Kitabı oku: «The Haunted Hotel / Отель с привидениями», sayfa 4

‘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?’