“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 favourably 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 acting on his
first impression. His mind reverted 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 prospects 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
positively 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 compassion; 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.”
She resumed her narrative.
“Yesterday—you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday—I was among
the visitors at one of your English luncheon parties. A lady, a perfect
stranger to me, came in late—after we had left the table, and had
retired 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 shuddered, 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 remarkable in the lady’s personal appearance?” he
asked.
“Nothing whatever!” was the vehement reply. “Here is the true
description of her:—The ordinary English lady; the clear cold blue
eyes, the fine rosy complexion, 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 astonishment also, not to see a more engaging and
more beautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limits
of good breeding, and both not lasting for more than a few moments—so
far as I could see. I say, ‘so far,’ because the horrible agitation
that she communicated to me disturbed my judgment. 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 affected 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 folly! That woman is
destined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life.
Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities 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 implored
her to tell me the whole truth about the woman whom I had supplanted.
You see, I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be
deserved, that her noble letter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy—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 incapable 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 entreating him to think again before
he made me his wife; all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and
London, which are so many vile 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
fixed conviction—that innocent woman is ordained 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 demon
who has seen the avenging angel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by
the delusion of a deranged mind?”
Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair, determined to close the interview.
He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The
longer he had listened to her, the more irresistibly 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 morbidly
sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacities for evil which lie
dormant 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 perverse 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 confided 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 confession 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 defiant 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 heeded 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—utterly unworthy of him,
and at the same time utterly irresistible—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 possessed
him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant? He had behaved
infamously—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
prescription 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 magistrate 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 hesitation he said, “No: I shall dine at the club.”
The most easily deteriorated 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 accomplices. When Doctor Wybrow left his
house for the second time, he did not even attempt to conceal from
himself that his sole object, in dining at the club, was to hear what
the world said of the Countess Narona.