, ‘in stating that his lordship’s income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life; also that it is an income derived35 almost entirely36 from landed property in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed37.’
Montbarry’s brother made a sign, admitting that he had no objection to offer so far.
‘If his lordship dies first,’ the lawyer proceeded, ‘I have been informed that the only provision he can make for his widow consists in a rent-charge on the property of no more than four hundred a year. His retiring pension and allowances, it is well known, die with him. Four hundred a year is therefore all that he can leave to the Countess, if he leaves her a widow.’
‘Four hundred a year is not all,’ was the reply to this. ‘My brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds; and he has settled the whole of it on the Countess, in the event of his death.’
This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other, and repeated the three startling words, ‘Ten thousand pounds!’ Driven fairly to the wall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his position.
‘May I ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage?’ he said. ‘Surely it was not the Countess herself?.’
Henry Westwick answered, ‘it was the Countess’s brother’; and added, ‘which comes to the same thing.’
After that, there was no more to be said — so long, at least, as Montbarry’s brother was present. The talk flowed into other channels; and the Doctor went home.
But his morbid38 curiosity about the Countess was not set at rest yet. In his leisure moments he found himself wondering whether Lord Montbarry’s family would succeed in stopping the marriage after all. And more than this, he was conscious of a growing desire to see the infatuated man himself. Every day during the brief interval39 before the wedding, he looked in at the club, on the chance of hearing some news. Nothing had happened, so far as the club knew. The Countess’s position was secure; Montbarry’s resolution to be her husband was unshaken. They were both Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at the chapel40 in Spanish Place. So much the Doctor discovered about them — and no more.
On the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself, he actually sacrificed his patients and their guineas, and slipped away secretly to see the marriage. To the end of his life, he was angry with anybody who reminded him of what he had done on that day!
The wedding was strictly41 private. A close carriage stood at the church door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women, were scattered42 about the interior of the building. Here and there Doctor Wybrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club, attracted by curiosity, like himself. Four persons only stood before the altar — the bride and bridegroom and their two witnesses. One of these last was an elderly woman, who might have been the Countess’s companion or maid; the other was undoubtedly43 her brother, Baron Rivar. The bridal party (the bride herself included) wore their ordinary morning costume. Lord Montbarry, personally viewed, was a middle-aged44 military man of the ordinary type: nothing in the least remarkable45 distinguished him either in face or figure. Baron Rivar, again, in his way was another conventional representative of another well-known type. One sees his finely-pointed moustache, his bold eyes, his crisply-curling hair, and his dashing carriage of the head, repeated hundreds of times over on the Boulevards of Paris. The only noteworthy point about him was of the negative sort — he was not in the least like his sister. Even the officiating priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man, who went through his duties resignedly, and felt visible rheumatic difficulties every time he bent46 his knees. The one remarkable person, the Countess herself, only raised her veil at the beginning of the ceremony, and presented nothing in her plain dress that was worth a second look. Never, on the face of it, was there a less interesting and less romantic marriage than this. From time to time the Doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries, vaguely47 anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger, in possession of some terrible secret, commissioned to forbid the progress of the service. Nothing in the shape of an event occurred — nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic. Bound fast together as man and wife, the two disappeared, followed by their witnesses, to sign the registers; and still Doctor Wybrow waited, and still he cherished the obstinate48 hope that something worth seeing must certainly happen yet.
The interval passed, and the married couple, returning to the church, walked together down the nave49 to the door. Doctor Wybrow drew back as they approached. To his confusion and surprise, the Countess discovered him. He heard her say to her husband, ‘One moment; I see a friend.’ Lord Montbarry bowed and waited. She stepped up to the Doctor, took his hand, and wrung50 it hard. He felt her overpowering black eyes looking at him through her veil. ‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end!’ She whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband. Before the Doctor could recover himself and follow her, Lord and Lady Montbarry had stepped into their carriage, and had driven away.
Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club who, like Doctor Wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity. Near them was the bride’s brother, waiting alone. He was evidently bent on seeing the man whom his sister had spoken to, in broad daylight. His bold eyes rested on the Doctor’s face, with a momentary51 flash of suspicion in them. The cloud suddenly cleared away; the Baron smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to his sister’s friend, and walked off.
The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the church steps. They began with the Baron. ‘Damned ill-looking rascal52!’ They went on with Montbarry. ‘Is he going to take that horrid53 woman with him to Ireland?’ ‘Not he! he can’t face the tenantry; they know about Agnes Lockwood.’ ‘Well, but where is he going?’ ‘To Scotland.’ ‘Does she like that?’ ‘It’s only for a fortnight; they come back to London, and go abroad.’ ‘And they will never return to England, eh?’ ‘Who can tell? Did you see how she looked at Montbarry, when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service? In his place, I should have bolted. Did you see her, Doctor?’ By this time, Doctor Wybrow had remembered his patients, and had heard enough of the club gossip. He followed the example of Baron Rivar, and walked off.
‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end,’ he repeated to himself, on his way home. ‘What end?’
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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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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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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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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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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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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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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