Kitobni o'qish: «The Haunted Hotel / Отель с привидениями»

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© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2022

Wilkie Collins
The Haunted Hotel. A Mystery of Modern Venice

The First Part

Chapter I

In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London physician reached its highest point. It was reported that he was one of the richest doctors in modern times.

One afternoon, the Doctor had just taken his luncheon in his consulting-room, and was sitting with a formidable list of visits to patients – when the servant announced that a lady wished to speak to him.

‘Who is she?’ the Doctor asked. ‘A stranger?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see no strangers out of consulting-hours¹. Tell her what the hours are, and send her away.’

‘I have told her, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘And she won’t go.’

‘Won’t go?’ The Doctor smiled as he repeated the words. The situation rather amused him. ‘Has this obstinate lady given you her name?’ he inquired.

‘No, sir. She refused to give any name – she said she wouldn’t keep you five minutes², and the matter was too important to wait till tomorrow. There she is in the consulting-room; and I don’t know how to get her out.’

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. He had met with women in all their varieties – especially the variety which knows nothing of the value of time. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients³ who were waiting for him at their own houses. So he decided to escape.

‘Is the carriage at the door?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Open the house-door for me without any noise, and leave the lady in the consulting-room. When she gets tired, you know what to tell her. If she asks when I will return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the evening at the theatre. And softly, Thomas! If your shoes creak, I am a lost man.’

He noiselessly led the way into the hall, followed by the servant on tip-toe⁴.

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? Or did Thomas’s shoes creak? Was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Exactly as Doctor Wybrow passed his consulting-room, the door opened – the lady appeared on the threshold – and laid her hand on his arm.

‘I entreat you, sir, not to go away. Let me speak to you first.’

The accent was foreign; the tone was low and firm. Her fingers closed gently, and yet resolutely, on the Doctor’s arm.

Neither her language nor her action had the slightest effect. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The contrast between the pallor of her complexion and the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes held him literally spellbound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age – a year or two over thirty. Her nose, mouth, and chin possessed the fineness and delicacy of form. She was unquestionably a handsome person. She produced in the Doctor an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case might be something entirely new in his professional experience.

She perceived that she had produced a strong impression upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.

‘You have comforted many miserable women ‘ she said. ‘Comfort one more, today.’

And she led the way back into the room.

The Doctor followed her, and closed the door. He placed her in the patients’ chair, opposite the windows. Even in London the sun, on that summer afternoon, was dazzlingly bright. The radiant light flowed in on her. Her eyes met it unflinchingly. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever.

She had, strangely enough, nothing to say to him. A curious apathy took possession of this woman. The Doctor merely inquired what he could do for her.

She said abruptly: ‘I have a painful question to ask.’

‘What is it?’

Her eyes travelled slowly from the window to the Doctor’s face.

‘I want to know, if you please, am I going mad?’

Doctor Wybrow was disappointed. Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman, whose malady was a disordered stomach and whose misfortune was a weak brain?

‘Why do you come to me?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why don’t you consult a psychiatrist?’

‘I don’t go to a psychiatrist,’ she said, ‘I come to you, because my case is outside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your profession for the discovery of mysteries in disease. Are you satisfied?’

He was more than satisfied. She was correctly informed as to his professional position.

‘I am at your disposal,’ he answered. ‘Let me try if I can find out what is the matter with you.’

He put his medical questions. She answered promptly and plainly. The strange lady was, mentally and physically, in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefully examined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope could discover anything wrong.

‘I can find nothing the matter with you,’ he said. ‘I can’t even explain the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You completely puzzle me.’

‘The pallor of my complexion is nothing,’ she answered a little impatiently. ‘In my youth I escaped from death by poisoning. That’s why my skin is so delicate. But that is not important. I wanted your opinion. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.’

Her head dropped on her breast.

The Doctor’s professional pride was a little hurt.

‘I can help you,’ he remarked, ‘if you choose to help me.’

She looked up.

‘Speak plainly,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma. My art can do much, but not all. For example, something occurred – something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health – to frighten you about yourself. Is that true?’

She clasped her hands in her lap.

‘That is true!’ she said eagerly. ‘I begin to believe in you again.’

She rose.

‘I will tell you,’ she said. ‘But, I’ll mention no names!’

‘There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.’

‘The facts are nothing,’ she said. ‘I have only my own impressions to confess. I will do my best to content you – I will begin with the facts that you want.’

She sat down again and began her strange and wild confession.

Chapter II

‘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. 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 was wise to listen to her.

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 met with me, abroad: that lady was of his own blood and family, and 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. When we next met in England, he told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He showed me a letter from the lady herself, she was releasing him from his engagement. A noble letter! I cried over it. But the firmness of it – without anger, without a word of reproach – left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his love for me. You know what women are. I said: yes! In a week more (I tremble as I think of it) we are to be married.’

