'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 wisein acting on his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplacepatients 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 embarrassingcircumstance 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 tohim as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover,and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say--because he toldme 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 mea 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 wouldhave positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it--without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wisheseven 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 mefor reminding you that I have suffering persons waiting to see me,'he said. 'The sooner you can come to the point, the better for mypatients and for me.'

The strange smile--at once so sad and so cruel--showed itself againon 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 leftthe table, and had retired to the drawing-room. She happenedto 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 hadrobbed of her lover, the woman who had written the noble letter.Now listen! You were impatient with me for not interestingyou in what I said just now. I said it to satisfy your mindthat 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 trulyexplained 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 mylife.'

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 truedescription of her:--The ordinary English lady; the clear coldblue 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 beenpreferred to her; and perhaps some astonishment also, not to seea more engaging and more beautiful person; both those feelingsrestrained within the limits of good breeding, and both not lastingfor more than a few moments--so far as I could see. I say, "so far,"because the horrible agitation that she communicated to me disturbedmy judgment. If I could have got to the door, I would have run outof 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 calmblue 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 thingcan 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 Iwas 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 indescribablemoment I felt all this--and I suppose my face showed it.The good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarmfor 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 impressionthat I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the comingback of my life. As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell methe 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 familiarwith her as if they had been sisters--knew her positively to be as good,as innocent, as incapable of hating anybody, as the greatest saintthat ever lived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinaryforewarning 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 lettersfrom 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 afraidto face society in the character of my wife." What could I answer?There was no contradicting him--he was plainly right: if I persistedin 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 avengingangel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a derangedmind?'

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 irresistiblythe 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 personwith a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of the capacitiesfor evil which lie dormant in us all, and striving earnestly to openher heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature; the effortwas 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 signof 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 saythat yours is a case (as I venture to think) for spiritualrather 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 silentagony that the Doctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sightof 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 wantmy fee.'

She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward, she saidslowly 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 leftthe room.

He rang the bell, and followed her into the hall. As the servantclosed 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 saidto the servant, 'Follow her home, and find out her name.'For one moment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own earshad not deceived him. Doctor Wybrow looked back at him in silence.The submissive servant knew what that silence meant--he took his hatand hurried into the street.

The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. A sudden revulsionof feeling swept over his mind. Had the woman left an infectionof wickedness in the house, and had he caught it? What devil hadpossessed him to degrade himself in the eyes of his own servant?He had behaved infamously--he had asked an honest man, a man who hadserved him faithfully for years, to turn spy! Stung by the barethought 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 amonghis patients.

If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation,he would have done it that afternoon. Never before had he madehimself so little welcome at the bedside. Never before had he put offuntil to-morrow the prescription which ought to have been written,the opinion which ought to have been given, to-day. He went homeearlier 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 tobe asked.

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

Without waiting to hear where she lived, the Doctor acknowledgedthe all-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head,and entered his consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refusedstill 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 isthe 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 possibleterms with each other in the comfortable capacity of accomplices.When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he didnot even attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object,in dining at the club, was to hear what the world said of theCountess Narona.