THE HAUNTED HOTEL(闹鬼的旅馆)

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THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

THE HAUNTED

HOTEL A Mystery of

Modern Venice

by Wilkie Collins (1824-1889)

(after the edition of Chatto & Windus, London, 1879)

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

CHAPTER I

In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London

physician reached its highest point. It was reported on good authority

that he was in receipt of one of the largest incomes derived from the

practice of medicine in modern times.

One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor had

just taken his luncheon after a specially hard morning's work in his

consulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients at their

own houses to fill up the rest of his day-- 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-hours. 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. He was a

humourist in his way; and there was an absurd side to the situation which

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 minutes, and the matter was too important to wait till to-morrow.

There she is in the consulting-room; and how to get her out again is more

than I know.'

Doctor Wybrow considered for a moment. His knowledge of women

(professionally speaking) rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty

years; he had met with them in all their varieties-- especially the variety

which knows nothing of the value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering

itself behind the privileges of its sex. A glance at his watch informed him

that he must soon begin his rounds among the patients who were waiting

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

for him at their own houses. He decided forthwith on taking the only wise

course that was open under the circumstances. In other words, he

decided on taking to flight.

'Is the carriage at the door?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well. Open the house-door for me without making any noise,

and leave the lady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room.

When she gets tired of waiting, you know what to tell her. If she asks

when I am expected to return, say that I dine at my club, and spend the

evening at the theatre. Now then, 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-toe.

Did the lady in the consulting-room suspect him? or did Thomas's

shoes creak, and was her sense of hearing unusually keen? Whatever the

explanation may be, the event that actually happened was beyond all doubt.

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 without letting 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 in inclining

him to grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the

way to his carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The startling

contrast between the corpse-like pallor of her complexion and the

overpowering life and light, the glittering metallic brightness in her large

black eyes, held him literally spell-bound. She was dressed in dark colours,

with perfect taste; she was of middle height, and (apparently) of middle

age--say a year or two over thirty. Her lower features--the nose, mouth,

and chin-- possessed the fineness and delicacy of form which is oftener

seen among women of foreign races than among women of English birth.

She was unquestionably a handsome person--with the one serious

drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable defect of

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. Apart from his

first emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced in the Doctor may be

described as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case

might prove to be something entirely new in his professional experience.

'It looks like it,' he thought; 'and it's worth waiting for.'

She perceived that she she had produced a strong impression of some

kind upon him, and dropped her hold on his arm.

'You have comforted many miserable women in your time,' she said.

'Comfort one more, to-day.'

Without waiting to be answered, 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, with the steely steadiness of the eyes

of an eagle. The smooth pallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more

fearfully white than ever. For the first time, for many a long year past, the

Doctor felt his pulse quicken its beat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared, strangely

enough, to have nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to have

taken possession of this resolute woman. Forced to speak first, the

Doctor merely inquired, in the conventional phrase, what he could do for

her.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight at

the light, 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.

Without the slightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the 'painful

question' in these extraordinary words:

'I want to know, if you please, whether I am in danger of going mad?'

Some men might have been amused, and some might have been

alarmed. Doctor Wybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment.

Was this the rare case that he had anticipated, judging rashly by

appearances? Was the new patient only a hypochondriacal woman,

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

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 doctor whose special employment is the treatment of the

insane?'

She had her answer ready on the instant.

'I don't go to a doctor of that sort,' she said, 'for the very reason that he

is a specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging everybody by lines and

rules of his own laying down. 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--his first idea had been the right idea, after

all. Besides, she was correctly informed as to his professional position.

The capacity which had raised him to fame and fortune was his capacity

(unrivalled among his brethren) for the discovery of remote disease.

'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. They were promptly and plainly

answered; and they led to no other conclusion than that 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 that was amiss. With the

admirable patience and devotion to his art which had distinguished him

from the time when he was a student, he still subjected her to one test after

another. The result was always the same. Not only was there no

tendency to brain disease-- there was not even a perceptible derangement

of the nervous system. 'I can find nothing the matter with you,' he said. 'I

can't even account for the extraordinary pallor of your complexion. You

completely puzzle me.'

'The pallor of my complexion is nothing,' she answered a little

impatiently. 'In my early life I had a narrow escape from death by

poisoning. I have never had a complexion since--and my skin is so

delicate, I cannot paint without producing a hideous rash. But that is of no

importance. I wanted your opinion given positively. I believed in you,

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

and you have disappointed me.' Her head dropped on her breast. 'And

so it ends!' she said to herself bitterly.

The Doctor's sympathies were touched. Perhaps it might be more

correct to say that his professional pride was a little hurt. 'It may end in the

right way yet,' he remarked, 'if you choose to help me.'

She looked up again with flashing eyes, 'Speak plainly,' she said. 'How

can I help you?'

'Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to

make the right guess by the unaided efforts of my art. My art will do

much, but not all. For example, something must have occurred--

something quite unconnected with the state of your bodily health-- to

frighten you about yourself, or you would never have come here to consult

me. Is that true?'

She clasped her hands in her lap. 'That is true!' she said eagerly. 'I

begin to believe in you again.'

'Very well. You can't expect me to find out the moral cause which

has alarmed you. I can positively discover that there is no physical cause

of alarm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) I can do no more.'

She rose, and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said.

'But, mind, I shall mention no names!'

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

'The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'I have only my own

impressions to confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool

when you hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content

you-- I will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, they

won't do much to help you.'

She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the

strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor's ears.

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

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 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,

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

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.'

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

'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

THE HAUNTED HOTEL A Mystery of Modern Venice

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

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THEHAUNTEDHOTELAMysteryofModernVenice1THEHAUNTEDHOTELAMysteryofModernVenicebyWilkieCollins(1824-1889)(aftertheeditionofChatto&Windus,London,1879)THEHAUNTEDHOTELAMysteryofModernVenice2CHAPTERIIntheyear1860,thereputationofDoctorWybrowasaLondonphysicianreacheditshighestpoint.Itwasreportedongoodauthorit...

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