Now a strange restlessness came over her. She felt it impossible to remain imprisoned1 within those four walls. There was no likelihood of Louis Delahay's return for the next two hours. Why, then, should she not go out and take a cab as far as Isleworth Road? It was very late, of course, but then London was a late place, and a midnight call no novelty.
Allowing herself to act on the impulse of the moment, Maria walked downstairs, and out into the Strand2. Hailing a cab, she was driven to Isleworth Road, where she gave orders for the driver to stop. The locality was a respectable one, and there were lights in a good many of the houses; but at number seventeen Mrs. Delahay met with disappointment. The house was not empty, though the blinds were down, and there was not a light to be seen. The dingy3 nature of the steps and the tarnished4 look of the brasswork testified to the fact that neither had received any attention of late. As Maria stood there ringing the bell for the third time, in the faint hope of making somebody hear, a policeman came along.
"You are wasting your time there, lady," he said civilly enough. "The people are not at home. I think they are coming back at the end of the week, because my instructions to keep a special eye on the house don't go beyond Saturday."
Maria thanked the officer and went back in a cab. She would have liked to have asked more questions, but she restrained her natural curiosity. After all, it was not a far cry to Saturday, and even then she might meet with a disappointment. In all probability her sister had left London long ago.
Maria was thinking all these things over now that Walter Lance had gone. She wondered that her sister had so completely passed out of her mind. But, then, she had had so many terrible anxieties to weigh her down. She could not sleep for thinking of the tragedy. She paced up and down the room in a vain attempt to get away from herself. The clocks outside were striking the hour of midnight, but the roar of the Strand was going on still as if it were high noon. A sudden resolve came to the woman. She would go out at once and try her luck at Isleworth Road again.
She took no cab this time. She knew the way. As she walked along she was conscious of the fact that she was being followed. She smiled bitterly to herself. What had those people to be afraid of? Did they think she was going to run away?
Her heart gave a great leap as she saw the lights gleaming behind the drawn5 blinds at No. 17. She had only to ring once, then the door was promptly6 opened by a typical English servant, who waited for the visitor to speak.
"I think there is a lady here I want to see," Maria stammered7. "At least she was here for some time in the spring. You see, she is my sister, and we have not met for twenty years. It may appear strange, but I don't even know her name."
It seemed to Maria that this was a proper precaution on her part. Though her explanation sounded weak enough, to her great relief she saw the servant smile and open the door a little wider.
"That is all right, madam," the servant said. "I can see that you are my mistress's sister by the likeness8. Will you please come this way."
The next five minutes seemed like an hour to Maria. Then the door opened, and a tall, dark woman came in. The two looked at one another for quite a minute in absolute silence. It was so strange to meet after all these years, so sad for both to see how the other had altered. Then Maria Delahay moved forward, and the two women kissed each other almost coldly.
"Why did you come here?" the Countess said. "How did you manage to find me out? I thought you were dead."
"I thought you were dead, too, till the other night," Maria said. "I was told that twenty years ago. I should not be here at all but for an amazing chance. You will remember that you were staying at the Grand Hotel some time in the spring, and it so happens that my rooms are on the same floor as yours, and that the same chambermaid is still there. When she welcomed me as an old customer I guessed by instinct that you were still alive. And if you only knew it, there is a providence9 behind this thing."
Countess Flavio appeared to be listening in a dull, mechanical kind of way. There was no disguising the fact that she was both distressed10 and disconcerted to find herself face to face with her long-lost sister again. "You know nothing of my history?" she asked. "Not till tonight," Maria said. "I have recently been listening to it. I knew nothing. How could I know anything? When our dream of happiness came so suddenly to an end I became practically a prisoner in that dreadful old house of ours near Naples. I was told that you were dead, and I believed the story. I knew nothing of your existence till a day or two ago. I was utterly11 ignorant of the fact that you had had such a dreadful time. Not that I would believe anything they say, Carlotta, because I know what you were in the old days. But however dreadful your experiences have been, you, at any rate, snatched a brief happiness. You married the man of your choice. How did you manage to escape?"
"Oh, don't ask me," Carlotta Flavio said bitterly. "If you only knew everything you would see that you were far better off in your prison than I was with my liberty. Do you know that I was five times tried for my life? Do you know that for four years I was the most execrated12 woman in South Italy? But I am not going into that now. I want to know what brings you here this evening. Why you should come at such an inconvenient13 time?"
"But why inconvenient?" Mrs. Delahay protested. "We were fond of one another in the old times. And what more natural than I should seek out my sister at the first opportunity? But you are changed. Doubtless your misfortunes have soured you. I have had my misfortunes, too. Of course you have heard lately a good deal about Mr. Louis Delahay--I mean the unfortunate artist who was found murdered in his studio the other night?"
Countess Flavio started. Her lips grew white.
"Who has not heard of it?" she said. "The papers are full of the tragedy. People are talking about nothing else. But you are not going to tell me that there is any connection----"
"Indeed, I am," Maria went on. "As I said just now, for years I was no better than a prisoner. I should be a prisoner still if our parents had lived. Then, finally, when I found my freedom, I made a discovery that there was absolutely no money left. I was forced to get my own living. I had nothing beyond my brush, and things were going from bad to worse with me when I made the acquaintance of Louis Delahay. We always liked one another from the first, and when he asked me to marry him I gladly consented. It seemed to me that the way was opening up for a happy middle-age. It seemed to me that Fate had got tired of persecuting14 me at last. I married Louis Delahay and we came back to England."
"You married Delahay?" the Countess said mechanically, "and you came back to England? I am trying to realise it. I read the account of the inquest. I know that people are saying that Delahay's wife is responsible for his death; but I did not dream then that it was my own sister whom folks were condemning15. I cannot believe it now. But why did you go out that evening. If you had remained in your room nobody would have been----"
"I left the hotel to come here," Maria replied. "But I found that you were not in London. And now I am going to tell you why it is that I have refused to speak, why it is that I have allowed people to regard me as a perjurer16. You say you read the account of the inquest. Do you recollect17 what a poor creature called Stevens said? He swore, and, what is more, he believed every word he said, that he saw Louis and myself together in Fitzjohn Square early on that fatal morning. Come, if you read the paper carefully, you must have seen that. It was the most sensational18 piece of evidence given at the inquest. The man picked me out in court, and said positively19 that he had seen me with Louis. But he didn't, as you know perfectly20 well."
"As I know perfectly well?" the Countess stammered. "What have I got to do with it? Where do I come in?"
Maria Delahay threw up her hands with an impatient gesture. There was a steady gleam in her eyes now. She had lost all her listless manner.
"I was not there," she said, "because I was somewhere else. That James Stevens saw someone with my husband on that morning is absolutely certain. It is absolutely certain, too, that he did not see me. Then who did he see whose likeness to me is so great as to deceive a pair of keen eyes under a brilliant electric light? It was you, you, Carlotta, who were walking with my husband at that hour in the morning. Now tell me what it all means."
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1
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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3
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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4
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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5
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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6
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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7
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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9
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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10
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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12
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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13
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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14
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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15
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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16
perjurer
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| n.伪誓者，伪证者 | |
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17
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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18
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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19
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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