The Haunted Hotel

Published：2026-08-01 05:07:36 Source: affordable toy tool sets under 20 dollars Author: Water Toys

THE HAUNTED HOTEL

A Mystery of Modern Venice

by Wilkie Collins (1824–1889)

(after the edition of Chatto & Windus,calming toys under 10 dollars London, 1879)

CONTENTS

THE FIRST PART

CHAPTER I

In the year 1860, the reputation of Doctor Wybrow as a London physician reachedits highest point. It was reported on good authority that he was in receipt ofone of the largest incomes derived from the practice of medicine in moderntimes.

One afternoon, towards the close of the London season, the Doctor had justtaken his luncheon after a specially hard morning’s work in hisconsulting-room, and with a formidable list of visits to patients at their ownhouses to fill up the rest of his day—when the servant announced that a ladywished 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, andsend 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 inhis 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 fiveminutes, and the matter was too important to wait till to-morrow. There she isin 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 (professionallyspeaking) rested on the ripe experience of more than thirty years; he had metwith them in all their varieties—especially the variety which knows nothing ofthe value of time, and never hesitates at sheltering itself behind theprivileges of its sex. A glance at his watch informed him that he must soonbegin his rounds among the patients who were waiting for him at their ownhouses. He decided forthwith on taking the only wise course that was open underthe 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 thelady in undisturbed possession of the consulting-room. When she gets tired ofwaiting, 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 Wybrowpassed his consulting-room, the door opened—the lady appeared on thethreshold—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 himto grant her request. The influence that instantly stopped him, on the way tohis carriage, was the silent influence of her face. The startling contrastbetween the corpse-like pallor of her complexion and the overpowering life andlight, the glittering metallic brightness in her large black eyes, held himliterally spell-bound. She was dressed in dark colours, with perfect taste; shewas of middle height, and (apparently) of middle age—say a year or two overthirty. Her lower features—the nose, mouth, and chin—possessed the fineness anddelicacy of form which is oftener seen among women of foreign races than amongwomen of English birth. She was unquestionably a handsome person—with the oneserious drawback of her ghastly complexion, and with the less noticeable defectof a total want of tenderness in the expression of her eyes. Apart from hisfirst emotion of surprise, the feeling she produced in the Doctor may bedescribed as an overpowering feeling of professional curiosity. The case mightprove to be something entirely new in his professional experience. “It lookslike it,” he thought; “and it’s worth waiting for.”

She perceived that 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 onemore, 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 itunflinchingly, with the steely steadiness of the eyes of an eagle. The smoothpallor of her unwrinkled skin looked more fearfully white than ever. For thefirst time, for many a long year past, the Doctor felt his pulse quicken itsbeat in the presence of a patient.

Having possessed herself of his attention, she appeared, strangely enough, tohave nothing to say to him. A curious apathy seemed to have taken possession ofthis resolute woman. Forced to speak first, the Doctor merely inquired, in theconventional phrase, what he could do for her.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse her. Still looking straight at thelight, 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 theslightest outward appearance of agitation, she put the “painful question” inthese 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. DoctorWybrow was only conscious of a sense of disappointment. Was this the rare casethat he had anticipated, judging rashly by appearances? Was the new patientonly a hypochondriacal woman, whose malady was a disordered stomach and whosemisfortune 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 ofthe 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 heisa specialist: he has the fatal habit of judging everybody by linesand rules of his own laying down. I come to you, because my case isoutside of all lines and rules, and because you are famous in your professionfor 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. Thecapacity which had raised him to fame and fortune was his capacity (unrivalledamong 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 thematter with you.”

He put his medical questions. They were promptly and plainly answered; and theyled to no other conclusion than that the strange lady was, mentally andphysically, in excellent health. Not satisfied with questions, he carefullyexamined the great organs of life. Neither his hand nor his stethoscope coulddiscover anything that was amiss. With the admirable patience and devotion tohis art which had distinguished him from the time when he was a student, hestill 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 aperceptible derangement of the nervous system. “I can find nothing the matterwith you,” he said. “I can’t even account for the extraordinary pallor of yourcomplexion. 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 neverhad a complexion since—and my skin is so delicate, I cannot paint withoutproducing a hideous rash. But that is of no importance. I wanted your opiniongiven positively. I believed in you, and you have disappointed me.” Her headdropped 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 saythat his professional pride was a little hurt. “It may end in the right wayyet,” he remarked, “if you choose to help me.”

She looked up again with flashing eyes, “Speak plainly,” she said. “How can Ihelp you?”

“Plainly, madam, you come to me as an enigma, and you leave me to make theright 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 thestate of your bodily health—to frighten you about yourself, or you would neverhave come here to consult me. Is that true?”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “That is true!” she said eagerly. “I begin tobelieve in you again.”

“Very well. You can’t expect me to find out the moral cause which has alarmedyou. 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 toconfess—and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you hear whatthey are. No matter. I will do my best to content you—I will begin with thefacts that you want. Take my word for it, theywon’t do much to helpyou.”

She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the strangest andwildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor’s ears.

CHAPTER II

“It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,” she said. “It is another fact, that Iam going to be married again.”

There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her. DoctorWybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile—there was something at oncesad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went away suddenly. He began todoubt whether he had been wise in acting on his first impression. His mindreverted to the commonplace patients and the discoverable maladies that werewaiting for him, with a certain tender regret.

The lady went on.

“My approaching marriage,” she said, “has one embarrassing circumstanceconnected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to anotherlady when he happened to meet with me, abroad: that lady, mind, being of hisown blood and family, related to him as his cousin. I have innocently robbedher of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, Isay—because he told me nothing of his engagement until after I had acceptedhim. When we next met in England—and when there was danger, no doubt, of theaffair 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, releasinghim from his engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never readin my life. I cried over it—I who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own! Ifthe letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would have positivelyrefused to marry him. But the firmness of it—without anger, without a word ofreproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his happiness—the firmness of it, Isay, left him no hope. He appealed to my compassion; he appealed to his lovefor 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 shecould go on. The Doctor, waiting for more facts, began to fear that he stoodcommitted to a long story. “Forgive me for reminding you that I have sufferingpersons waiting to see me,” he said. “The sooner you can come to the point, thebetter for my patients and for me.”

The strange smile—at once so sad and so cruel—showed itself again on the lady’slips. “Every word I have said is to the point,” she answered. “You will see ityourself in a moment more.”

She resumed her narrative.

“Yesterday—you need fear no long story, sir; only yesterday—I was among thevisitors at one of your English luncheon parties. A lady, a perfect stranger tome, came in late—after we had left the table, and had retired to thedrawing-room. She happened to take a chair near me; and we were presented toeach 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 interesting you in what I said just now. Isaid 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 reasonto be assured that the circumstances had been truly explained to her, and thatshe understood I was in no way to blame. Now, knowing all these necessarythings as you do, explain to me, if you can, why, when I rose and met thatwoman’s eyes looking at me, I turned cold from head to foot, and shuddered, andshivered, 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 true description ofher:—The ordinary English lady; the clear cold blue eyes, the fine rosycomplexion, the inanimately polite manner, the large good-humoured mouth, thetoo plump cheeks and chin: these, and nothing more.”

“Was there anything in her expression, when you first looked at her, that tookyou 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 morebeautiful person; both those feelings restrained within the limits of goodbreeding, and both not lasting for more than a few moments—so far as I couldsee. I say, ‘so far,’ because the horrible agitation that she communicated tome disturbed my 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 backin my chair; I stared horror-struck at the calm blue eyes that were onlylooking at me with a gentle surprise. To say they affected me like the eyes ofa serpent is to say nothing. I felt her soul in them, looking intomine—looking, if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self. Itell you my impression, in all its horror and in all its folly! That woman isdestined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life. Herinnocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that I was not awareof myself, until I felt them stirring under her look. If I commit faults in mylife 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 oneindescribable moment I felt all this—and I suppose my face showed it. The goodartless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me. ‘I am afraidthe heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle?’ Iheard her say those kind words; and I remember nothing else—I fainted. When Irecovered my senses, the company had all gone; only the lady of the house waswith 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 coming back of mylife. As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth aboutthe woman whom I had supplanted. You see, I had a faint hope that her goodcharacter might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was a skilfulpiece of hypocrisy—in short, that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enoughto 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, asinnocent, as incapable of hating anybody, as the greatest saint that everlived. My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of dangerin the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for ever. There wasone more effort I could make, and I made it. I went next to the man whom I amto marry. I implored him to release me from my promise. He refused. I declaredI would break my engagement. He showed me letters from his sisters, lettersfrom his brothers, and his dear friends—all entreating him to think againbefore he made me his wife; all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, andLondon, which are so many vile lies. ‘If you refuse to marry me,’ he said, ‘youadmit that these reports are true—you admit that you are afraid to face societyin the character of my wife.’ What could I answer? There was no contradictinghim—he was plainly right: if I persisted in my refusal, the utter destructionof my reputation would be the result. I consented to let the wedding take placeas we had arranged it—and left him. The night has passed. I am here, with myfixed conviction—that innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence overmy life. I am here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answerit. 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 hadlistened to her, the more irresistibly the conviction of the woman’s wickednesshad forced itself on him. He tried vainly to think of her as a person to bepitied—a person with a morbidly sensitive imagination, conscious of thecapacities for evil which lie dormant in us all, and striving earnestly to openher heart to the counter-influence of her own better nature; the effort wasbeyond him. A perverse instinct in him said, as if in words, Beware how youbelieve in her!

“I have already given you my opinion,” he said. “There is no sign of yourintellect being deranged, or being likely to be deranged, that medical sciencecan discover—as Iunderstand it. As for the impressions you haveconfided to me, I can only say that yours is a case (as I venture to think) forspiritual rather than for medical advice. Of one thing be assured: what youhave said to me in this room shall not pass out of it. Your confession is safein 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 isyour fee.”

With those words she rose. Her wild black eyes looked upward, with anexpression of despair so defiant and so horrible in its silent agony that theDoctor turned away his head, unable to endure the sight of it. The bare idea oftaking anything from her—not money only, but anything even that she hadtouched—suddenly revolted him. Still without looking at her, he said, “Take itback; I don’t want my fee.”

She neither heeded nor heard him. Still looking upward, she said slowly toherself, “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 thedoor on her, a sudden impulse of curiosity—utterly unworthy of him, and at thesame time utterly irresistible—sprang up in the Doctor’s mind. Blushing like aboy, he said to the servant, “Follow her home, and find out her name.” For onemoment the man looked at his master, doubting if his own ears had not deceivedhim. Doctor Wybrow looked back at him in silence. The submissive servant knewwhat that silence meant—he took his hat and hurried into the street.

The Doctor went back to the consulting-room. A sudden revulsion of feelingswept over his mind. Had the woman left an infection of wickedness in thehouse, and had he caught it? What devil had possessed him to degrade himself inthe eyes of his own servant? He had behaved infamously—he had asked an honestman, a man who had served him faithfully for years, to turn spy! Stung by thebare thought of it, he ran out into the hall again, and opened the door. Theservant had disappeared; it was too late to call him back. But one refuge fromhis contempt for himself was now open to him—the refuge of work. He got intohis carriage and went his rounds among his patients.

If the famous physician could have shaken his own reputation, he would havedone it that afternoon. Never before had he made himself so little welcome atthe bedside. Never before had he put off until to-morrow the prescription whichought 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 manreported 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 theall-important discovery of her name by a silent bend of the head, and enteredhis consulting-room. The fee that he had vainly refused still lay in its littlewhite paper covering on the table. He sealed it up in an envelope; addressed itto 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 hisduties, the servant waited to ask the customary question, “Do you dine at hometo-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 severestjudge that can pass sentence on him. In another state, he and his conscienceare on the best possible terms with each other in the comfortable capacity ofaccomplices. When Doctor Wybrow left his house for the second time, he did noteven attempt to conceal from himself that his sole object, in dining at theclub, was to hear what the world said of the Countess Narona.

CHAPTER III

There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought thesociety of ladies. The man knows better now. He goes to the smoking-room of hisclub.

Doctor Wybrow lit his cigar, and looked round him at his brethren in socialconclave assembled. The room was well filled; but the flow of talk was stilllanguid. The Doctor innocently applied the stimulant that was wanted. When heinquired if anybody knew the Countess Narona, he was answered by something likea shout of astonishment. Never (the conclave agreed) had such an absurdquestion been asked before! Every human creature, with the slightest claim to aplace in society, knew the Countess Narona. An adventuress with a Europeanreputation of the blackest possible colour—such was the general description ofthe woman with the deathlike complexion and the glittering eyes.

Descending to particulars, each member of the club contributed his own littlestock of scandal to the memoirs of the Countess. It was doubtful whether shewas really, what she called herself, a Dalmatian lady. It was doubtful whethershe had ever been married to the Count whose widow she assumed to be. It wasdoubtful whether the man who accompanied her in her travels (under the name ofBaron 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.Report whispered that his so-called sister had narrowly escaped beingimplicated in a famous trial for poisoning at Vienna—that she had been known atMilan as a spy in the interests of Austria—that her “apartment” in Paris hadbeen denounced to the police as nothing less than a private gambling-house—andthat her present appearance in England was the natural result of the discovery.Only one member of the assembly in the smoking-room took the part of thismuch-abused woman, and declared that her character had been most cruelly andmost unjustly assailed. But as the man was a lawyer, his interference went fornothing: it was naturally attributed to the spirit of contradiction inherent inhis profession. He was asked derisively what he thought of the circumstancesunder which the Countess had become engaged to be married; and he made thecharacteristic answer, that he thought the circumstances highly creditable toboth parties, and that he looked on the lady’s future husband as a mostenviable man.

Hearing this, the Doctor raised another shout of astonishment by inquiring thename of the gentleman whom the Countess was about to marry.

His friends in the smoking-room decided unanimously that the celebratedphysician must be a second “Rip-van-Winkle,” and that he had just awakened froma supernatural sleep of twenty years. It was all very well to say that he wasdevoted to his profession, and that he had neither time nor inclination to pickup fragments of gossip at dinner-parties and balls. A man who did not know thatthe Countess Narona had borrowed money at Homburg of no less a person than LordMontbarry, and had then deluded him into making her a proposal of marriage, wasa man who had probably never heard of Lord Montbarry himself. The youngermembers of the club, humouring the joke, sent a waiter for the “Peerage”; andread aloud the memoir of the nobleman in question, for the Doctor’sbenefit—with illustrative morsels of information interpolated by themselves.

“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, Doctor, at the present time. Not married. Will bemarried next week, Doctor, to the delightful creature we have been talkingabout. Heir presumptive, his lordship’s next brother, Stephen Robert, marriedto Ella, youngest daughter of the Reverend Silas Marden, Rector of Runnigate,and has issue, three daughters. Younger brothers of his lordship, Francis andHenry, unmarried. Sisters of his lordship, Lady Barville, married to SirTheodore Barville, Bart.; and Anne, widow of the late Peter Norbury, Esq., ofNorbury Cross. Bear his lordship’s relations well in mind, Doctor. Threebrothers Westwick, Stephen, Francis, and Henry; and two sisters, Lady Barvilleand Mrs. Norbury. Not one of the five will be present at the marriage; and notone of the five will leave a stone unturned to stop it, if the Countess willonly give them a chance. Add to these hostile members of the family anotheroffended relative not mentioned in the “Peerage,” a young lady—”

A sudden outburst of protest in more than one part of the room stopped thecoming disclosure, and released the Doctor from further persecution.

“Don’t mention the poor girl’s name; it’s too bad to make a joke of that partof the business; she has behaved nobly under shameful provocation; there is butone excuse for Montbarry—he is either a madman or a fool.” In these terms theprotest expressed itself on all sides. Speaking confidentially to his nextneighbour, the Doctor discovered that the lady referred to was already known tohim (through the Countess’s confession) as the lady deserted by Lord Montbarry.Her name was Agnes Lockwood. She was described as being the superior of theCountess in personal attraction, and as being also by some years the youngerwoman of the two. Making all allowance for the follies that men committed everyday in their relations with women, Montbarry’s delusion was still the mostmonstrous delusion on record. In this expression of opinion every man presentagreed—the lawyer even included. Not one of them could call to mind theinnumerable instances in which the sexual influence has proved irresistible inthe persons of women without even the pretension to beauty. The very members ofthe club whom the Countess (in spite of her personal disadvantages) could havemost easily fascinated, if she had thought it worth her while, were the memberswho wondered most loudly at Montbarry’s choice of a wife.

While the topic of the Countess’s marriage was still the one topic ofconversation, a member of the club entered the smoking-room whose appearanceinstantly produced a dead silence. Doctor Wybrow’s next neighbour whispered tohim, “Montbarry’s brother—Henry Westwick!”

The new-comer looked round him slowly, with a bitter smile.

“You are all talking of my brother,” he said. “Don’t mind me. Not one of youcan despise him more heartily than I do. Go on, gentlemen—go on!”

But one man present took the speaker at his word. That man was the lawyer whohad already undertaken the defence of the Countess.

“I stand alone in my opinion,” he said, “and I am not ashamed of repeating itin anybody’s hearing. I consider the Countess Narona to be a cruelly-treatedwoman. Why shouldn’t she be Lord Montbarry’s wife? Who can say she has amercenary motive in marrying him?”

Montbarry’s brother turned sharply on the speaker. “Isay it!” heanswered.

The reply might have shaken some men. The lawyer stood on his ground as firmlyas ever.

“I believe I am right,” he rejoined, “in stating that his lordship’s income isnot more than sufficient to support his station in life; also that it is anincome derived almost entirely from landed property in Ireland, every acre ofwhich is entailed.”

Montbarry’s brother made a sign, admitting that he had no objection to offer sofar.

“If his lordship dies first,” the lawyer proceeded, “I have been informed thatthe only provision he can make for his widow consists in a rent-charge on theproperty of no more than four hundred a year. His retiring pension andallowances, it is well known, die with him. Four hundred a year is thereforeall that he can leave to the Countess, if he leaves her a widow.”

“Four hundred a year is notall,” was the reply to this. “My brother hasinsured his life for ten thousand pounds; and he has settled the whole of it onthe Countess, in the event of his death.”

This announcement produced a strong sensation. Men looked at each other, andrepeated the three startling words, “Ten thousand pounds!” Driven fairly to thewall, the lawyer made a last effort to defend his position.

“May I ask who made that settlement a condition of the marriage?” he said.“Surely it was not the Countess herself?.”

Henry Westwick answered, “It was the Countess’s brother”; and added, “whichcomes to the same thing.”

After that, there was no more to be said—so long, at least, as Montbarry’sbrother was present. The talk flowed into other channels; and the Doctor wenthome.

But his morbid curiosity about the Countess was not set at rest yet. In hisleisure moments he found himself wondering whether Lord Montbarry’s familywould succeed in stopping the marriage after all. And more than this, he wasconscious of a growing desire to see the infatuated man himself. Every dayduring the brief interval before the wedding, he looked in at the club, on thechance of hearing some news. Nothing had happened, so far as the club knew. TheCountess’s position was secure; Montbarry’s resolution to be her husband wasunshaken. They were both Roman Catholics, and they were to be married at the—el in Spanish Place. So much the Doctor discovered about them—and no more.

On the day of the wedding, after a feeble struggle with himself, he actuallysacrificed his patients and their guineas, and slipped away secretly to see themarriage. To the end of his life, he was angry with anybody who reminded him ofwhat he had done on that day!

The wedding was strictly private. A close carriage stood at the church door; afew people, mostly of the lower class, and mostly old women, were scatteredabout the interior of the building. Here and there Doctor Wybrow detected thefaces of some of his brethren of the club, attracted by curiosity, likehimself. Four persons only stood before the altar—the bride and bridegroom andtheir two witnesses. One of these last was an elderly woman, who might havebeen the Countess’s companion or maid; the other was undoubtedly her brother,Baron Rivar. The bridal party (the bride herself included) wore their ordinarymorning costume. Lord Montbarry, personally viewed, was a middle-aged militaryman of the ordinary type: nothing in the least remarkable distinguished himeither in face or figure. Baron Rivar, again, in his way was anotherconventional representative of another well-known type. One sees hisfinely-pointed moustache, his bold eyes, his crisply-curling hair, and hisdashing carriage of the head, repeated hundreds of times over on the Boulevardsof Paris. The only noteworthy point about him was of the negative sort—he wasnot in the least like his sister. Even the officiating priest was only aharmless, humble-looking old man, who went through his duties resignedly, andfelt visible rheumatic difficulties every time he bent his knees. The oneremarkable person, the Countess herself, only raised her veil at the beginningof the ceremony, and presented nothing in her plain dress that was worth asecond look. Never, on the face of it, was there a less interesting and lessromantic marriage than this. From time to time the Doctor glanced round at thedoor or up at the galleries, vaguely anticipating the appearance of someprotesting stranger, in possession of some terrible secret, commissioned toforbid the progress of the service. Nothing in the shape of an eventoccurred—nothing extraordinary, nothing dramatic. Bound fast together as manand wife, the two disappeared, followed by their witnesses, to sign theregisters; and still Doctor Wybrow waited, and still he cherished the obstinatehope that something worth seeing must certainly happen yet.

The interval passed, and the married couple, returning to the church, walkedtogether 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 toher husband, “One moment; I see a friend.” Lord Montbarry bowed and waited. Shestepped up to the Doctor, took his hand, and wrung it hard. He felt heroverpowering black eyes looking at him through her veil. “One step more, yousee, on the way to the end!” She whispered those strange words, and returned toher husband. Before the Doctor could recover himself and follow her, Lord andLady Montbarry had stepped into their carriage, and had driven away.

Outside the church door stood the three or four members of the club who, likeDoctor Wybrow, had watched the ceremony out of curiosity. Near them was thebride’s brother, waiting alone. He was evidently bent on seeing the man whomhis sister had spoken to, in broad daylight. His bold eyes rested on theDoctor’s face, with a momentary flash of suspicion in them. The cloud suddenlycleared away; the Baron smiled with charming courtesy, lifted his hat to hissister’s friend, and walked off.

The members constituted themselves into a club conclave on the church steps.They began with the Baron. “Damned ill-looking rascal!” They went on withMontbarry. “Is he going to take that horrid woman with him to Ireland?” “Nothe! he can’t face the tenantry; they know about Agnes Lockwood.” “Well, butwhere ishe going?” “To Scotland.” “Does shelike that?” “It’sonly for a fortnight; they come back to London, and go abroad.” “And they willnever return to England, eh?” “Who can tell? Did you see how she looked atMontbarry, when she had to lift her veil at the beginning of the service? Inhis place, I should have bolted. Did yousee her, Doctor?” By this time,Doctor Wybrow had remembered his patients, and had heard enough of the clubgossip. He followed the example of Baron Rivar, and walked off.

“One step more, you see, on the way to the end,” he repeated to himself, on hisway home. “What end?”

CHAPTER IV

On the day of the marriage Agnes Lockwood sat alone in the little drawing-roomof her London lodgings, burning the letters which had been written to her byMontbarry in the bygone time.