She really trembled – she paused, before she could go on. The Doctor was waiting for more facts.

‘Excuse me, but 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 showed itself again on the lady’s lips.

‘Every word I say is to the point,’ she answered. ‘You will see it yourself.’

She resumed her narrative.

‘Yesterday I was among the visitors at a party. A lady came in late. She took 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! I admired her. This is very important, as you will see. On her side, I think that she understood I was not to blame. Now, explain to me, if you can, why, when I rose and met that woman’s eyes, 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.’

‘Was there anything remarkable in the lady’s personal appearance?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Nothing!’ 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 strange in her expression, when you first looked at her?’

‘There was natural curiosity to see me; and perhaps some astonishment also. But if I could get to the door, I would 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 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. That woman is destined to be the evil genius of my life. She said, “I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle⁵?” I heard 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. As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about that woman. The had been her friend from her girlhood, they were like sisters. She knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as the greatest saint that ever lived. But I felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an enemy. 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 me⁶ in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are vile lies. “If you refuse to marry me,” he said, “you admit that these reports are true.” What could I answer? He was plainly right: if I persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result. The night has passed. I am here, with my conviction that innocent woman has a fatal influence over my life. I am here with the question. Sir, what am I – a demon who has seen the avenging angel? or only a poor mad woman with a deranged mind?’

Doctor Wybrow rose from his chair. He was strongly and painfully impressed by what he had heard. The conviction of the woman’s wickedness forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination; the effort was beyond him.

‘I have already given you my opinion,’ he said. ‘As for the impressions you have confided to me, I can only say that your case is more spiritual than medical. Of course you can be sure: what you have said to me in this room will not pass out of it. Your confession is safe.’

‘Is that all?’ she asked.

‘That is all,’ he answered.

She put some money on the table.

‘Thank you, sir. There is your fee.’

With those words she rose. The Doctor turned away his head, he did not want to take anything from her.

‘Take it back; I don’t want my fee,’ he said.

She did not hear him. She said slowly to herself,

‘Let the end come. 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, a sudden impulse of curiosity sprang up in the Doctor’s mind. He said to the servant,

‘Follow her, and find out her name.’

The servant took his hat and hurried into the street.

The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in the house? 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 was now open to him – the refuge of work. He got into his carriage and went his rounds among his patients.

In the evening the servant reported the result of his errand.

‘The lady’s name is the Countess Narona. She lives at-’

The Doctor entered his consulting-room. The fee still lay on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope and addressed it to the ‘Poor-box’⁷. The servant asked,

‘Do you dine at home today, sir?’

After a moment’s hesitation he said, ‘No: I’ll dine at the club.’

Doctor Wybrow wanted to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona.

Chapter III

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren. The room was well filled. When he inquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona, everybody was astonished. What an absurd question! Every one 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 complexion and the glittering eyes. It was doubtful whether she was really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady⁸. 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 Baron Rivar, and in the character of her brother) was her brother at all. Report pointed to the Baron as a gambler at every ‘table’ on the Continent. And his so-called sister had escaped from a famous trial for poisoning in Vienna. Moreover, she had been known in Milan as a spy. Her apartment in Paris was nothing less than a private gambling-house.

Only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of this woman. But the man was a lawyer, and his interference was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction.

The Doctor inquired the name of the gentleman whom the Countess was going to marry.

His friends said that the Countess Narona had borrowed money in Homburg of Lord Montbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage⁹. The younger members of the club sent a waiter for the ‘Peerage’¹⁰; and read aloud about the nobleman.

‘Herbert John Westwick. First Baron Montbarry, of Montbarry, King’s County, Ireland. Created a Peer for distinguished military services in India. Born, 1812. Forty-eight years old, at the present time. Not married. Will be married next week. Heir presumptive, his lordship’s next brother, Stephen Robert, married to Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate, and has 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. 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, Doctor; 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 stopped the disclosure.

‘Don’t mention the poor girl’s name. There is but one excuse for Montbarry – he is either a madman or a fool.’

The Doctor spoke confidentially to his neighbour and discovered that the lady was deserted by Lord Montbarry. Her name was Agnes Lockwood.

Soon a member of the club entered the smoking-room. His appearance instantly produced a dead silence. Doctor Wybrow’s neighbour whispered to him, ‘Montbarry’s brother – Henry Westwick!’

The new-comer looked said, with a bitter smile,

‘You are all talking of my brother. Don’t mind me¹¹. I despise him. Go on, gentlemen – go on!’

But the lawyer undertook the defence of the Countess.

‘I stand alone in my opinion,’ he said, ‘and I am not ashamed of it. Why can’t the Countess Narona be Lord Montbarry’s wife? Who can say she has a mercenary motive?’

Montbarry’s brother turned sharply on the speaker.

‘I say it!’ he answered.

