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.