The Countess’s maliciously smart description of her, addressed to DoctorWybrow, had not even hinted at the charm that most distinguished Agnes—theartless expression of goodness and purity which instantly attracted everyonewho approached her. She looked by many years younger than she really was. Withher fair complexion and her shy manner, it seemed only natural to speak of heras “a girl,” although she was now really advancing towards thirty years of age.She lived alone with an old nurse devoted to her, on a modest little incomewhich was just enough to support the two. There were none of the ordinary signsof grief in her face, as she slowly tore the letters of her false lover in two,and threw the pieces into the small fire which had been lit to consume them.Unhappily for herself, she was one of those women who feel too deeply to findrelief in tears. Pale and quiet, with cold trembling fingers, she destroyed theletters one by one without daring to read them again. She had torn the last ofthe series, and was still shrinking from throwing it after the rest into theswiftly destroying flame, when the old nurse came in, and asked if she wouldsee “Master Henry,”—meaning that youngest member of the Westwick family, whohad publicly declared his contempt for his brother in the smoking-room of theclub.

Agnes hesitated. A faint tinge of colour stole over her face.

There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned that he lovedher. She had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her heart was givento his eldest brother. He had submitted to his disappointment; and they had metthenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she associated the idea ofhim with embarrassing recollections. But now, on the very day when hisbrother’s marriage to another woman had consummated his brother’s treasontowards her, there was something vaguely repellent in the prospect of seeinghim. The old nurse (who remembered them both in their cradles) observed herhesitation; and sympathising of course with the man, put in a timely word forHenry. “He says, he’s going away, my dear; and he only wants to shake hands,and say good-bye.” This plain statement of the case had its effect. Agnesdecided on receiving her cousin.

He entered the room so rapidly that he surprised her in the act of throwing thefragments of Montbarry’s last letter into the fire. She hurriedly spoke first.

“You are leaving London very suddenly, Henry. Is it business? or pleasure?”

Instead of answering her, he pointed to the flaming letter, and to some blackashes of burnt paper lying lightly in the lower part of the fireplace.

“Are you burning letters?”

“Yes.”

“Hisletters?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand gently. “I had no idea I was intruding on you, at a time whenyou must wish to be alone. 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 Ifeel a foolish pride about myself in your presence? why should I have anysecrets from you? I sent back all your brother’s gifts to me some time ago. Ihave been advised to do more, to keep nothing that can remind me of him—inshort, to burn his letters. I have taken the advice; but I own I shrank alittle from destroying the last of the letters. No—not because it was the last,but because it had this in it.” She opened her hand, and showed him a lock ofMontbarry’s hair, tied with a morsel of golden cord. “Well! well! let it gowith the rest.”

She dropped it into the flame. For a while, she stood with her back to Henry,leaning on the mantel-piece, and looking into the fire. He took the chair towhich she had pointed, with a strange contradiction of expression in his face:the tears were in his eyes, while the brows above were knit close in an angryfrown. He muttered to himself, “Damn him!”

She rallied her courage, and looked at him again when she spoke. “Well, Henry,and why are you going away?”

“I am out of spirits, Agnes, and I want a change.”

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

“Is it true,” she asked, after a long silence, “that they have been marriedto-day?”

He answered ungraciously in the one necessary word:—“Yes.”

“Did you go to the church?”

He resented the question with an expression of indignant surprise. “Go to thechurch?” he repeated. “I would as soon go to—” He checked himself there. “Howcan you ask?” he added in lower tones. “I have never spoken to Montbarry, Ihave not even seen him, since he treated you like the scoundrel and the foolthat he is.”

She looked at him suddenly, without saying a word. He understood her, andbegged her pardon. But he was still angry. “The reckoning comes to some men,”he said, “even in this world. He will live to rue the day when he married thatwoman!”

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 preferredher to me?” she asked.

Henry turned on her sharply. “Do youdefend the Countess, of all thepeople in the world?”

“Why not?” Agnes answered. “I know nothing against her. On the only occasionwhen we met, she appeared to be a singularly timid, nervous person, lookingdreadfully ill; and beingindeed so ill that she fainted under the heatof my room. Why should we not do her justice? We know that she was innocent ofany intention to wrong me; we know that she was not aware of my engagement—”

Henry lifted his hand impatiently, and stopped her. “There is such a thing asbeing toojust and tooforgiving!” he interposed. “I can’t bearto hear you talk in that patient way, after the scandalously cruel manner inwhich you have been treated. Try to forget them both, Agnes. I wish to God Icould help you to do it!”

Agnes laid her hand on his arm. “You are very good to me, Henry; but you don’tquite understand me. I was thinking of myself and my trouble in quite adifferent way, when you came in. I was wondering whether anything which has soentirely filled my heart, and so absorbed all that is best and truest in me, asmy feeling for your brother, can really pass away as if it had never existed. Ihave destroyed the last visible things that remind me of him. In this world Ishall see him no more. But is the tie that once bound us, completely broken? AmI as entirely parted from the good and evil fortune of his life as if we hadnever met and never loved? What do youthink, Henry? I can hardlybelieve it.”

“If you could bring the retribution on him that he has deserved,” HenryWestwick answered sternly, “I might be inclined to agree with you.”

As that reply passed his lips, the old nurse appeared again at the door,announcing another visitor.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear. But here is little Mrs. Ferrari wanting toknow when she may say a few words to you.”

Agnes turned to Henry, before she replied. “You remember Emily Bidwell, myfavourite pupil years ago at the village school, and afterwards my maid? Sheleft me, to marry an Italian courier, named Ferrari—and I am afraid it has notturned out very well. Do you mind my having her in here for a minute or two?”

Henry rose to take his leave. “I should be glad to see Emily again at any othertime,” he said. “But it is best that I should go now. My mind is disturbed,Agnes; I might say things to you, if I stayed here any longer, which—which arebetter not said now. I shall cross the Channel by the mail to-night, and seehow a few weeks’ change will help me.” He took her hand. “Is there anything inthe world that I can do for you?” he asked very earnestly. She thanked him, andtried to release her hand. He held it with a tremulous lingering grasp. “Godbless you, Agnes!” he said in faltering tones, with his eyes on the ground. Herface flushed again, and the next instant turned paler than ever; she knew hisheart as well as he knew it himself—she was too distressed to speak. He liftedher hand to his lips, kissed it fervently, and, without looking at her again,left the room. The nurse hobbled after him to the head of the stairs: she hadnot forgotten the time when the younger brother had been the unsuccessful rivalof the elder for the hand of Agnes. “Don’t be down-hearted, Master Henry,”whispered the old woman, with the unscrupulous common sense of persons in thelower rank of life. “Try her again, when you come back!”

Left alone for a few moments, Agnes took a turn in the room, trying to composeherself. She paused before a little water-colour drawing on the wall, which hadbelonged to her mother: it was her own portrait when she was a child. “How muchhappier we should be,” she thought to herself sadly, “if we never grew up!”

The courier’s wife was shown in—a little meek melancholy woman, with whiteeyelashes, and watery eyes, who curtseyed deferentially and was troubled with asmall chronic cough. Agnes shook hands with her kindly. “Well, Emily, what canI do for you?”

The courier’s wife made rather a strange answer: “I’m afraid to tell you,Miss.”

“Is it such a very difficult favour to grant? Sit down, and let me hear how youare going on. Perhaps the petition will slip out while we are talking. How doesyour husband behave to you?”

Emily’s light grey eyes looked more watery than ever. She shook her head andsighed resignedly. “I have no positive complaint to make against him, Miss. ButI’m afraid he doesn’t care about me; and he seems to take no interest in hishome—I may almost say he’s tired of his home. It might be better for both ofus, Miss, if he went travelling for a while—not to mention the money, which isbeginning to be wanted sadly.” She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighedagain more resignedly than ever.

“I don’t quite understand,” said Agnes. “I thought your husband had anengagement to take some ladies to Switzerland and Italy?”

“That was his ill-luck, Miss. One of the ladies fell ill—and the otherswouldn’t go without her. They paid him a month’s salary as compensation. Butthey had engaged him for the autumn and winter—and the loss is serious.”

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

“It’s not his turn, Miss, to be recommended when the next applications come tothe couriers’ office. You see, there are so many of them out of employment justnow. If he could be privately recommended—” She stopped, and left theunfinished sentence to speak for itself.

Agnes understood her directly. “You want my recommendation,” she rejoined. “Whycouldn’t you say so at once?”

Emily blushed. “It would be such a chance for my husband,” she answeredconfusedly. “A letter, inquiring for a good courier (a six months’ engagement,Miss!) came to the office this morning. It’s another man’s turn to bechosen—and the secretary will recommend him. If my husband could only send histestimonials by the same post—with just a word in your name, Miss—it might turnthe scale, as they say. A private recommendation between gentlefolks goes sofar.” She stopped again, and sighed again, and looked down at the carpet, as ifshe had some private reason for feeling a little ashamed of herself.

Agnes began to be rather weary of the persistent tone of mystery in which hervisitor spoke. “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 namedirectly—or drop the subject—whichever you like best.”

Emily made a last desperate effort. She wrung her handkerchief hard in her lap,and let off the name as if she had been letting off a loaded gun:—“LordMontbarry!”

Agnes rose and looked at her.

“You have disappointed me,” she said very quietly, but with a look which thecourier’s wife had never seen in her face before. “Knowing what you know, youought to be aware that it is impossible for me to communicate with LordMontbarry. I always supposed you had some delicacy of feeling. I am sorry tofind that I have been mistaken.”

Weak as she was, Emily had spirit enough to feel the reproof. She walked in hermeek noiseless way to the door. “I beg your pardon, Miss. I am not quite so badas you think me. But I beg your pardon, all the same.”

She opened the door. Agnes called her back. There was something in the woman’sapology that appealed irresistibly to her just and generous nature. “Come,” shesaid; “we must not part in this way. Let me not misunderstand you. What is itthat you expected me to do?”

Emily was wise enough to answer this time without any reserve. “My husband willsend his testimonials, Miss, to Lord Montbarry in Scotland. I only wanted youto let him say in his letter that his wife has been known to you since she wasa child, and that you feel some little interest in his welfare on that account.I don’t ask it now, Miss. You have made me understand that I was wrong.”

Had she really been wrong? Past remembrances, as well as present troubles,pleaded powerfully with Agnes for the courier’s wife. “It seems only a smallfavour to ask,” she said, speaking under the impulse of kindness which was thestrongest impulse in her nature. “But I am not sure that I ought to allow myname to be mentioned in your husband’s letter. Let me hear again exactly whathe wishes to say.” Emily repeated the words—and then offered one of thosesuggestions, which have a special value of their own to persons unaccustomed tothe use of their pens. “Suppose you try, Miss, how it looks in writing?”Childish as the idea was, Agnes tried the experiment. “If I let you mentionme,” she said, “we must at least decide what you are to say.” She wrote thewords in the briefest and plainest form:—“I venture to state that my wife hasbeen known from her childhood to Miss Agnes Lockwood, who feels some littleinterest in my welfare on that account.” Reduced to this one sentence, therewas surely nothing in the reference to her name which implied that Agnes hadpermitted it, or that she was even aware of it. After a last struggle withherself, she handed the written paper to Emily. “Your husband must copy itexactly, without altering anything,” she stipulated. “On that condition, Igrant your request.” Emily was not only thankful—she was really touched. Agneshurried the little woman out of the room. “Don’t give me time to repent andtake it back again,” she said. Emily vanished.

“Is the tie that once bound us completely broken? Am I as entirely parted fromthe good and evil fortune of his life as if we had never met and never loved?”Agnes looked at the clock on the mantel-piece. Not ten minutes since, thoseserious questions had been on her lips. It almost shocked her to think of thecommon-place manner in which they had already met with their reply. The mail ofthat night would appeal once more to Montbarry’s remembrance of her—in thechoice of a servant.

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

THE SECOND PART

CHAPTER V

After only one week of travelling in Scotland, my lord and my lady returnedunexpectedly to London. Introduced to the mountains and lakes of the Highlands,her ladyship positively declined to improve her acquaintance with them. Whenshe was asked for her reason, she answered with a Roman brevity, “I have seenSwitzerland.”

For a week more, the newly-married couple remained in London, in the strictestretirement. On one day in that week the nurse returned in a state of mostuncustomary excitement from an errand on which Agnes had sent her. Passing thedoor of a fashionable dentist, she had met Lord Montbarry himself just leavingthe house. The good woman’s report described him, with malicious pleasure, aslooking wretchedly ill. “His cheeks are getting hollow, my dear, and his beardis turning grey. I hope the dentist hurt him!”

Knowing how heartily her faithful old servant hated the man who had desertedher, Agnes made due allowance for a large infusion of exaggeration in thepicture presented to her. The main impression produced on her mind was animpression of nervous uneasiness. If she trusted herself in the streets bydaylight while Lord Montbarry remained in London, how could she be sure thathis next chance-meeting might not be a meeting with herself? She waited athome, privately ashamed of her own undignified conduct, for the next two days.On the third day the fashionable intelligence of the newspapers announced thedeparture of Lord and Lady Montbarry for Paris, on their way to Italy.

Mrs. Ferrari, calling the same evening, informed Agnes that her husband hadleft her with all reasonable expression of conjugal kindness; his temper beingimproved by the prospect of going abroad. But one other servant accompanied thetravellers—Lady Montbarry’s maid, rather a silent, unsociable woman, so far asEmily had heard. Her ladyship’s brother, Baron Rivar, was already on theContinent. It had been arranged that he was to meet his sister and her husbandat Rome.

One by one the dull weeks succeeded each other in the life of Agnes. She facedher position with admirable courage, seeing her friends, keeping herselfoccupied in her leisure hours with reading and drawing, leaving no meansuntried of diverting her mind from the melancholy remembrance of the past. Butshe had loved too faithfully, she had been wounded too deeply, to feel in anyadequate degree the influence of the moral remedies which she employed. Personswho met with her in the ordinary relations of life, deceived by her outwardserenity of manner, agreed that “Miss Lockwood seemed to be getting over herdisappointment.” But an old friend and school companion who happened to see herduring a brief visit to London, was inexpressibly distressed by the change thatshe detected in Agnes. This lady was Mrs. Westwick, the wife of that brother ofLord Montbarry who came next to him in age, and who was described in the“Peerage” as presumptive heir to the title. He was then away, looking after hisinterests in some mining property which he possessed in America. Mrs. Westwickinsisted on taking Agnes back with her to her home in Ireland. “Come and keepme company while my husband is away. My three little girls will make you theirplayfellow, and the only stranger you will meet is the governess, whom I answerfor your liking beforehand. Pack up your things, and I will call for youto-morrow on my way to the train.” In those hearty terms the invitation wasgiven. Agnes thankfully accepted it. For three happy months she lived under theroof of her friend. The girls hung round her in tears at her departure; theyoungest of them wanted to go back with Agnes to London. Half in jest, half inearnest, she said to her old friend at parting, “If your governess leaves you,keep the place open for me.” Mrs. Westwick laughed. The wiser children took itseriously, and promised to let Agnes know.

On the very day when Miss Lockwood returned to London, she was recalled tothose associations with the past which she was most anxious to forget. Afterthe first kissings and greetings were over, the old nurse (who had been left incharge at the lodgings) had some startling information to communicate, derivedfrom the courier’s wife.

“Here has been little Mrs. Ferrari, my dear, in a dreadful state of mind,inquiring when you would be back. Her husband has left Lord Montbarry, withouta word of warning—and nobody knows what has become of him.”

Agnes looked at her in astonishment. “Are you sure of what you are saying?” sheasked.

The nurse was quite sure. “Why, Lord bless you! the news comes from thecouriers’ office in Golden Square—from the secretary, Miss Agnes, the secretaryhimself!” Hearing this, Agnes began to feel alarmed as well as surprised. Itwas still early in the evening. She at once sent a message to Mrs. Ferrari, tosay that she had returned.

In an hour more the courier’s wife appeared, in a state of agitation which itwas not easy to control. Her narrative, when she was at last able to speakconnectedly, entirely confirmed the nurse’s report of it.

After hearing from her husband with tolerable regularity from Paris, Rome, andVenice, Emily had twice written to him afterwards—and had received no reply.Feeling uneasy, she had gone to the office in Golden Square, to inquire if hehad been heard of there. The post of the morning had brought a letter to thesecretary from a courier then at Venice. It contained startling news ofFerrari. His wife had been allowed to take a copy of it, which she now handedto Agnes to read.

The writer stated that he had recently arrived in Venice. He had previouslyheard that Ferrari was with Lord and Lady Montbarry, at one of the old Venetianpalaces which they had hired for a term. Being a friend of Ferrari, he had goneto pay him a visit. Ringing at the door that opened on the canal, and failingto make anyone hear him, he had gone round to a side entrance opening on one ofthe narrow lanes of Venice. Here, standing at the door (as if she was waitingfor him to try that way next), he found a pale woman with magnificent darkeyes, who proved to be no other than Lady Montbarry herself.

She asked, in Italian, what he wanted. He answered that he wanted to see thecourier Ferrari, if it was quite convenient. She at once informed him thatFerrari had left the palace, without assigning any reason, and without evenleaving an address at which his monthly salary (then due to him) could be paid.Amazed at this reply, the courier inquired if any person had offended Ferrari,or quarrelled with him. The lady answered, “To my knowledge, certainly not. Iam Lady Montbarry; and I can positively assure you that Ferrari was treatedwith the greatest kindness in this house. We are as much astonished as you areat his extraordinary disappearance. If you should hear of him, pray let usknow, so that we may at least pay him the money which is due.”

After one or two more questions (quite readily answered) relating to the dateand the time of day at which Ferrari had left the palace, the courier took hisleave.

He at once entered on the necessary investigations—without the slightest resultso far as Ferrari was concerned. Nobody had seen him. Nobody appeared to havebeen taken into his confidence. Nobody knew anything (that is to say, anythingof the slightest importance) even about persons so distinguished as Lord andLady Montbarry. It was reported that her ladyship’s English maid had left her,before the disappearance of Ferrari, to return to her relatives in her owncountry, and that Lady Montbarry had taken no steps to supply her place. Hislordship was described as being in delicate health. He lived in the strictestretirement—nobody was admitted to him, not even his own countrymen. A stupidold woman was discovered who did the housework at the palace, arriving in themorning and going away again at night. She had never seen the lost courier—shehad never even seen Lord Montbarry, who was then confined to his room. Herladyship, “a most gracious and adorable mistress,” was in constant attendanceon her noble husband. There was no other servant then in the house (so far asthe old woman knew) but herself. The meals were sent in from a restaurant. Mylord, it was said, disliked strangers. My lord’s brother-in-law, the Baron, wasgenerally shut up in a remote part of the palace, occupied (the graciousmistress said) with experiments in chemistry. The experiments sometimes made anasty smell. A doctor had latterly been called in to his lordship—an Italiandoctor, long resident in Venice. Inquiries being addressed to this gentleman (aphysician of undoubted capacity and respectability), it turned out that he alsohad never seen Ferrari, having been summoned to the palace (as his memorandumbook showed) at a date subsequent to the courier’s disappearance. The doctordescribed Lord Montbarry’s malady as bronchitis. So far, there was no reason tofeel any anxiety, though the attack was a sharp one. If alarming symptomsshould appear, he had arranged with her ladyship to call in another physician.For the rest, it was impossible to speak too highly of my lady; night and day,she was at her lord’s bedside.

With these particulars began and ended the discoveries made by Ferrari’scourier-friend. The police were on the look-out for the lost man—and that wasthe only hope which could be held forth for the present, to Ferrari’s wife.

“What do you think of it, Miss?” the poor woman asked eagerly. “What would youadvise me to do?”

Agnes was at a loss how to answer her; it was an effort even to listen to whatEmily was saying. The references in the courier’s letter to Montbarry—thereport of his illness, the melancholy picture of his secluded life—had reopenedthe old wound. She was not even thinking of the lost Ferrari; her mind was atVenice, by the sick man’s bedside.

“I hardly know what to say,” she answered. “I have had no experience in seriousmatters of this kind.”

“Do you think it would help you, Miss, if you read my husband’s letters to me?There are only three of them—they won’t take long to read.”

Agnes compassionately read the letters.

They were not written in a very tender tone. “Dear Emily,” and “Yoursaffectionately”—these conventional phrases, were the only phrases of endearmentwhich they contained. In the first letter, Lord Montbarry was not veryfavourably spoken of:—“We leave Paris to-morrow. I don’t much like my lord. Heis proud and cold, and, between ourselves, stingy in money matters. I have hadto dispute such trifles as a few centimes in the hotel bill; and twice already,some sharp remarks have passed between the newly-married couple, in consequenceof her ladyship’s freedom in purchasing pretty tempting things at the shops inParis. ‘I can’t afford it; you must keep to your allowance.’ She has had tohear those words already. For my part, I like her. She has the nice, easyforeign manners—shetalks to me as if I was a human being like herself.”

The second letter was dated from Rome.

“My lord’s caprices” (Ferrari wrote) “have kept us perpetually on the move. Heis becoming incurably restless. I suspect he is uneasy in his mind. Painfulrecollections, I should say—I find him constantly reading old letters, when herladyship is not present. We were to have stopped at Genoa, but he hurried uson. The same thing at Florence. Here, at Rome, my lady insists on resting. Herbrother has met us at this place. There has been a quarrel already (the lady’smaid tells me) between my lord and the Baron. The latter wanted to borrow moneyof the former. His lordship refused in language which offended Baron Rivar. Mylady pacified them, and made them shake hands.”

The third, and last letter, was from Venice.

“More of my lord’s economy! Instead of staying at the hotel, we have hired adamp, mouldy, rambling old palace. My lady insists on having the best suites ofrooms wherever we go—and the palace comes cheaper for a two months’ term. Mylord tried to get it for longer; he says the quiet of Venice is good for hisnerves. But a foreign speculator has secured the palace, and is going to turnit into an hotel. The Baron is still with us, and there have been moredisagreements about money matters. I don’t like the Baron—and I don’t find theattractions of my lady grow on me. She was much nicer before the Baron joinedus. My lord is a punctual paymaster; it’s a matter of honour with him; he hatesparting with his money, but he does it because he has given his word. I receivemy salary regularly at the end of each month—not a franc extra, though I havedone many things which are not part of a courier’s proper work. Fancy the Barontrying to borrow money of me!He is an inveterate gambler. I didn’tbelieve it when my lady’s maid first told me so—but I have seen enough since tosatisfy me that she was right. I have seen other things besides, which—well!which don’t increase my respect for my lady and the Baron. The maid says shemeans to give warning to leave. She is a respectable British female, anddoesn’t take things quite so easily as I do. It is a dull life here. No goinginto company—no company at home—not a creature sees my lord—not even theconsul, or the banker. When he goes out, he goes alone, and generally towardsnightfall. Indoors, he shuts himself up in his own room with his books, andsees as little of his wife and the Baron as possible. I fancy things are comingto a crisis here. If my lord’s suspicions are once awakened, the consequenceswill be terrible. Under certain provocations, the noble Montbarry is a man whowould stick at nothing. However, the pay is good—and I can’t afford to talk ofleaving the place, like my lady’s maid.”

Agnes handed back the letters—so suggestive of the penalty paid already for hisown infatuation by the man who had deserted her!—with feelings of shame anddistress, which made her no fit counsellor for the helpless woman who dependedon her advice.

“The one thing I can suggest,” she said, after first speaking some kind wordsof comfort and hope, “is that we should consult a person of greater experiencethan ours. Suppose I write and ask my lawyer (who is also my friend andtrustee) to come and advise us to-morrow after his business hours?”

Emily eagerly and gratefully accepted the suggestion. An hour was arranged forthe meeting on the next day; the correspondence was left under the care ofAgnes; and the courier’s wife took her leave.