‘I believe I am right,’ the lawyer rejoined, ‘his lordship’s income is not more than sufficient to support his station in life. And it is an income derived almost entirely from landed property in Ireland, every acre of which is entailed¹².’

Montbarry’s brother had no objection.

‘If his lordship dies first,’ the lawyer proceeded, ‘if he leaves her a widow, four hundred pounds a year – is all that he can leave to the Countess. I know that.’

‘Four hundred a year is not all,’ was the reply to this. ‘My brother has insured his life for ten thousand pounds.’

This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other, and repeated the words, ‘Ten thousand pounds!’

After that, the Doctor went home. But his curiosity about the Countess was not satisfied. He was wondering whether Lord Montbarry’s family would stop the marriage after all. And more than this, he wanted to see the man himself. Every day he visited the club to hear some news.

Nothing happened. 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 chapel in Spanish Place.

On the day of the wedding, the Doctor went out to see the marriage. The wedding was strictly private. A carriage stood at the church door; a few people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women, were near. Here and there Doctor Wybrow detected the faces of some of his brethren of the club. They were 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; the other was undoubtedly her brother, Baron Rivar.

Lord Montbarry was a middle-aged military man. Nothing remarkable. Baron Rivar had moustache, bold eyes, and curling hair. And he was not in the least like his sister.

The priest was only a harmless, humble-looking old man.

From time to time the Doctor glanced round at the door or up at the galleries, anticipating the appearance of some protesting stranger. Nothing occurred – nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic.

The married couple walked together down the nave 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 wrung it hard.

‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end!’ She whispered those strange words, and returned to her husband.

Then Lord and Lady Montbarry stepped into their carriage, and drove away.

Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club. They began with the Baron.

‘Damned ill-looking rascal!’

They went on with Montbarry.

‘Is he going to take that horrid woman with him to Ireland?’

‘No! They know about Agnes Lockwood.’

‘Well, but where is he going?’

‘To Scotland.’

‘Does she like that?’

‘It’s only for a fortnight. Then they will 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? Did you see her, Doctor?’

Doctor Wybrow remembered his patients, and walked off.

‘One step more, you see, on the way to the end,’ he repeated to himself, on his way home. What end?

Chapter IV

On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little drawing-room of her London lodgings. She was burning the letters which Montbarry had written to her.

She looked by many years younger than she really was. With her fair complexion and her shy manner, she looked like a girl, although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age. She lived alone with an old nurse, on a modest little income which was just enough to support the two. There were no signs of grief in her face, and she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two, and threw the pieces into the small fire. She did not cry. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers, she destroyed the letters one by one. She did not read them again.

The old nurse came in, and asked if she wanted to see ‘Master Henry,’ the youngest member of the Westwick family, who had publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of the club. Agnes hesitated.

A long time ago Henry Westwick said that he loved her. But she acknowledged that her heart was given to his eldest brother. He was disappointed; and they met thenceforth as cousins and friends. But now, on the very day of his brother’s marriage, she did not want to see him. The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles) observed her hesitation.

‘He says, he’s going away, my dear; and he only wants to shake hands, and say good-bye.’

Agnes decided to receive her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her. She hurriedly spoke first.

‘You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business? or pleasure?’

He did not answer her. He pointed to the flaming letter, and to some black ashes of paper.

‘Are you burning letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘His letters?’

‘Yes.’

He took her hand gently.

‘I had no idea. Forgive me, Agnes – I shall see you when I return.’

She signed to him, with a faint smile, to take a chair.

‘We have known one another since we were children,’ she said. ‘Why should I have any secrets from you? I sent back all your brother’s gifts to me some time ago. I will keep nothing that can remind me of him.’

She looked into the fire. The tears were in his eyes. He muttered to himself,

‘Damn him!’

She looked at him again.

‘Well, Henry, and why are you going away?’

‘I am out of spirits¹³, Agnes, and I want a change.’

She paused before she spoke again. His face told her plainly that he was thinking of her when he made that reply. She was grateful to him, but her mind was not with him: her mind was still with the man who had deserted her. She turned round again to the fire.

‘Is it true,’ she asked, after a long silence, ‘that they have been married today?’

He answered ungraciously: ‘Yes.’

‘Did you go to the church?’

‘Go to the church?’ he repeated. ‘How can you ask? I have never spoken to Montbarry, I have not even seen him, since he treated you like the scoundrel¹⁴ and the fool that he is.’

She looked at him suddenly. He understood her, and begged her pardon. But he was still angry.

‘He will rue the day when he married that woman!’ he said.

Agnes took a chair by his side, and looked at him with a gentle surprise.

‘Is it quite reasonable to be so angry with her, because your brother preferred her to me?’ she asked.

Henry turned on her sharply.

‘Do you defend the Countess?’