Weary and heartsick, Agnes lay down on the sofa, to rest and compose herself.The careful nurse brought in a reviving cup of tea. Her quaint gossip aboutherself and her occupations while Agnes had been away, acted as a relief to hermistress’s overburdened mind. They were still talking quietly, when they werestartled by a loud knock at the house door. Hurried footsteps ascended thestairs. The door of the sitting-room was thrown open violently; the courier’swife rushed in like a mad woman. “He’s dead! They’ve murdered him!” Those wildwords were all she could say. She dropped on her knees at the foot of thesofa—held out her hand with something clasped in it—and fell back in a swoon.

The nurse, signing to Agnes to open the window, took the necessary measures torestore the fainting woman. “What’s this?” she exclaimed. “Here’s a letter inher hand. See what it is, Miss.”

The open envelope was addressed (evidently in a feigned hand-writing) to “Mrs.Ferrari.” The post-mark was “Venice.” The contents of the envelope were a sheetof foreign note-paper, and a folded enclosure.

On the note-paper, one line only was written. It was again in a feignedhandwriting, and it contained these words:

“To console you for the loss of your husband.”

Agnes opened the enclosure next.

It was a Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.

CHAPTER VI

The next day, the friend and legal adviser of Agnes Lockwood, Mr. Troy, calledon her by appointment in the evening.

Mrs. Ferrari—still persisting in the conviction of her husband’s death—hadsufficiently recovered to be present at the consultation. Assisted by Agnes,she told the lawyer the little that was known relating to Ferrari’sdisappearance, and then produced the correspondence connected with that event.Mr. Troy read (first) the three letters addressed by Ferrari to his wife;(secondly) the letter written by Ferrari’s courier-friend, describing his visitto the palace and his interview with Lady Montbarry; and (thirdly) the one lineof anonymous writing which had accompanied the extraordinary gift of a thousandpounds to Ferrari’s wife.

Well known, at a later period, as the lawyer who acted for Lady Lydiard, in thecase of theft, generally described as the case of “My Lady’s Money,” Mr. Troywas not only a man of learning and experience in his profession—he was also aman who had seen something of society at home and abroad. He possessed a keeneye for character, a quaint humour, and a kindly nature which had not beendeteriorated even by a lawyer’s professional experience of mankind. With allthese personal advantages, it is a question, nevertheless, whether he was thefittest adviser whom Agnes could have chosen under the circumstances. LittleMrs. Ferrari, with many domestic merits, was an essentially commonplace woman.Mr. Troy was the last person living who was likely to attract her sympathies—hewas the exact opposite of a commonplace man.

“She looks very ill, poor thing!” In these words the lawyer opened the businessof the evening, referring to Mrs. Ferrari as unceremoniously as if she had beenout of the room.

“She has suffered a terrible shock,” Agnes answered.

Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari, and looked at her again, with the interest dueto the victim of a shock. He drummed absently with his fingers on the table. Atlast he spoke to her.

“My good lady, you don’t really believe that your husband is dead?”

Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word “dead” was ineffectualto express her feelings. “Murdered!” she said sternly, behind her handkerchief.

“Why? And by whom?” Mr. Troy asked.

Mrs. Ferrari seemed to have some difficulty in answering. “You have read myhusband’s letters, sir,” she began. “I believe he discovered—” She got as faras that, and there she stopped.

“What did he discover?”

There are limits to human patience—even the patience of a bereaved wife. Thiscool question irritated Mrs. Ferrari into expressing herself plainly at last.

“He discovered Lady Montbarry and the Baron!” she answered, with a burst ofhysterical vehemence. “The Baron is no more that vile woman’s brother than Iam. The wickedness of those two wretches came to my poor dear husband’sknowledge. The lady’s maid left her place on account of it. If Ferrari had goneaway too, he would have been alive at this moment. They have killed him. I saythey have killed him, to prevent it from getting to Lord Montbarry’s ears.” So,in short sharp sentences, and in louder and louder accents, Mrs. Ferrari statedheropinion of the case.

Still keeping his own view in reserve, Mr. Troy listened with an expression ofsatirical approval.

“Very strongly stated, Mrs. Ferrari,” he said. “You build up your sentenceswell; you clinch your conclusions in a workmanlike manner. If you had been aman, you would have made a good lawyer—you would have taken juries by thescruff of their necks. Complete the case, my good lady—complete the case. Tellus next who sent you this letter, enclosing the bank-note. The ‘two wretches’who murdered Mr. Ferrari would hardly put their hands in their pockets and sendyou a thousand pounds. Who is it—eh? I see the post-mark on the letter is‘Venice.’ Have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart, anda purse to correspond, who has been let into the secret and who wishes toconsole you anonymously?”

It was not easy to reply to this. Mrs. Ferrari began to feel the first inwardapproaches of something like hatred towards Mr. Troy. “I don’t understand you,sir,” she answered. “I don’t think this is a joking matter.”

Agnes interfered, for the first time. She drew her chair a little nearer to herlegal counsellor and friend.

“What is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?” she asked.

“I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you,” Mr. Troy answered.

“No, sir, you won’t!” cried Mrs. Ferrari, hating Mr. Troy undisguisedly by thistime.

The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “Very well,” he said, in his mostgood-humoured manner. “Let’s have it out. Observe, madam, I don’t dispute yourview of the position of affairs at the palace in Venice. You have yourhusband’s letters to justify you; and you have also the significant fact thatLady Montbarry’s maid did really leave the house. We will say, then, that LordMontbarry has presumably been made the victim of a foul wrong—that Mr. Ferrariwas the first to find it out—and that the guilty persons had reason to fear,not only that he would acquaint Lord Montbarry with his discovery, but that hewould be a principal witness against them if the scandal was made public in acourt of law. Now mark! Admitting all this, I draw a totally differentconclusion from the conclusion at which you have arrived. Here is your husbandleft in this miserable household of three, under very awkward circumstances forhim. What does he do? But for the bank-note and the written message sentto you with it, I should say that he had wisely withdrawn himself fromassociation with a disgraceful discovery and exposure, by taking secretly toflight. The money modifies this view—unfavourably so far as Mr. Ferrari isconcerned. I still believe he is keeping out of the way. But I now say he ispaidfor keeping out of the way—and that bank-note there on the table isthe price of his absence, sent by the guilty persons to his wife.”

Mrs. Ferrari’s watery grey eyes brightened suddenly; Mrs. Ferrari’s dulldrab-coloured complexion became enlivened by a glow of brilliant red.

“It’s false!” she cried. “It’s a burning shame to speak of my husband in thatway!”

“I told you I should offend you!” said Mr. Troy.

Agnes interposed once more—in the interests of peace. She took the offendedwife’s hand; she appealed to the lawyer to reconsider that side of his theorywhich reflected harshly on Ferrari. While she was still speaking, the servantinterrupted her by entering the room with a visiting-card. It was the card ofHenry Westwick; and there was an ominous request written on it in pencil. “Ibring bad news. Let me see you for a minute downstairs.” Agnes immediately leftthe room.

Alone with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy permitted his natural kindness of heart toshow itself on the surface at last. He tried to make his peace with thecourier’s wife.

“You have every claim, my good soul, to resent a reflection cast upon yourhusband,” he began. “I may even say that I respect you for speaking so warmlyin his defence. At the same time, remember, that I am bound, in such a seriousmatter as this, to tell you what is really in my mind. I can have no intentionof offending you, seeing that I am a total stranger to you and to Mr. Ferrari.A thousand pounds is a large sum of money; and a poor man may excusably betempted by it to do nothing worse than to keep out of the way for a while. Myonly interest, acting on your behalf, is to get at the truth. If you will giveme time, I see no reason to despair of finding your husband yet.”

Ferrari’s wife listened, without being convinced: her narrow little mind,filled to its extreme capacity by her unfavourable opinion of Mr. Troy, had noroom left for the process of correcting its first impression. “I am muchobliged to you, sir,” was all she said. Her eyes were more communicative—hereyes added, in theirlanguage, “You may say what you please; I willnever forgive you to my dying day.”

Mr. Troy gave it up. He composedly wheeled his chair around, put his hands inhis pockets, and looked out of window.

After an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened.

Mr. Troy wheeled round again briskly to the table, expecting to see Agnes. Tohis surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect stranger to him—agentleman, in the prime of life, with a marked expression of pain andembarrassment on his handsome face. He looked at Mr. Troy, and bowed gravely.

“I am so unfortunate as to have brought news to Miss Agnes Lockwood which hasgreatly distressed her,” he said. “She has retired to her room. I am requestedto make her excuses, and to speak to you in her place.”

Having introduced himself in those terms, he noticed Mrs. Ferrari, and held outhis hand to her kindly. “It is some years since we last met, Emily,” he said.“I am afraid you have almost forgotten the ‘Master Henry’ of old times.” Emily,in some little confusion, made her acknowledgments, and begged to know if shecould be of any use to Miss Lockwood. “The old nurse is with her,” Henryanswered; “they will be better left together.” He turned once more to Mr. Troy.“I ought to tell you,” he said, “that my name is Henry Westwick. I am theyounger brother of the late Lord Montbarry.”

“The lateLord Montbarry!” Mr. Troy exclaimed.

“My brother died at Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram.” With thatstartling answer, he handed the paper to Mr. Troy.

The message was in these words:

“Lady Montbarry, Venice. To Stephen Robert Westwick, Newbury’s Hotel, London.It is useless to take the journey. Lord Montbarry died of bronchitis, at 8.40this evening. All needful details by post.”

“Was this expected, sir?” the lawyer asked.

“I cannot say that it has taken us entirely by surprise,” Henry answered. “Mybrother Stephen (who is now the head of the family) received a telegram threedays since, informing him that alarming symptoms had declared themselves, andthat a second physician had been called in. He telegraphed back to say that hehad left Ireland for London, on his way to Venice, and to direct that anyfurther message might be sent to his hotel. The reply came in a secondtelegram. It announced that Lord Montbarry was in a state of insensibility, andthat, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody. My brotherwas advised to wait in London for later information. The third telegram is nowin your hands. That is all I know, up to the present time.”

Happening to look at the courier’s wife, Mr. Troy was struck by the expressionof blank fear which showed itself in the woman’s face.

“Mrs. Ferrari,” he said, “have you heard what Mr. Westwick has just told me?”

“Every word of it, sir.”

“Have you any questions to ask?”

“No, sir.”

“You seem to be alarmed,” the lawyer persisted. “Is it still about yourhusband?”

“I shall never see my husband again, sir. I have thought so all along, as youknow. I feel sure of it now.”

“Sure of it, after what you have just heard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“No, sir. It’s a feeling I have. I can’t tell why.”

“Oh, a feeling?” Mr. Troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate contempt. “Whenit comes to feelings, my good soul—!” He left the sentence unfinished, and roseto take his leave of Mr. Westwick. The truth is, he began to feel puzzledhimself, and he did not choose to let Mrs. Ferrari see it. “Accept theexpression of my sympathy, sir,” he said to Mr. Westwick politely. “I wish yougood evening.”

Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door. “I have heard ofyour trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there anything I can do to helpyou?”

“Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I had better go home after what hashappened? I will call to-morrow, and see if I can be of any use to Miss Agnes.I am very sorry for her.” She stole away, with her formal curtsey, hernoiseless step, and her obstinate resolution to take the gloomiest view of herhusband’s case.

Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room.There was nothing to keep him in the house, and yet he lingered in it. It wassomething to be even near Agnes—to see the things belonging to her that werescattered about the room. There, in the corner, was her chair, with herembroidery on the work-table by its side. On the little easel near the windowwas her last drawing, not quite finished yet. The book she had been reading layon the sofa, with her tiny pencil-case in it to mark the place at which she hadleft off. One after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of thewoman whom he loved—took them up tenderly—and laid them down again with a sigh.Ah, how far, how unattainably far from him, she was still! “She will neverforget Montbarry,” he thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. “Not oneof us feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch—how sheloved him!”

In the street, as Henry closed the house-door, he was stopped by a passingacquaintance—a wearisome inquisitive man—doubly unwelcome to him, at thatmoment. “Sad news, Westwick, this about your brother. Rather an unexpecteddeath, wasn’t it? We never heard at the club that Montbarry’s lungs were weak.What will the insurance offices do?”

Henry started; he had never thought of his brother’s life insurance. What couldthe offices do but pay? A death by bronchitis, certified by two physicians, wassurely the least disputable of all deaths. “I wish you hadn’t put that questioninto my head!” he broke out irritably. “Ah!” said his friend, “you think thewidow will get the money? So do I! so do I!”

CHAPTER VII

Some days later, the insurance offices (two in number) received the formalannouncement of Lord Montbarry’s death, from her ladyship’s London solicitors.The sum insured in each office was five thousand pounds—on which one year’spremium only had been paid. In the face of such a pecuniary emergency as this,the Directors thought it desirable to consider their position. The medicaladvisers of the two offices, who had recommended the insurance of LordMontbarry’s life, were called into council over their own reports. The resultexcited some interest among persons connected with the business of lifeinsurance. Without absolutely declining to pay the money, the two offices(acting in concert) decided on sending a commission of inquiry to Venice, “forthe purpose of obtaining further information.”

Mr. Troy received the earliest intelligence of what was going on. He wrote atonce to communicate his news to Agnes; adding, what he considered to be avaluable hint, in these words:

“You are intimately acquainted, I know, with Lady Barville, the late LordMontbarry’s eldest sister. The solicitors employed by her husband are also thesolicitors to one of the two insurance offices. There may possibly be somethingin the report of the commission of inquiry touching on Ferrari’s disappearance.Ordinary persons would not be permitted, of course, to see such a document. Buta sister of the late lord is so near a relative as to be an exception togeneral rules. If Sir Theodore Barville puts it on that footing, the lawyers,even if they do not allow his wife to look at the report, will at least answerany discreet questions she may ask referring to it. Let me hear what you thinkof this suggestion, at your earliest convenience.”

The reply was received by return of post. Agnes declined to avail herself ofMr. Troy’s proposal.

“My interference, innocent as it was,” she wrote, “has already been productiveof such deplorable results, that I cannot and dare not stir any further in thecase of Ferrari. If I had not consented to let that unfortunate man refer to meby name, the late Lord Montbarry would never have engaged him, and his wifewould have been spared the misery and suspense from which she is suffering now.I would not even look at the report to which you allude if it was placed in myhands—I have heard more than enough already of that hideous life in the palaceat Venice. If Mrs. Ferrari chooses to address herself to Lady Barville (withyour assistance), that is of course quite another thing. But, even in thiscase, I must make it a positive condition that my name shall not be mentioned.Forgive me, dear Mr. Troy! I am very unhappy, and very unreasonable—but I amonly a woman, and you must not expect too much from me.”

Foiled in this direction, the lawyer next advised making the attempt todiscover the present address of Lady Montbarry’s English maid. This excellentsuggestion had one drawback: it could only be carried out by spending money—andthere was no money to spend. Mrs. Ferrari shrank from the bare idea of makingany use of the thousand-pound note. It had been deposited in the safe keepingof a bank. If it was even mentioned in her hearing, she shuddered and referredto it, with melodramatic fervour, as “my husband’s blood-money!”

So, under stress of circumstances, the attempt to solve the mystery ofFerrari’s disappearance was suspended for a while.

It was the last month of the year 1860. The commission of inquiry was alreadyat work; having begun its investigations on December 6. On the 10th, the termfor which the late Lord Montbarry had hired the Venetian palace, expired. Newsby telegram reached the insurance offices that Lady Montbarry had been advisedby her lawyers to leave for London with as little delay as possible. BaronRivar, it was believed, would accompany her to England, but would not remain inthat country, unless his services were absolutely required by her ladyship. TheBaron, “well known as an enthusiastic student of chemistry,” had heard ofcertain recent discoveries in connection with that science in the UnitedStates, and was anxious to investigate them personally.

These items of news, collected by Mr. Troy, were duly communicated to Mrs.Ferrari, whose anxiety about her husband made her a frequent, a too frequent,visitor at the lawyer’s office. She attempted to relate what she had heard toher good friend and protectress. Agnes steadily refused to listen, andpositively forbade any further conversation relating to Lord Montbarry’s wife,now that Lord Montbarry was no more. “You have Mr. Troy to advise you,” shesaid; “and you are welcome to what little money I can spare, if money iswanted. All I ask in return is that you will not distress me. I am trying toseparate myself from remembrances—” her voice faltered; she paused to controlherself—“from remembrances,” she resumed, “which are sadder than ever since Ihave heard of Lord Montbarry’s death. Help me by your silence to recover myspirits, if I can. Let me hear nothing more, until I can rejoice with you thatyour husband is found.”

Time advanced to the 13th of the month; and more information of the interestingsort reached Mr. Troy. The labours of the insurance commission had come to anend—the report had been received from Venice on that day.

CHAPTER VIII

On the 14th the Directors and their legal advisers met for the reading of thereport, with closed doors. These were the terms in which the Commissionersrelated the results of their inquiry:

“Private and confidential.

“We have the honour to inform our Directors that we arrived in Venice onDecember 6, 1860. On the same day we proceeded to the palace inhabited by LordMontbarry at the time of his last illness and death.

“We were received with all possible courtesy by Lady Montbarry’s brother, BaronRivar. ‘My sister was her husband’s only attendant throughout his illness,’ theBaron informed us. ‘She is overwhelmed by grief and fatigue—or she would havebeen here to receive you personally. What are your wishes, gentlemen? and whatcan I do for you in her ladyship’s place?’

“In accordance with our instructions, we answered that the death and burial ofLord Montbarry abroad made it desirable to obtain more complete informationrelating to his illness, and to the circumstances which had attended it, thancould be conveyed in writing. We explained that the law provided for the lapseof a certain interval of time before the payment of the sum assured, and weexpressed our wish to conduct the inquiry with the most respectfulconsideration for her ladyship’s feelings, and for the convenience of any othermembers of the family inhabiting the house.

“To this the Baron replied, ‘I am the only member of the family living here,and I and the palace are entirely at your disposal.’ From first to last wefound this gentleman perfectly straightforward, and most amiably willing toassist us.

“With the one exception of her ladyship’s room, we went over the whole of thepalace the same day. It is an immense place only partially furnished. The firstfloor and part of the second floor were the portions of it that had beeninhabited by Lord Montbarry and the members of the household. We saw thebedchamber, at one extremity of the palace, in which his lordship died, and thesmall room communicating with it, which he used as a study. Next to this was alarge apartment or hall, the doors of which he habitually kept locked, hisobject being (as we were informed) to pursue his studies uninterruptedly inperfect solitude. On the other side of the large hall were the bedchamberoccupied by her ladyship, and the dressing-room in which the maid sleptprevious to her departure for England. Beyond these were the dining andreception rooms, opening into an antechamber, which gave access to the grandstaircase of the palace.

“The only inhabited rooms on the second floor were the sitting-room and bedroomoccupied by Baron Rivar, and another room at some distance from it, which hadbeen the bedroom of the courier Ferrari.

“The rooms on the third floor and on the basement were completely unfurnished,and in a condition of great neglect. We inquired if there was anything to beseen below the basement—and we were at once informed that there were vaultsbeneath, which we were at perfect liberty to visit.

“We went down, so as to leave no part of the palace unexplored. The vaultswere, it was believed, used as dungeons in the old times—say, some centuriessince. Air and light were only partially admitted to these dismal places by twolong shafts of winding construction, which communicated with the back yard ofthe palace, and the openings of which, high above the ground, were protected byiron gratings. The stone stairs leading down into the vaults could be closed atwill by a heavy trap-door in the back hall, which we found open. The Baronhimself led the way down the stairs. We remarked that it might be awkward ifthat trap-door fell down and closed the opening behind us. The Baron smiled atthe idea. ‘Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,’ he said; ‘the door is safe. I had aninterest in seeing to it myself, when we first inhabited the palace. Myfavourite study is the study of experimental chemistry—and my workshop, sincewe have been in Venice, is down here.’

“These last words explained a curious smell in the vaults, which we noticed themoment we entered them. We can only describe the smell by saying that it was ofa twofold sort—faintly aromatic, as it were, in its first effect, but with someafter-odour very sickening in our nostrils. The Baron’s furnaces and retorts,and other things, were all there to speak for themselves, together with somepackages of chemicals, having the name and address of the person who hadsupplied them plainly visible on their labels. ‘Not a pleasant place forstudy,’ Baron Rivar observed, ‘but my sister is timid. She has a horror ofchemical smells and explosions—and she has banished me to these lower regions,so that my experiments may neither be smelt nor heard.’ He held out his hands,on which we had noticed that he wore gloves in the house. ‘Accidents willhappen sometimes,’ he said, ‘no matter how careful a man may be. I burnt myhands severely in trying a new combination the other day, and they are onlyrecovering now.’

“We mention these otherwise unimportant incidents, in order to show that ourexploration of the palace was not impeded by any attempt at concealment. Wewere even admitted to her ladyship’s own room—on a subsequent occasion, whenshe went out to take the air. Our instructions recommended us to examine hislordship’s residence, because the extreme privacy of his life at Venice, andthe remarkable departure of the only two servants in the house, might have somesuspicious connection with the nature of his death. We found nothing to justifysuspicion.

“As to his lordship’s retired way of life, we have conversed on the subjectwith the consul and the banker—the only two strangers who held anycommunication with him. He called once at the bank to obtain money on hisletter of credit, and excused himself from accepting an invitation to visit thebanker at his private residence, on the ground of delicate health. His lordshipwrote to the same effect on sending his card to the consul, to excuse himselffrom personally returning that gentleman’s visit to the palace. We have seenthe letter, and we beg to offer the following copy of it. ‘Many years passed inIndia have injured my constitution. I have ceased to go into society; the oneoccupation of my life now is the study of Oriental literature. The air of Italyis better for me than the air of England, or I should never have left home.Pray accept the apologies of a student and an invalid. The active part of mylife is at an end.’ The self-seclusion of his lordship seems to us to beexplained in these brief lines. We have not, however, on that account sparedour inquiries in other directions. Nothing to excite a suspicion of anythingwrong has come to our knowledge.

“As to the departure of the lady’s maid, we have seen the woman’s receipt forher wages, in which it is expressly stated that she left Lady Montbarry’sservice because she disliked the Continent, and wished to get back to her owncountry. This is not an uncommon result of taking English servants to foreignparts. Lady Montbarry has informed us that she abstained from engaging anothermaid in consequence of the extreme dislike which his lordship expressed tohaving strangers in the house, in the state of his health at that time.

“The disappearance of the courier Ferrari is, in itself, unquestionably asuspicious circumstance. Neither her ladyship nor the Baron can explain it; andno investigation that we could make has thrown the smallest light on thisevent, or has justified us in associating it, directly or indirectly, with theobject of our inquiry. We have even gone the length of examining theportmanteau which Ferrari left behind him. It contains nothing but clothes andlinen—no money, and not even a scrap of paper in the pockets of the clothes.The portmanteau remains in charge of the police.

“We have also found opportunities of speaking privately to the old woman whoattends to the rooms occupied by her ladyship and the Baron. She wasrecommended to fill this situation by the keeper of the restaurant who hassupplied the meals to the family throughout the period of their residence atthe palace. Her character is most favourably spoken of. Unfortunately, herlimited intelligence makes her of no value as a witness. We were patient andcareful in questioning her, and we found her perfectly willing to answer us;but we could elicit nothing which is worth including in the present report.

“On the second day of our inquiries, we had the honour of an interview withLady Montbarry. Her ladyship looked miserably worn and ill, and seemed to bequite at a loss to understand what we wanted with her. Baron Rivar, whointroduced us, explained the nature of our errand in Venice, and took pains toassure her that it was a purely formal duty on which we were engaged. Havingsatisfied her ladyship on this point, he discreetly left the room.

“The questions which we addressed to Lady Montbarry related mainly, of course,to his lordship’s illness. The answers, given with great nervousness of manner,but without the slightest appearance of reserve, informed us of the facts thatfollow:

“Lord Montbarry had been out of order for some time past—nervous and irritable.He first complained of having taken cold on November 13 last; he passed awakeful and feverish night, and remained in bed the next day. Her ladyshipproposed sending for medical advice. He refused to allow her to do this, sayingthat he could quite easily be his own doctor in such a trifling matter as acold. Some hot lemonade was made at his request, with a view to producingperspiration. Lady Montbarry’s maid having left her at that time, the courierFerrari (then the only servant in the house) went out to buy the lemons. Herladyship made the drink with her own hands. It was successful in producingperspiration—and Lord Montbarry had some hours of sleep afterwards. Later inthe day, having need of Ferrari’s services, Lady Montbarry rang for him. Thebell was not answered. Baron Rivar searched for the man, in the palace and outof it, in vain. From that time forth not a trace of Ferrari could bediscovered. This happened on November 14.

“On the night of the 14th, the feverish symptoms accompanying his lordship’scold returned. They were in part perhaps attributable to the annoyance andalarm caused by Ferrari’s mysterious disappearance. It had been impossible toconceal the circumstance, as his lordship rang repeatedly for the courier;insisting that the man should relieve Lady Montbarry and the Baron by takingtheir places during the night at his bedside.

“On the 15th (the day on which the old woman first came to do the housework),his lordship complained of sore throat, and of a feeling of oppression on thechest. On this day, and again on the 16th, her ladyship and the Baron entreatedhim to see a doctor. He still refused. ‘I don’t want strange faces about me; mycold will run its course, in spite of the doctor,’—that was his answer. On the17th he was so much worse that it was decided to send for medical help whetherhe liked it or not. Baron Rivar, after inquiry at the consul’s, secured theservices of Doctor Bruno, well known as an eminent physician in Venice; withthe additional recommendation of having resided in England, and having madehimself acquainted with English forms of medical practice.

“Thus far our account of his lordship’s illness has been derived fromstatements made by Lady Montbarry. The narrative will now be most fitlycontinued in the language of the doctor’s own report, herewith subjoined.

“‘My medical diary informs me that I first saw the English Lord Montbarry, onNovember 17. He was suffering from a sharp attack of bronchitis. Some precioustime had been lost, through his obstinate objection to the presence of amedical man at his bedside. Generally speaking, he appeared to be in a delicatestate of health. His nervous system was out of order—he was at once timid andcontradictory. When I spoke to him in English, he answered in Italian; and whenI tried him in Italian, he went back to English. It mattered little—the maladyhad already made such progress that he could only speak a few words at a time,and those in a whisper.

“‘I at once applied the necessary remedies. Copies of my prescriptions (withtranslation into English) accompany the present statement, and are left tospeak for themselves.

“‘For the next three days I was in constant attendance on my patient. Heanswered to the remedies employed—improving slowly, but decidedly. I couldconscientiously assure Lady Montbarry that no danger was to be apprehended thusfar. She was indeed a most devoted wife. I vainly endeavoured to induce her toaccept the services of a competent nurse; she would allow nobody to attend onher husband but herself. Night and day this estimable woman was at his bedside.In her brief intervals of repose, her brother watched the sick man in herplace. This brother was, I must say, very good company, in the intervals whenwe had time for a little talk. He dabbled in chemistry, down in the horridunder-water vaults of the palace; and he wanted to show me some of hisexperiments. I have enough of chemistry in writing prescriptions—and Ideclined. He took it quite good-humouredly.

“‘I am straying away from my subject. Let me return to the sick lord.

“‘Up to the 20th, then, things went well enough. I was quite unprepared for thedisastrous change that showed itself, when I paid Lord Montbarry my morningvisit on the 21st. He had relapsed, and seriously relapsed. Examining him todiscover the cause, I found symptoms of pneumonia—that is to say, in unmedicallanguage, inflammation of the substance of the lungs. He breathed withdifficulty, and was only partially able to relieve himself by coughing. I madethe strictest inquiries, and was assured that his medicine had beenadministered as carefully as usual, and that he had not been exposed to anychanges of temperature. It was with great reluctance that I added to LadyMontbarry’s distress; but I felt bound, when she suggested a consultation withanother physician, to own that I too thought there was really need for it.

“‘Her ladyship instructed me to spare no expense, and to get the best medicalopinion in Italy. The best opinion was happily within our reach. The first andforemost of Italian physicians is Torello of Padua. I sent a special messengerfor the great man. He arrived on the evening of the 21st, and confirmed myopinion that pneumonia had set in, and that our patient’s life was in danger. Itold him what my treatment of the case had been, and he approved of it in everyparticular. He made some valuable suggestions, and (at Lady Montbarry’s expressrequest) he consented to defer his return to Padua until the following morning.

“‘We both saw the patient at intervals in the course of the night. The disease,steadily advancing, set our utmost resistance at defiance. In the morningDoctor Torello took his leave. “I can be of no further use,” he said to me.“The man is past all help—and he ought to know it.”

“‘Later in the day I warned my lord, as gently as I could, that his time hadcome. I am informed that there are serious reasons for my stating what passedbetween us on this occasion, in detail, and without any reserve. I comply withthe request.

“‘Lord Montbarry received the intelligence of his approaching death withbecoming composure, but with a certain doubt. He signed to me to put my ear tohis mouth. He whispered faintly, “Are you sure?” It was no time to deceive him;I said, “Positively sure.” He waited a little, gasping for breath, and then hewhispered again, “Feel under my pillow.” I found under his pillow a letter,sealed and stamped, ready for the post. His next words were just audible and nomore—“Post it yourself.” I answered, of course, that I would do so—and I didpost the letter with my own hand. I looked at the address. It was directed to alady in London. The street I cannot remember. The name I can perfectly recall:it was an Italian name—“Mrs. Ferrari.”

“‘That night my lord nearly died of asphyxia. I got him through it for thetime; and his eyes showed that he understood me when I told him, the nextmorning, that I had posted the letter. This was his last effort ofconsciousness. When I saw him again he was sunk in apathy. He lingered in astate of insensibility, supported by stimulants, until the 25th, and died(unconscious to the last) on the evening of that day.

“‘As to the cause of his death, it seems (if I may be excused for saying so)simply absurd to ask the question. Bronchitis, terminating in pneumonia—thereis no more doubt that this, and this only, was the malady of which he expired,than that two and two make four. Doctor Torello’s own note of the case is addedhere to a duplicate of my certificate, in order (as I am informed) to satisfysome English offices in which his lordship’s life was insured. The Englishoffices must have been founded by that celebrated saint and doubter, mentionedin the New Testament, whose name was Thomas!’

“Doctor Bruno’s evidence ends here.

“Reverting for a moment to our inquiries addressed to Lady Montbarry, we haveto report that she can give us no information on the subject of the letterwhich the doctor posted at Lord Montbarry’s request. When his lordship wroteit? what it contained? why he kept it a secret from Lady Montbarry (and fromthe Baron also); and why he should write at all to the wife of his courier?these are questions to which we find it simply impossible to obtain anyreplies. It seems even useless to say that the matter is open to suspicion.Suspicion implies conjecture of some kind—and the letter under my lord’s pillowbaffles all conjecture. Application to Mrs. Ferrari may perhaps clear up themystery. Her residence in London will be easily discovered at the ItalianCouriers’ Office, Golden Square.

“Having arrived at the close of the present report, we have now to draw yourattention to the conclusion which is justified by the results of ourinvestigation.

“The plain question before our Directors and ourselves appears to be this: Hasthe inquiry revealed any extraordinary circumstances which render the death ofLord Montbarry open to suspicion? The inquiry has revealed extraordinarycircumstances beyond all doubt—such as the disappearance of Ferrari, theremarkable absence of the customary establishment of servants in the house, andthe mysterious letter which his lordship asked the doctor to post. But where isthe proof that any one of these circumstances is associated—suspiciously anddirectly associated—with the only event which concerns us, the event of LordMontbarry’s death? In the absence of any such proof, and in the face of theevidence of two eminent physicians, it is impossible to dispute the statementon the certificate that his lordship died a natural death. We are bound,therefore, to report, that there are no valid grounds for refusing the paymentof the sum for which the late Lord Montbarry’s life was assured.

“We shall send these lines to you by the post of to-morrow, December 10;leaving time to receive your further instructions (if any), in reply to ourtelegram of this evening announcing the conclusion of the inquiry.”

CHAPTER IX

“Now, my good creature, whatever you have to say to me, out with it at once! Idon’t want to hurry you needlessly; but these are business hours, and I haveother people’s affairs to attend to besides yours.”

Addressing Ferrari’s wife, with his usual blunt good-humour, in these terms,Mr. Troy registered the lapse of time by a glance at the watch on his desk, andthen waited to hear what his client had to say to him.

“It’s something more, sir, about the letter with the thousand-pound note,” Mrs.Ferrari began. “I have found out who sent it to me.”

Mr. Troy started. “This is news indeed!” he said. “Who sent you the letter?”

“Lord Montbarry sent it, sir.”

It was not easy to take Mr. Troy by surprise. But Mrs. Ferrari threw himcompletely off his balance. For a while he could only look at her in silentsurprise. “Nonsense!” he said, as soon as he had recovered himself. “There issome mistake—it can’t be!”

“There is no mistake,” Mrs. Ferrari rejoined, in her most positive manner. “Twogentlemen from the insurance offices called on me this morning, to see theletter. They were completely puzzled—especially when they heard of thebank-note inside. But they know who sent the letter. His lordship’s doctor inVenice posted it at his lordship’s request. Go to the gentlemen yourself, sir,if you don’t believe me. They were polite enough to ask if I could account forLord Montbarry’s writing to me and sending me the money. I gave them my opiniondirectly—I said it was like his lordship’s kindness.”

“Like his lordship’s kindness?” Mr. Troy repeated, in blank amazement.

“Yes, sir! Lord Montbarry knew me, like all the other members of his family,when I was at school on the estate in Ireland. If he could have done it, hewould have protected my poor dear husband. But he was helpless himself in thehands of my lady and the Baron—and the only kind thing he could do was toprovide for me in my widowhood, like the true nobleman he was!”

“A very pretty explanation!” said Mr. Troy. “What did your visitors from theinsurance offices think of it?”

“They asked if I had any proof of my husband’s death.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘I give you better than proof, gentlemen; I give you my positiveopinion.’”

“That satisfied them, of course?”

“They didn’t say so in words, sir. They looked at each other—and wished megood-morning.”

“Well, Mrs. Ferrari, unless you have some more extraordinary news for me, Ithink I shall wish you good-morning too. I can take a note of your information(very startling information, I own); and, in the absence of proof, I can do nomore.”

“I can provide you with proof, sir—if that is all you want,” said Mrs. Ferrari,with great dignity. “I only wish to know, first, whether the law justifies mein doing it. You may have seen in the fashionable intelligence of thenewspapers, that Lady Montbarry has arrived in London, at Newbury’s Hotel. Ipropose to go and see her.”

“The deuce you do! May I ask for what purpose?”

Mrs. Ferrari answered in a mysterious whisper. “For the purpose of catching herin a trap! I shan’t send in my name—I shall announce myself as a person onbusiness, and the first words I say to her will be these: ‘I come, my lady, toacknowledge the receipt of the money sent to Ferrari’s widow.’ Ah! you may wellstart, Mr. Troy! It almost takes youoff your guard, doesn’t it? Makeyour mind easy, sir; I shall find the proof that everybody asks me for in herguilty face. Let her only change colour by the shadow of a shade—let her eyesonly drop for half an instant—I shall discover her! The one thing I want toknow is, does the law permit it?”

“The law permits it,” Mr. Troy answered gravely; “but whether her ladyship willpermit it, is quite another question. Have you really courage enough, Mrs.Ferrari, to carry out this notable scheme of yours? You have been described tome, by Miss Lockwood, as rather a nervous, timid sort of person—and, if I maytrust my own observation, I should say you justify the description.”

“If you had lived in the country, sir, instead of living in London,” Mrs.Ferrari replied, “you would sometimes have seen even a sheep turn on a dog. Iam far from saying that I am a bold woman—quite the reverse. But when I standin that wretch’s presence, and think of my murdered husband, the one of us twowho is likely to be frightened is not me. I am going there now, sir. Youshall hear how it ends. I wish you good-morning.”

With those brave words the courier’s wife gathered her mantle about her, andwalked out of the room.

Mr. Troy smiled—not satirically, but compassionately. “The little simpleton!”he thought to himself. “If half of what they say of Lady Montbarry is true,Mrs. Ferrari and her trap have but a poor prospect before them. I wonder how itwill end?”

All Mr. Troy’s experience failed to forewarn him of how it didend.

CHAPTER X

In the mean time, Mrs. Ferrari held to her resolution. She went straight fromMr. Troy’s office to Newbury’s Hotel.

Lady Montbarry was at home, and alone. But the authorities of the hotelhesitated to disturb her when they found that the visitor declined to mentionher name. Her ladyship’s new maid happened to cross the hall while the matterwas still in debate. She was a Frenchwoman, and, on being appealed to, shesettled the question in the swift, easy, rational French way. “Madame’sappearance was perfectly respectable. Madame might have reasons for notmentioning her name which Miladi might approve. In any case, there being noorders forbidding the introduction of a strange lady, the matter clearly restedbetween Madame and Miladi. Would Madame, therefore, be good enough to followMiladi’s maid up the stairs?”

In spite of her resolution, Mrs. Ferrari’s heart beat as if it would burst outof her bosom, when her conductress led her into an ante-room, and knocked at adoor opening into a room beyond. But it is remarkable that persons ofsensitively-nervous organisation are the very persons who are capable offorcing themselves (apparently by the exercise of a spasmodic effort of will)into the performance of acts of the most audacious courage. A low, grave voicefrom the inner room said, “Come in.” The maid, opening the door, announced, “Aperson to see you, Miladi, on business,” and immediately retired. In the oneinstant while these events passed, timid little Mrs. Ferrari mastered her ownthrobbing heart; stepped over the threshold, conscious of her clammy hands, drylips, and burning head; and stood in the presence of Lord Montbarry’s widow, toall outward appearance as supremely self-possessed as her ladyship herself.

It was still early in the afternoon, but the light in the room was dim. Theblinds were drawn down. Lady Montbarry sat with her back to the windows, as ifeven the subdued daylight were disagreeable to her. She had altered sadly forthe worse in her personal appearance, since the memorable day when DoctorWybrow had seen her in his consulting-room. Her beauty was gone—her face hadfallen away to mere skin and bone; the contrast between her ghastly complexionand her steely glittering black eyes was more startling than ever. Robed indismal black, relieved only by the brilliant whiteness of her widow’scap—reclining in a panther-like suppleness of attitude on a little greensofa—she looked at the stranger who had intruded on her, with a moment’slanguid curiosity, then dropped her eyes again to the hand-screen which sheheld between her face and the fire. “I don’t know you,” she said. “What do youwant with me?”

Mrs. Ferrari tried to answer. Her first burst of courage had already wornitself out. The bold words that she had determined to speak were living wordsstill in her mind, but they died on her lips.

There was a moment of silence. Lady Montbarry looked round again at thespeechless stranger. “Are you deaf?” she asked. There was another pause. LadyMontbarry quietly looked back again at the screen, and put another question.“Do you want money?”

“Money!” That one word roused the sinking spirit of the courier’s wife. Sherecovered her courage; she found her voice. “Look at me, my lady, if youplease,” she said, with a sudden outbreak of audacity.

Lady Montbarry looked round for the third time. The fatal words passed Mrs.Ferrari’s lips.

“I come, my lady, to acknowledge the receipt of the money sent to Ferrari’swidow.”

Lady Montbarry’s glittering black eyes rested with steady attention on thewoman who had addressed her in those terms. Not the faintest expression ofconfusion or alarm, not even a momentary flutter of interest stirred the deadlystillness of her face. She reposed as quietly, she held the screen ascomposedly, as ever. The test had been tried, and had utterly failed.

There was another silence. Lady Montbarry considered with herself. The smilethat came slowly and went away suddenly—the smile at once so sad and socruel—showed itself on her thin lips. She lifted her screen, and pointed withit to a seat at the farther end of the room. “Be so good as to take thatchair,” she said.

Helpless under her first bewildering sense of failure—not knowing what to sayor what to do next—Mrs. Ferrari mechanically obeyed. Lady Montbarry, rising onthe sofa for the first time, watched her with undisguised scrutiny as shecrossed the room—then sank back into a reclining position once more. “No,” shesaid to herself, “the woman walks steadily; she is not intoxicated—the onlyother possibility is that she may be mad.”

She had spoken loud enough to be heard. Stung by the insult, Mrs. Ferrariinstantly answered her: “I am no more drunk or mad than you are!”

“No?” said Lady Montbarry. “Then you are only insolent? The ignorant Englishmind (I have observed) is apt to be insolent in the exercise of unrestrainedEnglish liberty. This is very noticeable to us foreigners among you people inthe streets. Of course I can’t be insolent to you, in return. I hardly knowwhat to say to you. My maid was imprudent in admitting you so easily to myroom. I suppose your respectable appearance misled her. I wonder who you are?You mentioned the name of a courier who left us very strangely. Was he marriedby any chance? Are you his wife? And do you know where he is?”

Mrs. Ferrari’s indignation burst its way through all restraints. She advancedto the sofa; she feared nothing, in the fervour and rage of her reply.

“I am his widow—and you know it, you wicked woman! Ah! it was an evil hour whenMiss Lockwood recommended my husband to be his lordship’s courier—!”

Before she could add another word, Lady Montbarry sprang from the sofa with thestealthy suddenness of a cat—seized her by both shoulders—and shook her withthe strength and frenzy of a madwoman. “You lie! you lie! you lie!” She droppedher hold at the third repetition of the accusation, and threw up her handswildly with a gesture of despair. “Oh, Jesu Maria! is it possible?” she cried.“Canthe courier have come to me through that woman?” She turned likelightning on Mrs. Ferrari, and stopped her as she was escaping from the room.“Stay here, you fool—stay here, and answer me! If you cry out, as sure as theheavens are above you, I’ll strangle you with my own hands. Sit down again—andfear nothing. Wretch! It is I who am frightened—frightened out of my senses.Confess that you lied, when you used Miss Lockwood’s name just now! No! I don’tbelieve you on your oath; I will believe nobody but Miss Lockwood herself.Where does she live? Tell me that, you noxious stinging little insect—and youmay go.” Terrified as she was, Mrs. Ferrari hesitated. Lady Montbarry liftedher hands threateningly, with the long, lean, yellow-white fingers outspreadand crooked at the tips. Mrs. Ferrari shrank at the sight of them, and gave theaddress. Lady Montbarry pointed contemptuously to the door—then changed hermind. “No! not yet! you will tell Miss Lockwood what has happened, and she mayrefuse to see me. I will go there at once, and you shall go with me. As far asthe house—not inside of it. Sit down again. I am going to ring for my maid.Turn your back to the door—your cowardly face is not fit to be seen!”

She rang the bell. The maid appeared.

“My cloak and bonnet—instantly!”

The maid produced the cloak and bonnet from the bedroom.

“A cab at the door—before I can count ten!”

The maid vanished. Lady Montbarry surveyed herself in the glass, and wheeledround again, with her cat-like suddenness, to Mrs. Ferrari.

“I look more than half dead already, don’t I?” she said with a grim outburst ofirony. “Give me your arm.”

She took Mrs. Ferrari’s arm, and left the room. “You have nothing to fear, solong as you obey,” she whispered, on the way downstairs. “You leave me at MissLockwood’s door, and never see me again.”

In the hall they were met by the landlady of the hotel. Lady Montbarrygraciously presented her companion. “My good friend Mrs. Ferrari; I am so gladto have seen her.” The landlady accompanied them to the door. The cab waswaiting. “Get in first, good Mrs. Ferrari,” said her ladyship; “and tell theman where to go.”

They were driven away. Lady Montbarry’s variable humour changed again. With alow groan of misery, she threw herself back in the cab. Lost in her own darkthoughts, as careless of the woman whom she had bent to her iron will as if nosuch person sat by her side, she preserved a sinister silence, until theyreached the house where Miss Lockwood lodged. In an instant, she roused herselfto action. She opened the door of the cab, and closed it again on Mrs. Ferrari,before the driver could get off his box.

“Take that lady a mile farther on her way home!” she said, as she paid the manhis fare. The next moment she had knocked at the house-door. “Is Miss Lockwoodat home?” “Yes, ma’am.” She stepped over the threshold—the door closed on her.

“Which way, ma’am?” asked the driver of the cab.

Mrs. Ferrari put her hand to her head, and tried to collect her thoughts. Couldshe leave her friend and benefactress helpless at Lady Montbarry’s mercy? Shewas still vainly endeavouring to decide on the course that she ought tofollow—when a gentleman, stopping at Miss Lockwood’s door, happened to looktowards the cab-window, and saw her.

“Are you going to call on Miss Agnes too?” he asked.

It was Henry Westwick. Mrs. Ferrari clasped her hands in gratitude as sherecognised him.

“Go in, sir!” she cried. “Go in, directly. That dreadful woman is with MissAgnes. Go and protect her!”

“What woman?” Henry asked.

The answer literally struck him speechless. With amazement and indignation inhis face, he looked at Mrs. Ferrari as she pronounced the hated name of “LadyMontbarry.” “I’ll see to it,” was all he said. He knocked at the house-door;and he too, in his turn, was let in.

CHAPTER XI

“Lady Montbarry, Miss.”

Agnes was writing a letter, when the servant astonished her by announcing thevisitor’s name. Her first impulse was to refuse to see the woman who hadintruded on her. But Lady Montbarry had taken care to follow close on theservant’s heels. Before Agnes could speak, she had entered the room.

“I beg to apologise for my intrusion, Miss Lockwood. I have a question to askyou, in which I am very much interested. No one can answer me but yourself.” Inlow hesitating tones, with her glittering black eyes bent modestly on theground, Lady Montbarry opened the interview in those words.

Without answering, Agnes pointed to a chair. She could do this, and, for thetime, she could do no more. All that she had read of the hidden and sinisterlife in the palace at Venice; all that she had heard of Montbarry’s melancholydeath and burial in a foreign land; all that she knew of the mystery ofFerrari’s disappearance, rushed into her mind, when the black-robed figureconfronted her, standing just inside the door. The strange conduct of LadyMontbarry added a new perplexity to the doubts and misgivings that troubledher. There stood the adventuress whose character had left its mark on societyall over Europe—the Fury who had terrified Mrs. Ferrari at thehotel—inconceivably transformed into a timid, shrinking woman! Lady Montbarryhad not once ventured to look at Agnes, since she had made her way into theroom. Advancing to take the chair that had been pointed out to her, shehesitated, put her hand on the rail to support herself, and still remainedstanding. “Please give me a moment to compose myself,” she said faintly. Herhead sank on her bosom: she stood before Agnes like a conscious culprit beforea merciless judge.

The silence that followed was, literally, the silence of fear on both sides. Inthe midst of it, the door was opened once more—and Henry Westwick appeared.

He looked at Lady Montbarry with a moment’s steady attention—bowed to her withformal politeness—and passed on in silence. At the sight of her husband’sbrother, the sinking spirit of the woman sprang to life again. Her droopingfigure became erect. Her eyes met Westwick’s look, brightly defiant. Shereturned his bow with an icy smile of contempt.