‘Why not?’ Agnes answered. ‘I know nothing against her. On the day when we met, she appeared to be a timid, nervous person, looking dreadfully ill. She fainted under the heat of the room. We know that she did not want to hurt me; we know that she was not aware of my engagement.’

Henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her.

‘Try to forget them both, Agnes!’ he interposed.

Agnes laid her hand on his arm.

‘You are very good to me, Henry; but you don’t quite understand me. I was wondering whether my feeling for your brother could really pass away. I have destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him. In this world I shall see him no more. But is the tie that once bound us, completely broken? What do you think, Henry? I can hardly believe it.’

The old nurse appeared again at the door, announcing another visitor.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear. But here is Mrs. Ferrari. She wants to know when she may say a few words to you.’

Agnes turned to Henry, before she replied.

‘You remember Emily Bidwell, my favourite pupil years ago at the village school, and afterwards my maid? She left me, to marry an Italian courier, named Ferrari.’

Henry rose.

‘I will be glad to see Emily at any other time,’ he said. ‘But I will go now. My mind is disturbed, Agnes. I will cross the Channel¹⁵ tonight. A few weeks’ change will help me, I hope.’

He took her hand.

‘Is there anything in the world that I can do for you?’ he asked very earnestly.

She thanked him, and tried to release her hand.

‘God bless you, Agnes!’ he said.

Her face flushed again. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it fervently, and left the room. The nurse hobbled after him.

‘Don’t be sad, Master Henry,’ whispered the old woman. ‘Try her again, when you come back!’

Agnes tried to compose herself. She paused before a little water-colour drawing¹⁶ on the wall, which had belonged to her mother. It was her own portrait when she was a child.

The courier’s wife entered – a little meek melancholy woman, with white eyelashes, and watery eyes. Agnes shook hands with her kindly.

‘Well, Emily, what can I do for you?’

The courier’s wife made a rather strange answer:

‘I’m afraid to tell you, Miss.’

‘Sit down, and let me hear. How does your husband behave to you?’

Emily’s light grey eyes looked more watery than ever. She shook her head and sighed resignedly. ‘I have no positive complaint to make against him, Miss. But I’m afraid he doesn’t care about me; and he seems to take no interest in his home – I may almost say he’s tired of his home. It will be better for both of us, Miss, if he travels for a while. Not to mention the money.’

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed again.

‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Agnes. ‘I thought your husband had an engagement to take some ladies to Switzerland and Italy?’

‘Oh, Miss, one of the ladies fell ill – and the others won’t go without her. They paid him a month’s salary as compensation. But the loss is serious.’

‘I am sorry to hear it, Emily. Let us hope he will soon have another chance.’

‘Miss, you see, there are so many couriers at the moment just now. If someone privately recommends-’

She stopped.

Agnes understood her directly.

‘You want my recommendation,’ she rejoined.

Emily blushed.

‘It will be such a chance for my husband,’ she answered confusedly. ‘A letter, inquiring for a good courier (a six months’ engagement, Miss!) came to the office this morning. The secretary will recommend another man. If my husband could only send his testimonials… with just a word in your name, Miss… A private recommendation, you know.’

She stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet.

Agnes began to be rather weary of the mysterious tone of her visitor.

‘If you want my interest with any friend of mine,’ she said, ‘why can’t you tell me the name?’

The courier’s wife began to cry.

‘I’m ashamed to tell you, Miss.’

For the first time, Agnes spoke sharply.

‘Nonsense, Emily! Tell me the name directly – or drop the subject – whichever you like best.’

Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her handkerchief hard in her lap and said,

‘Lord Montbarry!’

Agnes rose and looked at her.

‘You have disappointed me,’ she said very quietly. ‘You know that it is impossible for me to communicate with Lord Montbarry. I always supposed you had some delicacy of feeling. I am sorry to find that I am mistaken.’

Emily walked to the door.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss. I am not quite so bad as you think. But I beg your pardon.’

She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something in the woman’s apology that appealed to her.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let me not misunderstand you. What is it that you expected me to do?’

Emily was wise enough to answer this time quickly.

‘My husband will send his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbarry in Scotland. I only wanted you to let him say in his letter that you have known his wife since she was a child, and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account. I don’t ask it now, Miss. I was wrong.’

‘It seems only a small favour to ask,’ Agnes said. ‘But I am not sure that I allow my name to be mentioned in your husband’s letter. Let me hear again exactly what he wishes to say.’

Emily repeated the words. Agnes wrote:

‘I venture to state that Miss Agnes Lockwood has known my wife from her childhood, and she feels some little interest in my welfare on that account.

Then Agnes handed the written paper to Emily.

‘Your husband must copy it exactly,’ she stipulated. ‘On that condition, I grant your request.’

Emily was thankful. Then she vanished.

Two days later, the post brought a few grateful lines from Emily. Her husband got the place. Ferrari was engaged, for six months certain, as Lord Montbarry’s courier.