Henry crossed the room to Agnes.

“Is Lady Montbarry here by your invitation?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Do you wish to see her?”

“It is very painful to me to see her.”

He turned and looked at his sister-in-law. “Do you hear that?” he asked coldly.

“I hear it,” she answered, more coldly still.

“Your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed.”

“Your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.”

With that retort, Lady Montbarry approached Agnes. The presence of HenryWestwick seemed at once to relieve and embolden her. “Permit me to ask myquestion, Miss Lockwood,” she said, with graceful courtesy. “It is nothing toembarrass you. When the courier Ferrari applied to my late husband foremployment, did you—” Her resolution failed her, before she could say more. Shesank trembling into the nearest chair, and, after a moment’s struggle, composedherself again. “Did you permit Ferrari,” she resumed, “to make sure of beingchosen for our courier by using your name?”

Agnes did not reply with her customary directness. Trifling as it was, thereference to Montbarry, proceeding from thatwoman of all others,confused and agitated her.

“I have known Ferrari’s wife for many years,” she began. “And I take aninterest—”

Lady Montbarry abruptly lifted her hands with a gesture of entreaty. “Ah, MissLockwood, don’t waste time by talking of his wife! Answer my plain question,plainly!”

“Let me answer her,” Henry whispered. “I will undertake to speak plainlyenough.”

Agnes refused by a gesture. Lady Montbarry’s interruption had roused her senseof what was due to herself. She resumed her reply in plainer terms.

“When Ferrari wrote to the late Lord Montbarry,” she said, “he did certainlymention my name.”

Even now, she had innocently failed to see the object which her visitor had inview. Lady Montbarry’s impatience became ungovernable. She started to her feet,and advanced to Agnes.

“Was it with your knowledge and permission that Ferrari used your name?” sheasked. “The whole soul of my question is in that. For God’s sake answerme—Yes, or No!”

“Yes.”

That one word struck Lady Montbarry as a blow might have struck her. The fiercelife that had animated her face the instant before, faded out of it suddenly,and left her like a woman turned to stone. She stood, mechanically confrontingAgnes, with a stillness so wrapt and perfect that not even the breath she drewwas perceptible to the two persons who were looking at her.

Henry spoke to her roughly. “Rouse yourself,” he said. “You have received youranswer.”

She looked round at him. “I have received my Sentence,” she rejoined—and turnedslowly to leave the room.

To Henry’s astonishment, Agnes stopped her. “Wait a moment, Lady Montbarry. Ihave something to ask on my side. You have spoken of Ferrari. I wish to speakof him too.”

Lady Montbarry bent her head in silence. Her hand trembled as she took out herhandkerchief, and passed it over her forehead. Agnes detected the trembling,and shrank back a step. “Is the subject painful to you?” she asked timidly.

Still silent, Lady Montbarry invited her by a wave of the hand to go on. Henryapproached, attentively watching his sister-in-law. Agnes went on.

“No trace of Ferrari has been discovered in England,” she said. “Have you anynews of him? And will you tell me (if you have heard anything), in mercy to hiswife?”

Lady Montbarry’s thin lips suddenly relaxed into their sad and cruel smile.

“Why do you ask meabout the lost courier?” she said. “You will knowwhat has become of him, Miss Lockwood, when the time is ripe for it.”

Agnes started. “I don’t understand you,” she said. “How shall I know? Will someone tell me?”

“Some one will tell you.”

Henry could keep silence no longer. “Perhaps, your ladyship may be the person?”he interrupted with ironical politeness.

She answered him with contemptuous ease. “You may be right, Mr. Westwick. Oneday or another, I may be the person who tells Miss Lockwood what has become ofFerrari, if—” She stopped; with her eyes fixed on Agnes.

“If what?” Henry asked.

“If Miss Lockwood forces me to it.”

Agnes listened in astonishment. “Force you to it?” she repeated. “How can I dothat? Do you mean to say my will is stronger than yours?”

“Do youmean to say that the candle doesn’t burn the moth, when the mothflies into it?” Lady Montbarry rejoined. “Have you ever heard of such a thingas the fascination of terror? I am drawn to you by a fascination of terror. Ihave no right to visit you, I have no wish to visit you: you are my enemy. Forthe first time in my life, against my own will, I submit to my enemy. See! I amwaiting because you told me to wait—and the fear of you (I swear it!) creepsthrough me while I stand here. Oh, don’t let me excite your curiosity or yourpity! Follow the example of Mr. Westwick. Be hard and brutal and unforgiving,like him. Grant me my release. Tell me to go.”

The frank and simple nature of Agnes could discover but one intelligiblemeaning in this strange outbreak.

“You are mistaken in thinking me your enemy,” she said. “The wrong you did mewhen you gave your hand to Lord Montbarry was not intentionally done. I forgaveyou my sufferings in his lifetime. I forgive you even more freely now that hehas gone.”

Henry heard her with mingled emotions of admiration and distress. “Say nomore!” he exclaimed. “You are too good to her; she is not worthy of it.”

The interruption passed unheeded by Lady Montbarry. The simple words in whichAgnes had replied seemed to have absorbed the whole attention of thisstrangely-changeable woman. As she listened, her face settled slowly into anexpression of hard and tearless sorrow. There was a marked change in her voicewhen she spoke next. It expressed that last worst resignation which has donewith hope.

“You good innocent creature,” she said, “what does your amiable forgivenessmatter? What are your poor little wrongs, in the reckoning for greater wrongswhich is demanded of me? I am not trying to frighten you, I am only miserableabout myself. Do you know what it is to have a firm presentiment of calamitythat is coming to you—and yet to hope that your own positive conviction willnot prove true? When I first met you, before my marriage, and first felt yourinfluence over me, I had that hope. It was a starveling sort of hope that liveda lingering life in me until to-day. Youstruck it dead, when youanswered my question about Ferrari.”

“How have I destroyed your hopes?” Agnes asked. “What connection is therebetween my permitting Ferrari to use my name to Lord Montbarry, and the strangeand dreadful things you are saying to me now?”

“The time is near, Miss Lockwood, when you will discover that for yourself. Inthe mean while, you shall know what my fear of you is, in the plainest words Ican find. On the day when I took your hero from you and blighted your life—I amfirmly persuaded of it!—you were made the instrument of the retribution that mysins of many years had deserved. Oh, such things have happened before to-day!One person has, before now, been the means of innocently ripening the growth ofevil in another. You have done that already—and you have more to do yet. Youhave still to bring me to the day of discovery, and to the punishment that ismy doom. We shall meet again—here in England, or there in Venice where myhusband died—and meet for the last time.”

In spite of her better sense, in spite of her natural superiority tosuperstitions of all kinds, Agnes was impressed by the terrible earnestnesswith which those words were spoken. She turned pale as she looked at Henry. “Doyouunderstand her?” she asked.

“Nothing is easier than to understand her,” he replied contemptuously. “Sheknows what has become of Ferrari; and she is confusing you in a cloud ofnonsense, because she daren’t own the truth. Let her go!”

If a dog had been under one of the chairs, and had barked, Lady Montbarry couldnot have proceeded more impenetrably with the last words she had to say toAgnes.

“Advise your interesting Mrs. Ferrari to wait a little longer,” she said.“Youwill know what has become of her husband, and you will tell her.There will be nothing to alarm you. Some trifling event will bring us togetherthe next time—as trifling, I dare say, as the engagement of Ferrari. Sadnonsense, Mr. Westwick, is it not? But you make allowances for women; we alltalk nonsense. Good morning, Miss Lockwood.”

She opened the door—suddenly, as if she was afraid of being called back for thesecond time—and left them.

CHAPTER XII

“Do you think she is mad?” Agnes asked.

“I think she is simply wicked. False, superstitious, inveterately cruel—but notmad. I believe her main motive in coming here was to enjoy the luxury offrightening you.”

“She hasfrightened me. I am ashamed to own it—but so it is.”

Henry looked at her, hesitated for a moment, and seated himself on the sofa byher side.

“I am very anxious about you, Agnes,” he said. “But for the fortunate chancewhich led me to call here to-day—who knows what that vile woman might not havesaid or done, if she had found you alone? My dear, you are leading a sadlyunprotected solitary life. I don’t like to think of it; I want to see itchanged—especially after what has happened to-day. No! no! it is useless totell me that you have your old nurse. She is too old; she is not in your rankof life—there is no sufficient protection in the companionship of such a personfor a lady in your position. Don’t mistake me, Agnes! what I say, I say in thesincerity of my devotion to you.” He paused, and took her hand. She made afeeble effort to withdraw it—and yielded. “Will the day never come,” hepleaded, “when the privilege of protecting you may be mine? when you will bethe pride and joy of my life, as long as my life lasts?” He pressed her handgently. She made no reply. The colour came and went on her face; her eyes wereturned away from him. “Have I been so unhappy as to offend you?” he asked.

She answered that—she said, almost in a whisper, “No.”

“Have I distressed you?”

“You have made me think of the sad days that are gone.” She said no more; sheonly tried to withdraw her hand from his for the second time. He still held it;he lifted it to his lips.

“Can I never make you think of other days than those—of the happier days tocome? Or, if you must think of the time that is passed, can you not look backto the time when I first loved you?”

She sighed as he put the question. “Spare me, Henry,” she answered sadly. “Sayno more!”

The colour again rose in her cheeks; her hand trembled in his. She lookedlovely, with her eyes cast down and her bosom heaving gently. At that moment hewould have given everything he had in the world to take her in his arms andkiss her. Some mysterious sympathy, passing from his hand to hers, seemed totell her what was in his mind. She snatched her hand away, and suddenly lookedup at him. The tears were in her eyes. She said nothing; she let her eyes speakfor her. They warned him—without anger, without unkindness—but still theywarned him to press her no further that day.

“Only tell me that I am forgiven,” he said, as he rose from the sofa.

“Yes,” she answered quietly, “you are forgiven.”

“I have not lowered myself in your estimation, Agnes?”

“Oh, no!”

“Do you wish me to leave you?”

She rose, in her turn, from the sofa, and walked to her writing-table beforeshe replied. The unfinished letter which she had been writing when LadyMontbarry interrupted her, lay open on the blotting-book. As she looked at theletter, and then looked at Henry, the smile that charmed everybody showeditself in her face.

“You must not go just yet,” she said: “I have something to tell you. I hardlyknow how to express it. The shortest way perhaps will be to let you find it outfor yourself. You have been speaking of my lonely unprotected life here. It isnot a very happy life, Henry—I own that.” She paused, observing the growinganxiety of his expression as he looked at her, with a shy satisfaction thatperplexed him. “Do you know that I have anticipated your idea?” she went on. “Iam going to make a great change in my life—if your brother Stephen and his wifewill only consent to it.” She opened the desk of the writing-table while shespoke, took a letter out, and handed it to Henry.

He received it from her mechanically. Vague doubts, which he hardly understoodhimself, kept him silent. It was impossible that the “change in her life” ofwhich she had spoken could mean that she was about to be married—and yet he wasconscious of a perfectly unreasonable reluctance to open the letter. Their eyesmet; she smiled again. “Look at the address,” she said. “You ought to know thehandwriting—but I dare say you don’t.”

He looked at the address. It was in the large, irregular, uncertain writing ofa child. He opened the letter instantly.

“Dear Aunt Agnes,—Our governess is going away. She has had money left to her,and a house of her own. We have had cake and wine to drink her health. Youpromised to be our governess if we wanted another. We want you. Mamma knowsnothing about this. Please come before Mamma can get another governess. Yourloving Lucy, who writes this. Clara and Blanche have tried to write too. Butthey are too young to do it. They blot the paper.”

“Your eldest niece,” Agnes explained, as Henry looked at her in amazement. “Thechildren used to call me aunt when I was staying with their mother in Ireland,in the autumn. The three girls were my inseparable companions—they are the mostcharming children I know. It is quite true that I offered to be theirgoverness, if they ever wanted one, on the day when I left them to return toLondon. I was writing to propose it to their mother, just before you came.”

“Not seriously!” Henry exclaimed.

Agnes placed her unfinished letter in his hand. Enough of it had been writtento show that she did seriously propose to enter the household of Mr. and Mrs.Stephen Westwick as governess to their children! Henry’s bewilderment was notto be expressed in words.

“They won’t believe you are in earnest,” he said.

“Why not?” Agnes asked quietly.

“You are my brother Stephen’s cousin; you are his wife’s old friend.”

“All the more reason, Henry, for trusting me with the charge of theirchildren.”

“But you are their equal; you are not obliged to get your living by teaching.There is something absurd in your entering their service as a governess!”

“What is there absurd in it? The children love me; the mother loves me; thefather has shown me innumerable instances of his true friendship and regard. Iam the very woman for the place—and, as to my education, I must have completelyforgotten it indeed, if I am not fit to teach three children the eldest of whomis only eleven years old. You say I am their equal. Are there no other womenwho serve as governesses, and who are the equals of the persons whom theyserve? Besides, I don’t know that I amtheir equal. Have I not heardthat your brother Stephen was the next heir to the title? Will he not be thenew lord? Never mind answering me! We won’t dispute whether I am right or wrongin turning governess—we will wait the event. I am weary of my lonely uselessexistence here, and eager to make my life more happy and more useful, in thehousehold of all others in which I should like most to have a place. If youwill look again, you will see that I have these personal considerations stillto urge before I finish my letter. You don’t know your brother and his wife aswell as I do, if you doubt their answer. I believe they have courage enough andheart enough to say Yes.”

Henry submitted without being convinced.

He was a man who disliked all eccentric departures from custom and routine; andhe felt especially suspicious of the change proposed in the life of Agnes. Withnew interests to occupy her mind, she might be less favourably disposed tolisten to him, on the next occasion when he urged his suit. The influence ofthe “lonely useless existence” of which she complained, was distinctly aninfluence in his favour. While her heart was empty, her heart was accessible.But with his nieces in full possession of it, the clouds of doubt overshadowedhis prospects. He knew the sex well enough to keep these purely selfishperplexities to himself. The waiting policy was especially the policy to pursuewith a woman as sensitive as Agnes. If he once offended her delicacy he waslost. For the moment he wisely controlled himself and changed the subject.

“My little niece’s letter has had an effect,” he said, “which the child nevercontemplated in writing it. She has just reminded me of one of the objects thatI had in calling on you to-day.”

Agnes looked at the child’s letter. “How does Lucy do that?” she asked.

“Lucy’s governess is not the only lucky person who has had money left her,”Henry answered. “Is your old nurse in the house?”

“You don’t mean to say that nurse has got a legacy?”

“She has got a hundred pounds. Send for her, Agnes, while I show you theletter.”

He took a handful of letters from his pocket, and looked through them, whileAgnes rang the bell. Returning to him, she noticed a printed letter among therest, which lay open on the table. It was a “prospectus,” and the title of itwas “Palace Hotel Company of Venice (Limited).” The two words, “Palace” and“Venice,” instantly recalled her mind to the unwelcome visit of Lady Montbarry.“What is that?” she asked, pointing to the title.

Henry suspended his search, and glanced at the prospectus. “A really promisingspeculation,” he said. “Large hotels always pay well, if they are well managed.I know the man who is appointed to be manager of this hotel when it is openedto the public; and I have such entire confidence in him that I have become oneof the shareholders of the Company.”

The reply did not appear to satisfy Agnes. “Why is the hotel called the ‘PalaceHotel’?” she inquired.

Henry looked at her, and at once penetrated her motive for asking the question.“Yes,” he said, “it isthe palace that Montbarry hired at Venice; and ithas been purchased by the Company to be changed into an hotel.”

Agnes turned away in silence, and took a chair at the farther end of the room.Henry had disappointed her. His income as a younger son stood in need, as shewell knew, of all the additions that he could make to it by successfulspeculation. But she was unreasonable enough, nevertheless, to disapprove ofhis attempting to make money already out of the house in which his brother haddied. Incapable of understanding this purely sentimental view of a plain matterof business, Henry returned to his papers, in some perplexity at the suddenchange in the manner of Agnes towards him. Just as he found the letter of whichhe was in search, the nurse made her appearance. He glanced at Agnes, expectingthat she would speak first. She never even looked up when the nurse came in. Itwas left to Henry to tell the old woman why the bell had summoned her to thedrawing-room.

“Well, nurse,” he said, “you have had a windfall of luck. You have had a legacyleft you of a hundred pounds.”

The nurse showed no outward signs of exultation. She waited a little to get theannouncement of the legacy well settled in her mind—and then she said quietly,“Master Henry, who gives me that money, if you please?”

“My late brother, Lord Montbarry, gives it to you.” (Agnes instantly looked up,interested in the matter for the first time. Henry went on.) “His will leaveslegacies to the surviving old servants of the family. There is a letter fromhis lawyers, authorising you to apply to them for the money.”

In every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all human virtues. In thenurse’s class it is extremely rare. Her opinion of the man who had deceived anddeserted her mistress remained the same opinion still, perfectly undisturbed bythe passing circumstance of the legacy.

“I wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants?” she said. “He would neverhave heart enough to remember them himself!”

Agnes suddenly interposed. Nature, always abhorring monotony, institutesreserves of temper as elements in the composition of the gentlest women living.Even Agnes could, on rare occasions, be angry. The nurse’s view of Montbarry’scharacter seemed to have provoked her beyond endurance.

“If you have any sense of shame in you,” she broke out, “you ought to beashamed of what you have just said! Your ingratitude disgusts me. I leave youto speak with her, Henry—youwon’t mind it!” With this significantintimation that he too had dropped out of his customary place in her goodopinion, she left the room.

The nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with every appearanceof feeling rather amused by it than not. When the door had closed, this femalephilosopher winked at Henry.

“There’s a power of obstinacy in young women,” she remarked. “Miss Agneswouldn’t give my lord up as a bad one, even when he jilted her. And now she’ssweet on him after he’s dead. Say a word against him, and she fires up as yousee. All obstinacy! It will wear out with time. Stick to her, MasterHenry—stick to her!”

“She doesn’t seem to have offended you,” said Henry.

“She?” the nurse repeated in amazement—“she offend me? I like her in hertantrums; it reminds me of her when she was a baby. Lord bless you! when I goto bid her good-night, she’ll give me a big kiss, poor dear—and say, Nurse, Ididn’t mean it! About this money, Master Henry? If I was younger I should spendit in dress and jewellery. But I’m too old for that. What shall I do with mylegacy when I have got it?”

“Put it out at interest,” Henry suggested. “Get so much a year for it, youknow.” “How much shall I get?” the nurse asked.

“If you put your hundred pounds into the Funds, you will get between three andfour pounds a year.”

The nurse shook her head. “Three or four pounds a year? That won’t do! I wantmore than that. Look here, Master Henry. I don’t care about this bit of money—Inever did like the man who has left it to me, though he wasyourbrother. If I lost it all to-morrow, I shouldn’t break my heart; I’m wellenough off, as it is, for the rest of my days. They say you’re a speculator.Put me in for a good thing, there’s a dear! Neck-or-nothing—and thatforthe Funds!” She snapped her fingers to express her contempt for security ofinvestment at three per cent.

Henry produced the prospectus of the Venetian Hotel Company. “You’re a funnyold woman,” he said. “There, you dashing speculator—there is neck-or-nothingfor you! You must keep it a secret from Miss Agnes, mind. I’m not at all surethat she would approve of my helping you to this investment.”

The nurse took out her spectacles. “Six per cent., guaranteed,” she read; “andthe Directors have every reason to believe that ten per cent., or more, will beultimately realised to the shareholders by the hotel.” “Put me into that,Master Henry! And, wherever you go, for Heaven’s sake recommend the hotel toyour friends!”

So the nurse, following Henry’s mercenary example, had herpecuniaryinterest, too, in the house in which Lord Montbarry had died.

Three days passed before Henry was able to visit Agnes again. In that time, thelittle cloud between them had entirely passed away. Agnes received him witheven more than her customary kindness. She was in better spirits than usual.Her letter to Mrs. Stephen Westwick had been answered by return of post; andher proposal had been joyfully accepted, with one modification. She was tovisit the Westwicks for a month—and, if she really liked teaching the children,she was then to be governess, aunt, and cousin, all in one—and was only to goaway in an event which her friends in Ireland persisted in contemplating, theevent of her marriage.

“You see I was right,” she said to Henry.

He was still incredulous. “Are you really going?” he asked.

“I am going next week.”

“When shall I see you again?”

“You know you are always welcome at your brother’s house. You can see me whenyou like.” She held out her hand. “Pardon me for leaving you—I am beginning topack up already.”

Henry tried to kiss her at parting. She drew back directly.

“Why not? I am your cousin,” he said.

“I don’t like it,” she answered.

Henry looked at her, and submitted. Her refusal to grant him his privilege as acousin was a good sign—it was indirectly an act of encouragement to him in thecharacter of her lover.

On the first day in the new week, Agnes left London on her way to Ireland. Asthe event proved, this was not destined to be the end of her journey. The wayto Ireland was only the first stage on a roundabout road—the road that led tothe palace at Venice.

THE THIRD PART

CHAPTER XIII

In the spring of the year 1861, Agnes was established at the country-seat ofher two friends—now promoted (on the death of the first lord, withoutoffspring) to be the new Lord and Lady Montbarry. The old nurse was notseparated from her mistress. A place, suited to her time of life, had beenfound for her in the pleasant Irish household. She was perfectly happy in hernew sphere; and she spent her first half-year’s dividend from the Venice HotelCompany, with characteristic prodigality, in presents for the children.

Early in the year, also, the Directors of the life insurance offices submittedto circumstances, and paid the ten thousand pounds. Immediately afterwards, thewidow of the first Lord Montbarry (otherwise, the dowager Lady Montbarry) leftEngland, with Baron Rivar, for the United States. The Baron’s object wasannounced, in the scientific columns of the newspapers, to be investigationinto the present state of experimental chemistry in the great Americanrepublic. His sister informed inquiring friends that she accompanied him, inthe hope of finding consolation in change of scene after the bereavement thathad fallen on her. Hearing this news from Henry Westwick (then paying a visitat his brother’s house), Agnes was conscious of a certain sense of relief.“With the Atlantic between us,” she said, “surely I have done with thatterrible woman now!”

Barely a week passed after those words had been spoken, before an eventhappened which reminded Agnes of “the terrible woman” once more.

On that day, Henry’s engagements had obliged him to return to London. He hadventured, on the morning of his departure, to press his suit once more onAgnes; and the children, as he had anticipated, proved to be innocent obstaclesin the way of his success. On the other hand, he had privately secured a firmally in his sister-in-law. “Have a little patience,” the new Lady Montbarry hadsaid, “and leave me to turn the influence of the children in the rightdirection. If they can persuade her to listen to you—they shall!”

The two ladies had accompanied Henry, and some other guests who went away atthe same time, to the railway station, and had just driven back to the house,when the servant announced that “a person of the name of Rolland was waiting tosee her ladyship.”

“Is it a woman?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Young Lady Montbarry turned to Agnes.

“This is the very person,” she said, “whom your lawyer thought likely to helphim, when he was trying to trace the lost courier.”

“You don’t mean the English maid who was with Lady Montbarry at Venice?”

“My dear! don’t speak of Montbarry’s horrid widow by the name which ismyname now. Stephen and I have arranged to call her by her foreigntitle, before she was married. I am ‘Lady Montbarry,’ and she is ‘theCountess.’ In that way there will be no confusion.—Yes, Mrs. Rolland was in myservice before she became the Countess’s maid. She was a perfectly trustworthyperson, with one defect that obliged me to send her away—a sullen temper whichled to perpetual complaints of her in the servants’ hall. Would you like to seeher?”

Agnes accepted the proposal, in the faint hope of getting some information forthe courier’s wife. The complete defeat of every attempt to trace the lost manhad been accepted as final by Mrs. Ferrari. She had deliberately arrayedherself in widow’s mourning; and was earning her livelihood in an employmentwhich the unwearied kindness of Agnes had procured for her in London. The lastchance of penetrating the mystery of Ferrari’s disappearance seemed to rest nowon what Ferrari’s former fellow-servant might be able to tell. Withhighly-wrought expectations, Agnes followed her friend into the room in whichMrs. Rolland was waiting.

A tall bony woman, in the autumn of life, with sunken eyes and iron-grey hair,rose stiffly from her chair, and saluted the ladies with stern submission asthey opened the door. A person of unblemished character, evidently—but notwithout visible drawbacks. Big bushy eyebrows, an awfully deep and solemnvoice, a harsh unbending manner, a complete absence in her figure of theundulating lines characteristic of the sex, presented Virtue in this excellentperson under its least alluring aspect. Strangers, on a first introduction toher, were accustomed to wonder why she was not a man.

“Are you pretty well, Mrs. Rolland?”

“I am as well as I can expect to be, my lady, at my time of life.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Your ladyship can do me a great favour, if you will please speak to mycharacter while I was in your service. I am offered a place, to wait on aninvalid lady who has lately come to live in this neighbourhood.”

“Ah, yes—I have heard of her. A Mrs. Carbury, with a very pretty niece I amtold. But, Mrs. Rolland, you left my service some time ago. Mrs. Carbury willsurely expect you to refer to the last mistress by whom you were employed.”

A flash of virtuous indignation irradiated Mrs. Rolland’s sunken eyes. Shecoughed before she answered, as if her “last mistress” stuck in her throat.

“I have explained to Mrs. Carbury, my lady, that the person I last served—Ireally cannot give her her title in your ladyship’s presence!—has left Englandfor America. Mrs. Carbury knows that I quitted the person of my own free will,and knows why, and approves of my conduct so far. A word from your ladyshipwill be amply sufficient to get me the situation.”

“Very well, Mrs. Rolland, I have no objection to be your reference, under thecircumstances. Mrs. Carbury will find me at home to-morrow until two o’clock.”

“Mrs. Carbury is not well enough to leave the house, my lady. Her niece, MissHaldane, will call and make the inquiries, if your ladyship has no objection.”

“I have not the least objection. The pretty niece carries her own welcome withher. Wait a minute, Mrs. Rolland. This lady is Miss Lockwood—my husband’scousin, and my friend. She is anxious to speak to you about the courier who wasin the late Lord Montbarry’s service at Venice.”

Mrs. Rolland’s bushy eyebrows frowned in stern disapproval of the new topic ofconversation. “I regret to hear it, my lady,” was all she said.

“Perhaps you have not been informed of what happened after you left Venice?”Agnes ventured to add. “Ferrari left the palace secretly; and he has never beenheard of since.”

Mrs. Rolland mysteriously closed her eyes—as if to exclude some vision of thelost courier which was of a nature to disturb a respectable woman. “Nothingthat Mr. Ferrari could do would surprise me,” she replied in her deepest basstones.

“You speak rather harshly of him,” said Agnes.

Mrs. Rolland suddenly opened her eyes again. “I speak harshly of nobody withoutreason,” she said. “Mr. Ferrari behaved to me, Miss Lockwood, as no man livinghas ever behaved—before or since.”

“What did he do?”

Mrs. Rolland answered, with a stony stare of horror:— “He took liberties withme.”

Young Lady Montbarry suddenly turned aside, and put her handkerchief over hermouth in convulsions of suppressed laughter.

Mrs. Rolland went on, with a grim enjoyment of the bewilderment which her replyhad produced in Agnes: “And when I insisted on an apology, Miss, he had theaudacity to say that the life at the palace was dull, and he didn’t know howelse to amuse himself!”

“I am afraid I have hardly made myself understood,” said Agnes. “I am notspeaking to you out of any interest in Ferrari. Are you aware that he ismarried?”

“I pity his wife,” said Mrs. Rolland.

“She is naturally in great grief about him,” Agnes proceeded.

“She ought to thank God she is rid of him,” Mrs. Rolland interposed.

Agnes still persisted. “I have known Mrs. Ferrari from her childhood, and I amsincerely anxious to help her in this matter. Did you notice anything, whileyou were at Venice, that would account for her husband’s extraordinarydisappearance? On what sort of terms, for instance, did he live with his masterand mistress?”

“On terms of familiarity with his mistress,” said Mrs. Rolland, “which weresimply sickening to a respectable English servant. She used to encourage him totalk to her about all his affairs—how he got on with his wife, and how pressedhe was for money, and such like—just as if they were equals.Contemptible—that’s what I call it.”

“And his master?” Agnes continued. “How did Ferrari get on with LordMontbarry?”

“My lord used to live shut up with his studies and his sorrows,” Mrs. Rollandanswered, with a hard solemnity expressive of respect for his lordship’smemory. “Mr. Ferrari got his money when it was due; and he cared for nothingelse. ‘If I could afford it, I would leave the place too; but I can’t affordit.’ Those were the last words he said to me, on the morning when I left thepalace. I made no reply. After what had happened (on that other occasion) I wasnaturally not on speaking terms with Mr. Ferrari.”

“Can you really tell me nothing which will throw any light on this matter?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Rolland, with an undisguised relish of the disappointmentthat she was inflicting.

“There was another member of the family at Venice,” Agnes resumed, determinedto sift the question to the bottom while she had the chance. “There was BaronRivar.”

Mrs. Rolland lifted her large hands, covered with rusty black gloves, in muteprotest against the introduction of Baron Rivar as a subject of inquiry. “Areyou aware, Miss,” she began, “that I left my place in consequence of what Iobserved—?”

Agnes stopped her there. “I only wanted to ask,” she explained, “if anythingwas said or done by Baron Rivar which might account for Ferrari’s strangeconduct.”

“Nothing that I know of,” said Mrs. Rolland. “The Baron and Mr. Ferrari (if Imay use such an expression) were ‘birds of a feather,’ so far as I could see—Imean, one was as unprincipled as the other. I am a just woman; and I will giveyou an example. Only the day before I left, I heard the Baron say (through theopen door of his room while I was passing along the corridor), ‘Ferrari, I wanta thousand pounds. What would you do for a thousand pounds?’ And I heard Mr.Ferrari answer, ‘Anything, sir, as long as I was not found out.’ And then theyboth burst out laughing. I heard no more than that. Judge for yourself, Miss.”

Agnes reflected for a moment. A thousand pounds was the sum that had been sentto Mrs. Ferrari in the anonymous letter. Was that enclosure in any wayconnected, as a result, with the conversation between the Baron and Ferrari? Itwas useless to press any more inquiries on Mrs. Rolland. She could give nofurther information which was of the slightest importance to the object inview. There was no alternative but to grant her dismissal. One more effort hadbeen made to find a trace of the lost man, and once again the effort hadfailed.

They were a family party at the dinner-table that day. The only guest left inthe house was a nephew of the new Lord Montbarry—the eldest son of his sister,Lady Barville. Lady Montbarry could not resist telling the story of the first(and last) attack made on the virtue of Mrs. Rolland, with a comically-exactimitation of Mrs. Rolland’s deep and dismal voice. Being asked by her husbandwhat was the object which had brought that formidable person to the house, shenaturally mentioned the expected visit of Miss Haldane. Arthur Barville,unusually silent and pre-occupied so far, suddenly struck into the conversationwith a burst of enthusiasm. “Miss Haldane is the most charming girl in allIreland!” he said. “I caught sight of her yesterday, over the wall of hergarden, as I was riding by. What time is she coming to-morrow? Before two? I’lllook into the drawing-room by accident—I am dying to be introduced to her!”

Agnes was amused by his enthusiasm. “Are you in love with Miss Haldanealready?” she asked.

Arthur answered gravely, “It’s no joking matter. I have been all day at thegarden wall, waiting to see her again! It depends on Miss Haldane to make methe happiest or the wretchedest man living.”

“You foolish boy! How can you talk such nonsense?”

He was talking nonsense undoubtedly. But, if Agnes had only known it, he wasdoing something more than that. He was innocently leading her another stagenearer on the way to Venice.

CHAPTER XIV

As the summer months advanced, the transformation of the Venetian palace intothe modern hotel proceeded rapidly towards completion.

The outside of the building, with its fine Palladian front looking on thecanal, was wisely left unaltered. Inside, as a matter of necessity, the roomswere almost rebuilt—so far at least as the size and the arrangement of themwere concerned. The vast saloons were partitioned off into “apartments”containing three or four rooms each. The broad corridors in the upper regionsafforded spare space enough for rows of little bedchambers, devoted to servantsand to travellers with limited means. Nothing was spared but the solid floorsand the finely-carved ceilings. These last, in excellent preservation as toworkmanship, merely required cleaning, and regilding here and there, to addgreatly to the beauty and importance of the best rooms in the hotel. The onlyexception to the complete re-organization of the interior was at one extremityof the edifice, on the first and second floors. Here there happened, in eachcase, to be rooms of such comparatively moderate size, and so attractivelydecorated, that the architect suggested leaving them as they were. It wasafterwards discovered that these were no other than the apartments formerlyoccupied by Lord Montbarry (on the first floor), and by Baron Rivar (on thesecond). The room in which Montbarry had died was still fitted up as a bedroom,and was now distinguished as Number Fourteen. The room above it, in which theBaron had slept, took its place on the hotel-register as Number Thirty-Eight.With the ornaments on the walls and ceilings cleaned and brightened up, andwith the heavy old-fashioned beds, chairs, and tables replaced by bright,pretty, and luxurious modern furniture, these two promised to be at once themost attractive and the most comfortable bedchambers in the hotel. As for theonce-desolate and disused ground floor of the building, it was now transformed,by means of splendid dining-rooms, reception-rooms, billiard-rooms, andsmoking-rooms, into a palace by itself. Even the dungeon-like vaults beneath,now lighted and ventilated on the most approved modern plan, had been turned asif by magic into kitchens, servants’ offices, ice-rooms, and wine cellars,worthy of the splendour of the grandest hotel in Italy, in the now bygoneperiod of seventeen years since.

Passing from the lapse of the summer months at Venice, to the lapse of thesummer months in Ireland, it is next to be recorded that Mrs. Rolland obtainedthe situation of attendant on the invalid Mrs. Carbury; and that the fair MissHaldane, like a female Caesar, came, saw, and conquered, on her first day’svisit to the new Lord Montbarry’s house.

The ladies were as loud in her praises as Arthur Barville himself. LordMontbarry declared that she was the only perfectly pretty woman he had everseen, who was really unconscious of her own attractions. The old nurse said shelooked as if she had just stepped out of a picture, and wanted nothing but agilt frame round her to make her complete. Miss Haldane, on her side, returnedfrom her first visit to the Montbarrys charmed with her new acquaintances.Later on the same day, Arthur called with an offering of fruit and flowers forMrs. Carbury, and with instructions to ask if she was well enough to receiveLord and Lady Montbarry and Miss Lockwood on the morrow. In a week’s time, thetwo households were on the friendliest terms. Mrs. Carbury, confined to thesofa by a spinal malady, had been hitherto dependent on her niece for one ofthe few pleasures she could enjoy, the pleasure of having the best new novelsread to her as they came out. Discovering this, Arthur volunteered to relieveMiss Haldane, at intervals, in the office of reader. He was clever atmechanical contrivances of all sorts, and he introduced improvements in Mrs.Carbury’s couch, and in the means of conveying her from the bedchamber to thedrawing-room, which alleviated the poor lady’s sufferings and brightened hergloomy life. With these claims on the gratitude of the aunt, aided by thepersonal advantages which he unquestionably possessed, Arthur advanced rapidlyin the favour of the charming niece. She was, it is needless to say, perfectlywell aware that he was in love with her, while he was himself modestly reticenton the subject—so far as words went. But she was not equally quick inpenetrating the nature of her own feelings towards Arthur. Watching the twoyoung people with keen powers of observation, necessarily concentrated on themby the complete seclusion of her life, the invalid lady discovered signs ofroused sensibility in Miss Haldane, when Arthur was present, which had neveryet shown themselves in her social relations with other admirers eager to paytheir addresses to her. Having drawn her own conclusions in private, Mrs.Carbury took the first favourable opportunity (in Arthur’s interests) ofputting them to the test.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” she said one day, “when Arthur goes away.”

Miss Haldane looked up quickly from her work. “Surely he is not going to leaveus!” she exclaimed.

“My dear! he has already stayed at his uncle’s house a month longer than heintended. His father and mother naturally expect to see him at home again.”

Miss Haldane met this difficulty with a suggestion, which could only haveproceeded from a judgment already disturbed by the ravages of the tenderpassion. “Why can’t his father and mother go and see him at Lord Montbarry’s?”she asked. “Sir Theodore’s place is only thirty miles away, and Lady Barvilleis Lord Montbarry’s sister. They needn’t stand on ceremony.”

“They may have other engagements,” Mrs. Carbury remarked.

“My dear aunt, we don’t know that! Suppose you ask Arthur?”

“Suppose you ask him?”

Miss Haldane bent her head again over her work. Suddenly as it was done, heraunt had seen her face—and her face betrayed her.

When Arthur came the next day, Mrs. Carbury said a word to him in private,while her niece was in the garden. The last new novel lay neglected on thetable. Arthur followed Miss Haldane into the garden. The next day he wrotehome, enclosing in his letter a photograph of Miss Haldane. Before the end ofthe week, Sir Theodore and Lady Barville arrived at Lord Montbarry’s, andformed their own judgment of the fidelity of the portrait. They had themselvesmarried early in life—and, strange to say, they did not object on principle tothe early marriages of other people. The question of age being thus disposedof, the course of true love had no other obstacles to encounter. Miss Haldanewas an only child, and was possessed of an ample fortune. Arthur’s career atthe university had been creditable, but certainly not brilliant enough topresent his withdrawal in the light of a disaster. As Sir Theodore’s eldestson, his position was already made for him. He was two-and-twenty years of age;and the young lady was eighteen. There was really no producible reason forkeeping the lovers waiting, and no excuse for deferring the wedding-day beyondthe first week in September. In the interval, while the bride and bridegroomwould be necessarily absent on the inevitable tour abroad, a sister of Mrs.Carbury volunteered to stay with her during the temporary separation from herniece. On the conclusion of the honeymoon, the young couple were to return toIreland, and were to establish themselves in Mrs. Carbury’s spacious andcomfortable house.

These arrangements were decided upon early in the month of August. About thesame date, the last alterations in the old palace at Venice were completed. Therooms were dried by steam; the cellars were stocked; the manager collectedround him his army of skilled servants; and the new hotel was advertised allover Europe to open in October.

CHAPTER XV

(MISS AGNES LOCKWOOD TO MRS. FERRARI)

“I promised to give you some account, dear Emily, of the marriage of Mr. ArthurBarville and Miss Haldane. It took place ten days since. But I have had so manythings to look after in the absence of the master and mistress of this house,that I am only able to write to you to-day.

“The invitations to the wedding were limited to members of the families oneither side, in consideration of the ill health of Miss Haldane’s aunt. On theside of the Montbarry family, there were present, besides Lord and LadyMontbarry, Sir Theodore and Lady Barville; Mrs. Norbury (whom you may rememberas his lordship’s second sister); and Mr. Francis Westwick, and Mr. HenryWestwick. The three children and I attended the ceremony as bridesmaids. Wewere joined by two young ladies, cousins of the bride and very agreeable girls.Our dresses were white, trimmed with green in honour of Ireland; and we eachhad a handsome gold bracelet given to us as a present from the bridegroom. Ifyou add to the persons whom I have already mentioned, the elder members of Mrs.Carbury’s family, and the old servants in both houses—privileged to drink thehealths of the married pair at the lower end of the room—you will have the listof the company at the wedding-breakfast complete.

“The weather was perfect, and the ceremony (with music) was beautifullyperformed. As for the bride, no words can describe how lovely she looked, orhow well she went through it all. We were very merry at the breakfast, and thespeeches went off on the whole quite well enough. The last speech, before theparty broke up, was made by Mr. Henry Westwick, and was the best of all. Heoffered a happy suggestion, at the end, which has produced a very unexpectedchange in my life here.

“As well as I remember, he concluded in these words:—‘On one point, we are allagreed—we are sorry that the parting hour is near, and we should be glad tomeet again. Why should we not meet again? This is the autumn time of the year;we are most of us leaving home for the holidays. What do you say (if you haveno engagements that will prevent it) to joining our young married friendsbefore the close of their tour, and renewing the social success of thisdelightful breakfast by another festival in honour of the honeymoon? The brideand bridegroom are going to Germany and the Tyrol, on their way to Italy. Ipropose that we allow them a month to themselves, and that we arrange to meetthem afterwards in the North of Italy—say at Venice.’

“This proposal was received with great applause, which was changed into shoutsof laughter by no less a person than my dear old nurse. The moment Mr. Westwickpronounced the word ‘Venice,’ she started up among the servants at the lowerend of the room, and called out at the top of her voice, ‘Go to our hotel,ladies and gentlemen! We get six per cent. on our money already; and if youwill only crowd the place and call for the best of everything, it will be tenper cent. in our pockets in no time. Ask Master Henry!’

“Appealed to in this irresistible manner, Mr. Westwick had no choice but toexplain that he was concerned as a shareholder in a new Hotel Company atVenice, and that he had invested a small sum of money for the nurse (not veryconsiderately, as I think) in the speculation. Hearing this, the company, byway of humouring the joke, drank a new toast:—Success to the nurse’s hotel, anda speedy rise in the dividend!

“When the conversation returned in due time to the more serious question of theproposed meeting at Venice, difficulties began to present themselves, caused ofcourse by invitations for the autumn which many of the guests had alreadyaccepted. Only two members of Mrs. Carbury’s family were at liberty to keep theproposed appointment. On our side we were more at leisure to do as we pleased.Mr. Henry Westwick decided to go to Venice in advance of the rest, to test theaccommodation of the new hotel on the opening day. Mrs. Norbury and Mr. FrancisWestwick volunteered to follow him; and, after some persuasion, Lord and LadyMontbarry consented to a species of compromise. His lordship could notconveniently spare time enough for the journey to Venice, but he and LadyMontbarry arranged to accompany Mrs. Norbury and Mr. Francis Westwick as far ontheir way to Italy as Paris. Five days since, they took their departure to meettheir travelling companions in London; leaving me here in charge of the threedear children. They begged hard, of course, to be taken with papa and mamma.But it was thought better not to interrupt the progress of their education, andnot to expose them (especially the two younger girls) to the fatigues oftravelling.

“I have had a charming letter from the bride, this morning, dated Cologne. Youcannot think how artlessly and prettily she assures me of her happiness. Somepeople, as they say in Ireland, are born to good luck—and I think ArthurBarville is one of them.

“When you next write, I hope to hear that you are in better health and spirits,and that you continue to like your employment. Believe me, sincerely yourfriend,—A. L.”

Agnes had just closed and directed her letter, when the eldest of her threepupils entered the room with the startling announcement that Lord Montbarry’stravelling-servant had arrived from Paris! Alarmed by the idea that somemisfortune had happened, she ran out to meet the man in the hall. Her face toldhim how seriously he had frightened her, before she could speak. “There’snothing wrong, Miss,” he hastened to say. “My lord and my lady are enjoyingthemselves at Paris. They only want you and the young ladies to be with them.”Saying these amazing words, he handed to Agnes a letter from Lady Montbarry.

“Dearest Agnes,” (she read), “I am so charmed with the delightful change in mylife—it is six years, remember, since I last travelled on the Continent—that Ihave exerted all my fascinations to persuade Lord Montbarry to go on to Venice.And, what is more to the purpose, I have actually succeeded! He has just goneto his room to write the necessary letters of excuse in time for the post toEngland. May you have as good a husband, my dear, when your time comes! In themean while, the one thing wanting now to make my happiness complete, is to haveyou and the darling children with us. Montbarry is just as miserable withoutthem as I am—though he doesn’t confess it so freely. You will have nodifficulties to trouble you. Louis will deliver these hurried lines, and willtake care of you on the journey to Paris. Kiss the children for me a thousandtimes—and never mind their education for the present! Pack up instantly, mydear, and I will be fonder of you than ever. Your affectionate friend, AdelaMontbarry.”

Agnes folded up the letter; and, feeling the need of composing herself, tookrefuge for a few minutes in her own room.

Her first natural sensations of surprise and excitement at the prospect ofgoing to Venice were succeeded by impressions of a less agreeable kind. Withthe recovery of her customary composure came the unwelcome remembrance of theparting words spoken to her by Montbarry’s widow:—“We shall meet again—here inEngland, or there in Venice where my husband died—and meet for the last time.”

It was an odd coincidence, to say the least of it, that the march of eventsshould be unexpectedly taking Agnes to Venice, after those words had beenspoken! Was the woman of the mysterious warnings and the wild black eyes stillthousands of miles away in America? Or was the march of events taking herunexpectedly, too, on the journey to Venice? Agnes started out of her chair,ashamed of even the momentary concession to superstition which was implied bythe mere presence of such questions as these in her mind.

She rang the bell, and sent for her little pupils, and announced theirapproaching departure to the household. The noisy delight of the children, theinspiriting effort of packing up in a hurry, roused all her energies. Shedismissed her own absurd misgivings from consideration, with the contempt thatthey deserved. She worked as only women can work, when their hearts are in whatthey do. The travellers reached Dublin that day, in time for the boat toEngland. Two days later, they were with Lord and Lady Montbarry at Paris.

THE FOURTH PART

CHAPTER XVI

It was only the twentieth of September, when Agnes and the children reachedParis. Mrs. Norbury and her brother Francis had then already started on theirjourney to Italy—at least three weeks before the date at which the new hotelwas to open for the reception of travellers.

The person answerable for this premature departure was Francis Westwick.

Like his younger brother Henry, he had increased his pecuniary resources by hisown enterprise and ingenuity; with this difference, that his speculations wereconnected with the Arts. He had made money, in the first instance, by a weeklynewspaper; and he had then invested his profits in a London theatre. Thislatter enterprise, admirably conducted, had been rewarded by the public withsteady and liberal encouragement. Pondering over a new form of theatricalattraction for the coming winter season, Francis had determined to revive thelanguid public taste for the ballet by means of an entertainment of his owninvention, combining dramatic interest with dancing. He was now, accordingly,in search of the best dancer (possessed of the indispensable personalattractions) who was to be found in the theatres of the Continent. Hearing fromhis foreign correspondents of two women who had made successful firstappearances, one at Milan and one at Florence, he had arranged to visit thosecities, and to judge of the merits of the dancers for himself, before he joinedthe bride and bridegroom. His widowed sister, having friends at Florence whomshe was anxious to see, readily accompanied him. The Montbarrys remained atParis, until it was time to present themselves at the family meeting in Venice.Henry found them still in the French capital, when he arrived from London onhis way to the opening of the new hotel.

Against Lady Montbarry’s advice, he took the opportunity of renewing hisaddresses to Agnes. He could hardly have chosen a more unpropitious time forpleading his cause with her. The gaieties of Paris (quite incomprehensibly toherself as well as to everyone about her) had a depressing effect on herspirits. She had no illness to complain of; she shared willingly in theever-varying succession of amusements offered to strangers by the ingenuity ofthe liveliest people in the world—but nothing roused her: she remainedpersistently dull and weary through it all. In this frame of mind and body, shewas in no humour to receive Henry’s ill-timed addresses with favour, or evenwith patience: she plainly and positively refused to listen to him. “Why do youremind me of what I have suffered?” she asked petulantly. “Don’t you see thatit has left its mark on me for life?”

“I thought I knew something of women by this time,” Henry said, appealingprivately to Lady Montbarry for consolation. “But Agnes completely puzzles me.It is a year since Montbarry’s death; and she remains as devoted to his memoryas if he had died faithful to her—she still feels the loss of him, as none ofus feel it!”

“She is the truest woman that ever breathed the breath of life,” Lady Montbarryanswered. “Remember that, and you will understand her. Can such a woman asAgnes give her love or refuse it, according to circumstances? Because the manwas unworthy of her, was he less the man of her choice? The truest and bestfriend to him (little as he deserved it) in his lifetime, she naturally remainsthe truest and best friend to his memory now. If you really love her, wait; andtrust to your two best friends—to time and to me. There is my advice; let yourown experience decide whether it is not the best advice that I can offer.Resume your journey to Venice to-morrow; and when you take leave of Agnes,speak to her as cordially as if nothing had happened.”

Henry wisely followed this advice. Thoroughly understanding him, Agnes made theleave-taking friendly and pleasant on her side. When he stopped at the door fora last look at her, she hurriedly turned her head so that her face was hiddenfrom him. Was that a good sign? Lady Montbarry, accompanying Henry down thestairs, said, “Yes, decidedly! Write when you get to Venice. We shall wait hereto receive letters from Arthur and his wife, and we shall time our departurefor Italy accordingly.”

A week passed, and no letter came from Henry. Some days later, a telegram wasreceived from him. It was despatched from Milan, instead of from Venice; and itbrought this strange message:—“I have left the hotel. Will return on thearrival of Arthur and his wife. Address, meanwhile, Albergo Reale, Milan.”

Preferring Venice before all other cities of Europe, and having arranged toremain there until the family meeting took place, what unexpected event had ledHenry to alter his plans? and why did he state the bare fact, without adding aword of explanation? Let the narrative follow him—and find the answer to thosequestions at Venice.

CHAPTER XVII

The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to English and Americantravellers, celebrated the opening of its doors, as a matter of course, by thegiving of a grand banquet, and the delivery of a long succession of speeches.

Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venice in time to join theguests over their coffee and cigars. Observing the splendour of the receptionrooms, and taking note especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxuryin the bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse’s view of the future, andto contemplate seriously the coming dividend of ten per cent. The hotel wasbeginning well, at all events. So much interest in the enterprise had beenaroused, at home and abroad, by profuse advertising, that the wholeaccommodation of the building had been secured by travellers of all nations forthe opening night. Henry only obtained one of the small rooms on the upperfloor, by a lucky accident—the absence of the gentleman who had written toengage it. He was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed, when anotheraccident altered his prospects for the night, and moved him into another and abetter room.

Ascending on his way to the higher regions as far as the first floor of thehotel, Henry’s attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting, in astrong New England accent, against one of the greatest hardships that can beinflicted on a citizen of the United States—the hardship of sending him to bedwithout gas in his room.

The Americans are not only the most hospitable people to be found on the faceof the earth—they are (under certain conditions) the most patient andgood-tempered people as well. But they are human; and the limit of Americanendurance is found in the obsolete institution of a bedroom candle. TheAmerican traveller, in the present case, declined to believe that his bedroomwas in a complete finished state without a gas-burner. The manager pointed tothe fine antique decorations (renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling,and explained that the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoilthem in the course of a few months. To this the traveller replied that it waspossible, but that he did not understand decorations. A bedroom with gas in itwas what he was used to, was what he wanted, and was what he was determined tohave. The compliant manager volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed onthe inferior upper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms.Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber for alarge one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman. The excellent Americanshook hands with him on the spot. “You are a cultured person, sir,” he said;“and you will no doubt understand the decorations.”

Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it. The numberwas Fourteen.

Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night’s rest. In thethoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he slept as well in a bedabroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest assignable reason, however,his just expectations were disappointed. The luxurious bed, the well-ventilatedroom, the delicious tranquillity of Venice by night, all were in favour of hissleeping well. He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression anddiscomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike. He went down tothe coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir, and ordered some breakfast.Another unaccountable change in himself appeared with the appearance of themeal. He was absolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette, and cutletscooked to perfection, he sent away untasted—he, whose appetite never failedhim, whose digestion was still equal to any demands on it!

The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was rowed to the Lido.

Out on the airy Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not left the hotel tenminutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. Waking, on reaching thelanding-place, he crossed the Lido, and enjoyed a morning’s swim in theAdriatic. There was only a poor restaurant on the island, in those days; buthis appetite was now ready for anything; he ate whatever was offered to him,like a famished man. He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that hehad sent away untasted his excellent breakfast at the hotel.

Returning to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture-galleries andthe churches. Towards six o’clock his gondola took him back, with another fineappetite, to meet some travelling acquaintances with whom he had engaged todine at the table d’hote.

The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every guest inthe hotel but one. To Henry’s astonishment, the appetite with which he hadentered the house mysteriously and completely left him when he sat down totable. He could drink some wine, but he could literally eat nothing. “What inthe world is the matter with you?” his travelling acquaintances asked. He couldhonestly answer, “I know no more than you do.”

When night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroom another trial.The result of the second experiment was a repetition of the result of thefirst. Again he felt the all-pervading sense of depression and discomfort.Again he passed a sleepless night. And once more, when he tried to eat hisbreakfast, his appetite completely failed him!

This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary to be passedover in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends in the public room, in thehearing of the manager. The manager, naturally zealous in defence of the hotel,was a little hurt at the implied reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invitedthe travellers present to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick’s bedroomwas to blame for Mr. Westwick’s sleepless nights; and he especially appealed toa grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-table of an Englishtraveller, to take the lead in the investigation. “This is Doctor Bruno, ourfirst physician in Venice,” he explained. “I appeal to him to say if there areany unhealthy influences in Mr. Westwick’s room.”

Introduced to Number Fourteen, the doctor looked round him with a certainappearance of interest which was noticed by everyone present. “The last time Iwas in this room,” he said, “was on a melancholy occasion. It was before thepalace was changed into an hotel. I was in professional attendance on anEnglish nobleman who died here.” One of the persons present inquired the nameof the nobleman. Doctor Bruno answered (without the slightest suspicion that hewas speaking before a brother of the dead man), “Lord Montbarry.”

Henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to anybody.

He was not, in any sense of the term, a superstitious man. But he felt,nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance to remaining in the hotel. Hedecided on leaving Venice. To ask for another room would be, as he couldplainly see, an offence in the eyes of the manager. To remove to another hotel,would be to openly abandon an establishment in the success of which he had apecuniary interest. Leaving a note for Arthur Barville, on his arrival inVenice, in which he merely mentioned that he had gone to look at the Italianlakes, and that a line addressed to his hotel at Milan would bring him backagain, he took the afternoon train to Padua—and dined with his usual appetite,and slept as well as ever that night.

The next day, a gentleman and his wife (perfect strangers to the Montbarryfamily), returning to England by way of Venice, arrived at the hotel andoccupied Number Fourteen.

Still mindful of the slur that had been cast on one of his best bedchambers,the manager took occasion to ask the travellers the next morning how they likedtheir room. They left him to judge for himself how well they were satisfied, byremaining a day longer in Venice than they had originally planned to do, solelyfor the purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to them by thenew hotel. “We have met with nothing like it in Italy,” they said; “you mayrely on our recommending you to all our friends.”

On the day when Number Fourteen was again vacant, an English lady travellingalone with her maid arrived at the hotel, saw the room, and at once engaged it.

The lady was Mrs. Norbury. She had left Francis Westwick at Milan, occupied innegotiating for the appearance at his theatre of the new dancer at the Scala.Not having heard to the contrary, Mrs. Norbury supposed that Arthur Barvilleand his wife had already arrived at Venice. She was more interested in meetingthe young married couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargainingwhich delayed the engagement of the new dancer; and she volunteered to make herbrother’s apologies, if his theatrical business caused him to be late inkeeping his appointment at the honeymoon festival.

Mrs. Norbury’s experience of Number Fourteen differed entirely from her brotherHenry’s experience of the room.

Falling asleep as readily as usual, her repose was disturbed by a succession offrightful dreams; the central figure in every one of them being the figure ofher dead brother, the first Lord Montbarry. She saw him starving in a loathsomeprison; she saw him pursued by assassins, and dying under their knives; she sawhim drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water; she saw him in a bed onfire, burning to death in the flames; she saw him tempted by a shadowy creatureto drink, and dying of the poisonous draught. The reiterated horror of thesedreams had such an effect on her that she rose with the dawn of day, afraid totrust herself again in bed. In the old times, she had been noted in the familyas the one member of it who lived on affectionate terms with Montbarry. Hisother sister and his brothers were constantly quarrelling with him. Even hismother owned that her eldest son was of all her children the child whom sheleast liked. Sensible and resolute woman as she was, Mrs. Norbury shudderedwith terror as she sat at the window of her room, watching the sunrise, andthinking of her dreams.

She made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maid came in at theusual hour, and noticed how ill she looked. The woman was of so superstitious atemperament that it would have been in the last degree indiscreet to trust herwith the truth. Mrs. Norbury merely remarked that she had not found the bedquite to her liking, on account of the large size of it. She was accustomed athome, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed. Informed of this objectionlater in the day, the manager regretted that he could only offer to the ladythe choice of one other bedchamber, numbered Thirty-eight, and situatedimmediately over the bedchamber which she desired to leave. Mrs. Norburyaccepted the proposed change of quarters. She was now about to pass her secondnight in the room occupied in the old days of the palace by Baron Rivar.

Once more, she fell asleep as usual. And, once more, the frightful dreams ofthe first night terrified her, following each other in the same succession.This time her nerves, already shaken, were not equal to the renewed torture ofterror inflicted on them. She threw on her dressing-gown, and rushed out of herroom in the middle of the night. The porter, alarmed by the banging of thedoor, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in search of the first humanbeing she could find to keep her company. Considerably surprised at this lastnew manifestation of the famous “English eccentricity,” the man looked at thehotel register, and led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by hermaid. The maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was not evenundressed. She received her mistress quietly. When they were alone, and whenMrs. Norbury had, as a matter of necessity, taken her attendant into herconfidence, the woman made a very strange reply.

“I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants’ supper to-night,” shesaid. “The valet of one of the gentlemen staying here has heard that the lateLord Montbarry was the last person who lived in the palace, before it was madeinto an hotel. The room he died in, ma’am, was the room you slept in lastnight. Your room tonight is the room just above it. I said nothing for fear offrightening you. For my own part, I have passed the night as you see, keepingmy light on, and reading my Bible. In my opinion, no member of your family canhope to be happy or comfortable in this house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Please to let me explain myself, ma’am. When Mr. Henry Westwick was here (Ihave this from the valet, too) he occupied the room his brother died in(without knowing it), like you. For two nights he never closed his eyes.Without any reason for it (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in thecoffee-room) he could not sleep; he felt so low and so wretched in himself. Andwhat is more, when daytime came, he couldn’t even eat while he was under thisroof. You may laugh at me, ma’am—but even a servant may draw her ownconclusions. It’s my conclusion that something happened to my lord, which wenone of us know about, when he died in this house. His ghost walks in tormentuntil he can tell it—and the living persons related to him are the persons whofeel he is near them. Those persons may yet see him in the time to come. Don’t,pray don’t stay any longer in this dreadful place! I wouldn’t stay anothernight here myself—no, not for anything that could be offered me!”

Mrs. Norbury at once set her servant’s mind at ease on this last point.

“I don’t think about it as you do,” she said gravely. “But I should like tospeak to my brother of what has happened. We will go back to Milan.”

Some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the hotel, by the firsttrain in the forenoon.

In that interval, Mrs. Norbury’s maid found an opportunity of confidentiallyinforming the valet of what had passed between her mistress and herself. Thevalet had other friends to whom he related the circumstances in his turn. Indue course of time, the narrative, passing from mouth to mouth, reached theears of the manager. He instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was indanger, unless something was done to retrieve the character of the roomnumbered Fourteen. English travellers, well acquainted with the peerage oftheir native country, informed him that Henry Westwick and Mrs. Norbury were byno means the only members of the Montbarry family. Curiosity might bring moreof them to the hotel, after hearing what had happened. The manager’s ingenuityeasily hit on the obvious means of misleading them, in this case. The numbersof all the rooms were enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to thedoors. He ordered a new plate to be prepared, bearing the number, “13 A”; andhe kept the room empty, after its tenant for the time being had gone away,until the plate was ready. He then re-numbered the room; placing the removedNumber Fourteen on the door of his own room (on the second floor), which, notbeing to let, had not previously been numbered at all. By this device, NumberFourteen disappeared at once and for ever from the books of the hotel, as thenumber of a bedroom to let.

Having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with travellers, on thesubject of the changed numbers, under penalty of being dismissed, the managercomposed his mind with the reflection that he had done his duty to hisemployers. “Now,” he thought to himself, with an excusable sense of triumph,“let the whole family come here if they like! The hotel is a match for them.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Before the end of the week, the manager found himself in relations with “thefamily” once more. A telegram from Milan announced that Mr. Francis Westwickwould arrive in Venice on the next day; and would be obliged if NumberFourteen, on the first floor, could be reserved for him, in the event of itsbeing vacant at the time.

The manager paused to consider, before he issued his directions.

The re-numbered room had been last let to a French gentleman. It would beoccupied on the day of Mr. Francis Westwick’s arrival, but it would be emptyagain on the day after. Would it be well to reserve the room for the specialoccupation of Mr. Francis? and when he had passed the night unsuspiciously andcomfortably in “No. 13 A,” to ask him in the presence of witnesses how he likedhis bedchamber? In this case, if the reputation of the room happened to becalled in question again, the answer would vindicate it, on the evidence of amember of the very family which had first given Number Fourteen a bad name.After a little reflection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, anddirected that “13 A” should be reserved accordingly.

On the next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits.

He had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in Italy; he hadtransferred the charge of Mrs. Norbury to his brother Henry, who had joined himin Milan; and he was now at full liberty to amuse himself by testing in everypossible way the extraordinary influence exercised over his relatives by thenew hotel. When his brother and sister first told him what their experience hadbeen, he instantly declared that he would go to Venice in the interest of histheatre. The circumstances related to him contained invaluable hints for aghost-drama. The title occurred to him in the railway: “The Haunted Hotel.”Post that in red letters six feet high, on a black ground, all over London—andtrust the excitable public to crowd into the theatre!

Received with the politest attention by the manager, Francis met with adisappointment on entering the hotel. “Some mistake, sir. No such room on thefirst floor as Number Fourteen. The room bearing that number is on the secondfloor, and has been occupied by me, from the day when the hotel opened. Perhapsyou meant number 13 A, on the first floor? It will be at your serviceto-morrow—a charming room. In the mean time, we will do the best we can foryou, to-night.”

A man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably the last man inthe civilized universe who is capable of being impressed with favourableopinions of his fellow-creatures. Francis privately set the manager down as ahumbug, and the story about the numbering of the rooms as a lie.

On the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant, before thehour of the table d’hote, for the express purpose of questioning the waiter,without being overheard by anybody. The answer led him to the conclusion that“13 A” occupied the situation in the hotel which had been described by hisbrother and sister as the situation of “14.” He asked next for the Visitors’List; and found that the French gentleman who then occupied “13 A,” was theproprietor of a theatre in Paris, personally well known to him. Was thegentleman then in the hotel? He had gone out, but would certainly return forthe table d’hote. When the public dinner was over, Francis entered the room,and was welcomed by his Parisian colleague, literally, with open arms. “Comeand have a cigar in my room,” said the friendly Frenchman. “I want to hearwhether you have really engaged that woman at Milan or not.” In this easy way,Francis found his opportunity of comparing the interior of the room with thedescription which he had heard of it at Milan.

Arriving at the door, the Frenchman bethought himself of his travellingcompanion. “My scene-painter is here with me,” he said, “on the look-out formaterials. An excellent fellow, who will take it as a kindness if we ask him tojoin us. I’ll tell the porter to send him up when he comes in.” He handed thekey of his room to Francis. “I will be back in a minute. It’s at the end of thecorridor—13 A.”

Francis entered the room alone. There were the decorations on the walls and theceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! He had just time toperceive this at a glance, before his attention was diverted to himself and hisown sensations, by a grotesquely disagreeable occurrence which took himcompletely by surprise.

He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room, entirely newin his experience of revolting smells. It was composed (if such a thing couldbe) of two mingling exhalations, which were separately-discoverable exhalationsnevertheless. This strange blending of odours consisted of something faintlyand unpleasantly aromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterablysickening that he threw open the window, and put his head out into the freshair, unable to endure the horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer.

The French proprietor joined his English friend, with his cigar already lit. Hestarted back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymen in general—thesight of an open window. “You English people are perfectly mad on the subjectof fresh air!” he exclaimed. “We shall catch our deaths of cold.”

Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. “Are you really not aware ofthe smell there is in the room?” he asked.

“Smell!” repeated his brother-manager. “I smell my own good cigar. Try oneyourself. And for Heaven’s sake shut the window!”

Francis declined the cigar by a sign. “Forgive me,” he said. “I will leave youto close the window. I feel faint and giddy—I had better go out.” He put hishandkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the room to the door.

The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state ofbewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of shutting outthe fresh air. “Is it so nasty as that?” he asked, with a broad stare ofamazement.

“Horrible!” Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. “I never smelt anythinglike it in my life!”

There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. His employerinstantly asked him if he smelt anything.

“I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly!”

“Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything else—vile, abominable,overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt before?”

The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of the languageaddressed to him. “The room is as fresh and sweet as a room can be,” heanswered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at Francis Westwick,standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamberwith an expression of undisguised disgust.

The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked at him withgrave and anxious scrutiny.

“You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours, who smellnothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!” He pointed to twolittle English girls, at play in the corridor. “The door of my room is wideopen—and you know how fast a smell can travel. Now listen, while I appeal tothese innocent noses, in the language of their own dismal island. My littleloves, do you sniff a nasty smell here—ha?” The children burst out laughing,and answered emphatically, “No.” “My good Westwick,” the Frenchman resumed, inhis own language, “the conclusion is surely plain? There is something wrong,very wrong, with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical man.”

Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the horridfresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the hotel, by thelanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The night-breeze soon revived him. Hewas able to light a cigar, and to think quietly over what had happened.

CHAPTER XIX

Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up and down thenoble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon.

Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. The strangeeffect produced on him by the room—following on the other strange effectsproduced on the other relatives of his dead brother—exercised no perplexinginfluence over the mind of this sensible man. “Perhaps,” he reflected, “mytemperament is more imaginative than I supposed it to be—and this is a trickplayed on me by my own fancy? Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something isphysically amiss with me? I don’t feel ill, certainly. But that is no safecriterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night—Ican well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor ornot. In the mean time, the hotel doesn’t seem likely to supply me with thesubject of a piece. A terrible smell from an invisible ghost is a perfectly newidea. But it has one drawback. If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive theaudience out of the theatre.”

As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he becameaware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing him with markedattention. “Am I right in supposing you to be Mr. Francis Westwick?” the ladyasked, at the moment when he looked at her.

“That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour of speaking?”

“We have only met once,” she answered a little evasively, “when your latebrother introduced me to the members of his family. I wonder if you have quiteforgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?” She lifted her veil asshe spoke, and turned so that the moonlight rested on her face.

Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most cordiallydisliked—the widow of his dead brother, the first Lord Montbarry. He frowned ashe looked at her. His experience on the stage, gathered at innumerablerehearsals with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed himto speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him. “I remember you,” hesaid. “I thought you were in America!”

She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simply stopped himwhen he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her.

“Let me walk with you for a few minutes,” she quietly replied. “I havesomething to say to you.”

He showed her his cigar. “I am smoking,” he said.

“I don’t mind smoking.”

After that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright brutality) but toyield. He did it with the worst possible grace. “Well?” he resumed. “What doyou want of me?”

“You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first tell you what my positionis. I am alone in the world. To the loss of my husband has now been addedanother bereavement, the loss of my companion in America, my brother—BaronRivar.”

The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown on hisassumed relationship to the Countess, were well known to Francis. “Shot in agambling-saloon?” he asked brutally.

“The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,” she said, with theimpenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain occasions. “As anative of horse-racing England, you belong to a nation of gamblers. My brotherdied no extraordinary death, Mr. Westwick. He sank, with many other unfortunatepeople, under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit.The calamity of his loss made the United States unendurable to me. I left bythe first steamer that sailed from New York—a French vessel which brought me toHavre. I continued my lonely journey to the South of France. And then I went onto Venice.”

“What does all this matter to me?” Francis thought to himself. She paused,evidently expecting him to say something. “So you have come to Venice?” he saidcarelessly. “Why?”

“Because I couldn’t help it,” she answered.

Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. “That sounds odd,” he remarked.“Why couldn’t you help it?”

“Women are accustomed to act on impulse,” she explained. “Suppose we say thatan impulse has directed my journey? And yet, this is the last place in theworld that I wish to find myself in. Associations that I detest are connectedwith it in my mind. If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again. Ihate Venice. As you see, however, I am here. When did you meet with such anunreasonable woman before? Never, I am sure!” She stopped, eyed him for amoment, and suddenly altered her tone. “When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected tobe in Venice?” she asked.

It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but that extraordinaryquestion did it. “How the devil did you know that Miss Lockwood was coming toVenice?” he exclaimed.

She laughed—a bitter mocking laugh. “Say, I guessed it!”

Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of hereyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was in FrancisWestwick. “Lady Montbarry—!” he began.

“Stop there!” she interposed. “Your brother Stephen’s wife calls herself LadyMontbarry now. I share my title with no woman. Call me by my name before Icommitted the fatal mistake of marrying your brother. Address me, if youplease, as Countess Narona.”

“Countess Narona,” Francis resumed, “if your object in claiming my acquaintanceis to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. Speak plainly, or permit meto wish you good evening.”

“If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood’s arrival in Venice a secret,” sheretorted, “speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on yourside, and say so.”

Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded. “Nonsense!” hebroke out petulantly. “My brother’s travelling arrangements are secrets tonobody. He brings Miss Lockwood here, with Lady Montbarry and the children. Asyou seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice?”

The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She made no reply. Thetwo strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity of thesquare, were now standing before the church of St. Mark. The moonlight wasbright enough to show the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderfulvariety of detail. Even the pigeons of St. Mark were visible, in dark closelypacked rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors.

“I never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,” the Countess saidquietly; speaking, not to Francis, but to herself. “Good-bye, St. Mark’s bymoonlight! I shall not see you again.”

She turned away from the church, and saw Francis listening to her withwondering looks. “No,” she resumed, placidly picking up the lost thread of theconversation, “I don’t know why Miss Lockwood is coming here, I only know thatwe are to meet in Venice.”

“By previous appointment?”

“By Destiny,” she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyes on theground. Francis burst out laughing. “Or, if you like it better,” she instantlyresumed, “by what fools call Chance.” Francis answered easily, out of thedepths of his strong common sense. “Chance seems to be taking a queer way ofbringing the meeting about,” he said. “We have all arranged to meet at thePalace Hotel. How is it that your name is not on the Visitors” List? Destinyought to have brought you to the Palace Hotel too.”

She abruptly pulled down her veil. “Destiny may do that yet!” she said. “ThePalace Hotel?” she repeated, speaking once more to herself. “The old hell,transformed into the new purgatory. The place itself! Jesu Maria! the placeitself!” She paused and laid her hand on her companion’s arm. “Perhaps MissLockwood is not going there with the rest of you?” she burst out with suddeneagerness. “Are you positively sure she will be at the hotel?”

“Positively! Haven’t I told you that Miss Lockwood travels with Lord and LadyMontbarry? and don’t you know that she is a member of the family? You will haveto move, Countess, to our hotel.”

She was perfectly impenetrable to the bantering tone in which he spoke. “Yes,”she said faintly, “I shall have to move to your hotel.” Her hand was still onhis arm—he could feel her shivering from head to foot while she spoke. Heartilyas he disliked and distrusted her, the common instinct of humanity obliged himto ask if she felt cold.

“Yes,” she said. “Cold and faint.”

“Cold and faint, Countess, on such a night as this?”

“The night has nothing to do with it, Mr. Westwick. How do you suppose thecriminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting the rope aroundhis neck? Cold and faint, too, I should think. Excuse my grim fancy. You see,Destiny has got the rope round myneck—and Ifeel it.”

She looked about her. They were at that moment close to the famous café knownas “Florian’s.” “Take me in there,” she said; “I must have something to reviveme. You had better not hesitate. You are interested in reviving me. I have notsaid what I wanted to say to you yet. It’s business, and it’s connected withyour theatre.”

Wondering inwardly what she could possibly want with his theatre, Francisreluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situation, and took her into thecafé. He found a quiet corner in which they could take their places withoutattracting notice. “What will you have?” he inquired resignedly. She gave herown orders to the waiter, without troubling him to speak for her.

“Maraschino. And a pot of tea.”

The waiter stared; Francis stared. The tea was a novelty (in connection withmaraschino) to both of them. Careless whether she surprised them or not, sheinstructed the waiter, when her directions had been complied with, to pour alarge wine-glass-full of the liqueur into a tumbler, and to fill it up from theteapot. “I can’t do it for myself,” she remarked, “my hand trembles so.” Shedrank the strange mixture eagerly, hot as it was. “Maraschino punch—will youtaste some of it?” she said. “I inherit the discovery of this drink. When yourEnglish Queen Caroline was on the Continent, my mother was attached to herCourt. That much injured Royal Person invented, in her happier hours,maraschino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my mother sharedher tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my mother. Now, Mr. Westwick,suppose I tell you what my business is. You are manager of a theatre. Do youwant a new play?”

“I always want a new play—provided it’s a good one.”

“And you pay, if it’s a good one?”

“I pay liberally—in my own interests.”

“If Iwrite the play, will you read it?”

Francis hesitated. “What has put writing a play into your head?” he asked.

“Mere accident,” she answered. “I had once occasion to tell my late brother ofa visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood, when I was last in England. He took nointerest at what happened at the interview, but something struck him in my wayof relating it. He said, ‘You describe what passed between you and the ladywith the point and contrast of good stage dialogue. You have the dramaticinstinct—try if you can write a play. You might make money.’ Thatput itinto my head.”

Those last words seemed to startle Francis. “Surely you don’t want money!” heexclaimed.

“I always want money. My tastes are expensive. I have nothing but my poorlittle four hundred a year—and the wreck that is left of the other money: abouttwo hundred pounds in circular notes—no more.”

Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid by theinsurance offices. “All those thousands gone already!” he exclaimed.

She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. “Gone like that!” she answeredcoolly.

“Baron Rivar?”

She looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black eyes.

“My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. I have made you a proposal—and youhave not answered me yet. Don’t say No, without thinking first. Remember what alife mine has been. I have seen more of the world than most people, playwrightsincluded. I have had strange adventures; I have heard remarkable stories; Ihave observed; I have remembered. Are there no materials, here in my head, forwriting a play—if the opportunity is granted to me?” She waited a moment, andsuddenly repeated her strange question about Agnes.

“When is Miss Lockwood expected to be in Venice?”

“What has that to do with your new play, Countess?”

The Countess appeared to feel some difficulty in giving that question its fitreply. She mixed another tumbler full of maraschino punch, and drank one goodhalf of it before she spoke again.

“It has everything to do with my new play,” was all she said. “Answer me.”Francis answered her.

“Miss Lockwood may be here in a week. Or, for all I know to the contrary,sooner than that.”

“Very well. If I am a living woman and a free woman in a week’s time—or if I amin possession of my senses in a week’s time (don’t interrupt me; I know what Iam talking about)—I shall have a sketch or outline of my play ready, as aspecimen of what I can do. Once again, will you read it?”

“I will certainly read it. But, Countess, I don’t understand—”

She held up her hand for silence, and finished the second tumbler of maraschinopunch.

“I am a living enigma—and you want to know the right reading of me,” she said.“Here is the reading, as your English phrase goes, in a nutshell. There is afoolish idea in the minds of many persons that the natives of the warm climatesare imaginative people. There never was a greater mistake. You will find nosuch unimaginative people anywhere as you find in Italy, Spain, Greece, and theother Southern countries. To anything fanciful, to anything spiritual, theirminds are deaf and blind by nature. Now and then, in the course of centuries, agreat genius springs up among them; and he is the exception which proves therule. Now see! I, though I am no genius—I am, in my little way (as I suppose),an exception too. To my sorrow, I have some of that imagination which is socommon among the English and the Germans—so rare among the Italians, theSpaniards, and the rest of them! And what is the result? I think it has becomea disease in me. I am filled with presentiments which make this wicked life ofmine one long terror to me. It doesn’t matter, just now, what they are. Enoughthat they absolutely govern me—they drive me over land and sea at their ownhorrible will; they are in me, and torturing me, at this moment! Why don’t Iresist them? Ha! but I do resist them. I am trying (with the help of the goodpunch) to resist them now. At intervals I cultivate the difficult virtue ofcommon sense. Sometimes, sound sense makes a hopeful woman of me. At one time,I had the hope that what seemed reality to me was only mad delusion, afterall—I even asked the question of an English doctor! At other times, othersensible doubts of myself beset me. Never mind dwelling on them now—it alwaysends in the old terrors and superstitions taking possession of me again. In aweek’s time, I shall know whether Destiny does indeed decide my future for me,or whether I decide it for myself. In the last case, my resolution is to absorbthis self-tormenting fancy of mine in the occupation that I have told you ofalready. Do you understand me a little better now? And, our business beingsettled, dear Mr. Westwick, shall we get out of this hot room into the nicecool air again?”

They rose to leave the café. Francis privately concluded that the maraschinopunch offered the only discoverable explanation of what the Countess had saidto him.

CHAPTER XX

“Shall I see you again?” she asked, as she held out her hand to take leave. “Itis quite understood between us, I suppose, about the play?”

Francis recalled his extraordinary experience of that evening in there-numbered room. “My stay in Venice is uncertain,” he replied. “If you haveanything more to say about this dramatic venture of yours, it may be as well tosay it now. Have you decided on a subject already? I know the public taste inEngland better than you do—I might save you some waste of time and trouble, ifyou have not chosen your subject wisely.”

“I don’t care what subject I write about, so long as I write,” she answeredcarelessly. “If youhave got a subject in your head, give it to me. Ianswer for the characters and the dialogue.”

“You answer for the characters and the dialogue,” Francis repeated. “That’s abold way of speaking for a beginner! I wonder if I should shake your sublimeconfidence in yourself, if I suggested the most ticklish subject to handlewhich is known to the stage? What do you say, Countess, to entering the listswith Shakespeare, and trying a drama with a ghost in it? A true story, mind!founded on events in this very city in which you and I are interested.”

She caught him by the arm, and drew him away from the crowded colonnade intothe solitary middle space of the square. “Now tell me!” she said eagerly.“Here, where nobody is near us. How am I interested in it? How? how?”

Still holding his arm, she shook him in her impatience to hear the comingdisclosure. For a moment he hesitated. Thus far, amused by her ignorant beliefin herself, he had merely spoken in jest. Now, for the first time, impressed byher irresistible earnestness, he began to consider what he was about from amore serious point of view. With her knowledge of all that had passed in theold palace, before its transformation into an hotel, it was surely possiblethat she might suggest some explanation of what had happened to his brother,and sister, and himself. Or, failing to do this, she might accidentally revealsome event in her own experience which, acting as a hint to a competentdramatist, might prove to be the making of a play. The prosperity of histheatre was his one serious object in life. “I may be on the trace of another‘Corsican Brothers,’” he thought. “A new piece of that sort would be tenthousand pounds in my pocket, at least.”

With these motives (worthy of the single-hearted devotion to dramatic businesswhich made Francis a successful manager) he related, without furtherhesitation, what his own experience had been, and what the experience of hisrelatives had been, in the haunted hotel. He even described the outbreak ofsuperstitious terror which had escaped Mrs. Norbury’s ignorant maid. “Sadstuff, if you look at it reasonably,” he remarked. “But there is somethingdramatic in the notion of the ghostly influence making itself felt by therelations in succession, as they one after another enter the fatal room—untilthe one chosen relative comes who will see the Unearthly Creature, and know theterrible truth. Material for a play, Countess—first-rate material for a play!”

There he paused. She neither moved nor spoke. He stooped and looked closer ather.

What impression had he produced? It was an impression which his utmostingenuity had failed to anticipate. She stood by his side—just as she had stoodbefore Agnes when her question about Ferrari was plainly answered at last—likea woman turned to stone. Her eyes were vacant and rigid; all the life in herface had faded out of it. Francis took her by the hand. Her hand was as cold asthe pavement that they were standing on. He asked her if she was ill.

Not a muscle in her moved. He might as well have spoken to the dead.

“Surely,” he said, “you are not foolish enough to take what I have been tellingyou seriously?”

Her lips moved slowly. As it seemed, she was making an effort to speak to him.

“Louder,” he said. “I can’t hear you.”

She struggled to recover possession of herself. A faint light began to softenthe dull cold stare of her eyes. In a moment more she spoke so that he couldhear her.

“I never thought of the other world,” she murmured, in low dull tones, like awoman talking in her sleep.

Her mind had gone back to the day of her last memorable interview with Agnes;she was slowly recalling the confession that had escaped her, the warning wordswhich she had spoken at that past time. Necessarily incapable of understandingthis, Francis looked at her in perplexity. She went on in the same dull vacanttone, steadily following out her own train of thought, with her heedless eyeson his face, and her wandering mind far away from him.

“I said some trifling event would bring us together the next time. I was wrong.No trifling event will bring us together. I said I might be the person who toldher what had become of Ferrari, if she forced me to it. Shall I feel some otherinfluence than hers? Will heforce me to it? When shesees him,shall Isee him too?”

Her head sank a little; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly; she heaved a long lowweary sigh. Francis put her arm in his, and made an attempt to rouse her.

“Come, Countess, you are weary and over-wrought. We have had enough talkingto-night. Let me see you safe back to your hotel. Is it far from here?”

She started when he moved, and obliged her to move with him, as if he hadsuddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep.

“Not far,” she said faintly. “The old hotel on the quay. My mind’s in a strangestate; I have forgotten the name.”

“Danieli’s?”

“Yes!”

He led her on slowly. She accompanied him in silence as far as the end of thePiazzetta. There, when the full view of the moonlit Lagoon revealed itself, shestopped him as he turned towards the Riva degli Schiavoni. “I have something toask you. I want to wait and think.”

She recovered her lost idea, after a long pause.

“Are you going to sleep in the room to-night?” she asked.

He told her that another traveller was in possession of the room that night.“But the manager has reserved it for me to-morrow,” he added, “if I wish tohave it.”

“No,” she said. “You must give it up.”

“To whom?”

“To me!”

He started. “After what I have told you, do you really wish to sleep in thatroom to-morrow night?”

“I mustsleep in it.”

“Are you not afraid?”

“I am horribly afraid.”

“So I should have thought, after what I have observed in you to-night. Whyshould you take the room? You are not obliged to occupy it, unless you like.”

“I was not obliged to go to Venice, when I left America,” she answered. “Andyet I came here. I must take the room, and keep the room, until—” She broke offat those words. “Never mind the rest,” she said. “It doesn’t interest you.”

It was useless to dispute with her. Francis changed the subject. “We can donothing to-night,” he said. “I will call on you to-morrow morning, and hearwhat you think of it then.”

They moved on again to the hotel. As they approached the door, Francis asked ifshe was staying in Venice under her own name.

She shook her head. “As your brother’s widow, I am known here. As CountessNarona, I am known here. I want to be unknown, this time, to strangers inVenice; I am travelling under a common English name.” She hesitated, and stoodstill. “What has come to me?” she muttered to herself. “Some things I remember;and some I forget. I forgot Danieli’s—and now I forget my English name.” Shedrew him hurriedly into the hall of the hotel, on the wall of which hung a listof visitors’ names. Running her finger slowly down the list, she pointed to theEnglish name that she had assumed:—“Mrs. James.”

“Remember that when you call to-morrow,” she said. “My head is heavy. Goodnight.”

Francis went back to his own hotel, wondering what the events of the next daywould bring forth. A new turn in his affairs had taken place in his absence. Ashe crossed the hall, he was requested by one of the servants to walk into theprivate office. The manager was waiting there with a gravely pre-occupiedmanner, as if he had something serious to say. He regretted to hear that Mr.Francis Westwick had, like other members of the family, discovered serioussources of discomfort in the new hotel. He had been informed in strictconfidence of Mr. Westwick’s extraordinary objection to the atmosphere of thebedroom upstairs. Without presuming to discuss the matter, he must beg to beexcused from reserving the room for Mr. Westwick after what had happened.

Francis answered sharply, a little ruffled by the tone in which the manager hadspoken to him. “I might, very possibly, have declined to sleep in the room, ifyou hadreserved it,” he said. “Do you wish me to leave the hotel?”

The manager saw the error that he had committed, and hastened to repair it.“Certainly not, sir! We will do our best to make you comfortable while you staywith us. I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to offend you. Thereputation of an establishment like this is a matter of very seriousimportance. May I hope that you will do us the great favour to say nothingabout what has happened upstairs? The two French gentlemen have kindly promisedto keep it a secret.”

This apology left Francis no polite alternative but to grant the manager’srequest. “There is an end to the Countess’s wild scheme,” he thought tohimself, as he retired for the night. “So much the better for the Countess!”

He rose late the next morning. Inquiring for his Parisian friends, he wasinformed that both the French gentlemen had left for Milan. As he crossed thehall, on his way to the restaurant, he noticed the head porter chalking thenumbers of the rooms on some articles of luggage which were waiting to goupstairs. One trunk attracted his attention by the extraordinary number of oldtravelling labels left on it. The porter was marking it at the moment—and thenumber was, “13 A.” Francis instantly looked at the card fastened on the lid.It bore the common English name, “Mrs. James”! He at once inquired about thelady. She had arrived early that morning, and she was then in the Reading Room.Looking into the room, he discovered a lady in it alone. Advancing a littlenearer, he found himself face to face with the Countess.

She was seated in a dark corner, with her head down and her arms crossed overher bosom. “Yes,” she said, in a tone of weary impatience, before Francis couldspeak to her. “I thought it best not to wait for you—I determined to get herebefore anybody else could take the room.”

“Have you taken it for long?” Francis asked.

“You told me Miss Lockwood would be here in a week’s time. I have taken it fora week.”

“What has Miss Lockwood to do with it?”

“She has everything to do with it—she must sleep in the room. I shall give theroom up to her when she comes here.”

Francis began to understand the superstitious purpose that she had in view.“Are you (an educated woman) really of the same opinion as my sister’s maid!”he exclaimed. “Assuming your absurd superstition to be a serious thing, you aretaking the wrong means to prove it true. If I and my brother and sister haveseen nothing, how should Agnes Lockwood discover what was not revealed to us?She is only distantly related to the Montbarrys—she is only our cousin.”

“She was nearer to the heart of the Montbarry who is dead than any of you,” theCountess answered sternly. “To the last day of his life, my miserable husbandrepented his desertion of her. She will see what none of you have seen—sheshall have the room.”

Francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives that animatedher. “I don’t see what interest youhave in trying this extraordinaryexperiment,” he said.

“It is my interest notto try it! It is my interest to fly from Venice,and never set eyes on Agnes Lockwood or any of your family again!”

“What prevents you from doing that?”

She started to her feet and looked at him wildly. “I know no more what preventsme than you do!” she burst out. “Some will that is stronger than mine drives meon to my destruction, in spite of my own self!” She suddenly sat down again,and waved her hand for him to go. “Leave me,” she said. “Leave me to mythoughts.”

Francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out of her senses.For the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her. The night, so far as he knew,passed quietly. The next morning he breakfasted early, determining to wait inthe restaurant for the appearance of the Countess. She came in and ordered herbreakfast quietly, looking dull and worn and self-absorbed, as she had lookedwhen he last saw her. He hastened to her table, and asked if anything hadhappened in the night.

“Nothing,” she answered.

“You have rested as well as usual?”

“Quite as well as usual. Have you had any letters this morning? Have you heardwhen she is coming?”

“I have had no letters. Are you really going to stay here? Has your experienceof last night not altered the opinion which you expressed to me yesterday?”

“Not in the least.”

The momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face when she questionedhim about Agnes, died out of it again when he answered her. She looked, shespoke, she ate her breakfast, with a vacant resignation, like a woman who haddone with hopes, done with interests, done with everything but the mechanicalmovements and instincts of life.

Francis went out, on the customary travellers’ pilgrimage to the shrines ofTitian and Tintoret. After some hours of absence, he found a letter waiting forhim when he got back to the hotel. It was written by his brother Henry, and itrecommended him to return to Milan immediately. The proprietor of a Frenchtheatre, recently arrived from Venice, was trying to induce the famous dancerwhom Francis had engaged to break faith with him and accept a higher salary.

Having made this startling announcement, Henry proceeded to inform his brotherthat Lord and Lady Montbarry, with Agnes and the children, would arrive inVenice in three days more. “They know nothing of our adventures at the hotel,”Henry wrote; “and they have telegraphed to the manager for the accommodationthat they want. There would be something absurdly superstitious in our givingthem a warning which would frighten the ladies and children out of the besthotel in Venice. We shall be a strong party this time—too strong a party forghosts! I shall meet the travellers on their arrival, of course, and try myluck again at what you call the Haunted Hotel. Arthur Barville and his wifehave already got as far on their way as Trent; and two of the lady’s relationshave arranged to accompany them on the journey to Venice.”

Naturally indignant at the conduct of his Parisian colleague, Francis made hispreparations for returning to Milan by the train of that day.

On his way out, he asked the manager if his brother’s telegram had beenreceived. The telegram had arrived, and, to the surprise of Francis, the roomswere already reserved. “I thought you would refuse to let any more of thefamily into the house,” he said satirically. The manager answered (with the duedash of respect) in the same tone. “Number 13 A is safe, sir, in the occupationof a stranger. I am the servant of the Company; and I dare not turn money outof the hotel.”

Hearing this, Francis said good-bye—and said nothing more. He was ashamed toacknowledge it to himself, but he felt an irresistible curiosity to know whatwould happen when Agnes arrived at the hotel. Besides, “Mrs. James” had reposeda confidence in him. He got into his gondola, respecting the confidence of“Mrs. James.”

Towards evening on the third day, Lord Montbarry and his travelling companionsarrived, punctual to their appointment.

“Mrs. James,” sitting at the window of her room watching for them, saw the newLord land from the gondola first. He handed his wife to the steps. The threechildren were next committed to his care. Last of all, Agnes appeared in thelittle black doorway of the gondola cabin, and, taking Lord Montbarry’s hand,passed in her turn to the steps. She wore no veil. As she ascended to the doorof the hotel, the Countess (eyeing her through an opera-glass) noticed that shepaused to look at the outside of the building, and that her face was very pale.

CHAPTER XXI

Lord and Lady Montbarry were received by the housekeeper; the manager beingabsent for a day or two on business connected with the affairs of the hotel.

The rooms reserved for the travellers on the first floor were three in number;consisting of two bedrooms opening into each other, and communicating on theleft with a drawing-room. Complete so far, the arrangements proved to be lesssatisfactory in reference to the third bedroom required for Agnes and for theeldest daughter of Lord Montbarry, who usually slept with her on their travels.The bed-chamber on the right of the drawing-room was already occupied by anEnglish widow lady. Other bedchambers at the other end of the corridor werealso let in every case. There was accordingly no alternative but to place atthe disposal of Agnes a comfortable room on the second floor. Lady Montbarryvainly complained of this separation of one of the members of her travellingparty from the rest. The housekeeper politely hinted that it was impossible forher to ask other travellers to give up their rooms. She could only express herregret, and assure Miss Lockwood that her bed-chamber on the second floor wasone of the best rooms in that part of the hotel.

On the retirement of the housekeeper, Lady Montbarry noticed that Agnes hadseated herself apart, feeling apparently no interest in the question of thebedrooms. Was she ill? No; she felt a little unnerved by the railway journey,and that was all. Hearing this, Lord Montbarry proposed that she should go outwith him, and try the experiment of half an hour’s walk in the cool eveningair. Agnes gladly accepted the suggestion. They directed their steps towardsthe square of St. Mark, so as to enjoy the breeze blowing over the lagoon. Itwas the first visit of Agnes to Venice. The fascination of the wonderful cityof the waters exerted its full influence over her sensitive nature. Theproposed half-hour of the walk had passed away, and was fast expanding to halfan hour more, before Lord Montbarry could persuade his companion to rememberthat dinner was waiting for them. As they returned, passing under thecolonnade, neither of them noticed a lady in deep mourning, loitering in theopen space of the square. She started as she recognised Agnes walking with thenew Lord Montbarry—hesitated for a moment—and then followed them, at a discreetdistance, back to the hotel.

Lady Montbarry received Agnes in high spirits—with news of an event which hadhappened in her absence.

She had not left the hotel more than ten minutes, before a little note inpencil was brought to Lady Montbarry by the housekeeper. The writer proved tobe no less a person than the widow lady who occupied the room on the other sideof the drawing-room, which her ladyship had vainly hoped to secure for Agnes.Writing under the name of Mrs. James, the polite widow explained that she hadheard from the housekeeper of the disappointment experienced by Lady Montbarryin the matter of the rooms. Mrs. James was quite alone; and as long as herbed-chamber was airy and comfortable, it mattered nothing to her whether sheslept on the first or the second floor of the house. She had accordingly muchpleasure in proposing to change rooms with Miss Lockwood. Her luggage hadalready been removed, and Miss Lockwood had only to take possession of the room(Number 13 A), which was now entirely at her disposal.

“I immediately proposed to see Mrs. James,” Lady Montbarry continued, “and tothank her personally for her extreme kindness. But I was informed that she hadgone out, without leaving word at what hour she might be expected to return. Ihave written a little note of thanks, saying that we hope to have the pleasureof personally expressing our sense of Mrs. James’s courtesy to-morrow. In themean time, Agnes, I have ordered your boxes to be removed downstairs. Go!—andjudge for yourself, my dear, if that good lady has not given up to you theprettiest room in the house!”

With those words, Lady Montbarry left Miss Lockwood to make a hasty toilet fordinner.

The new room at once produced a favourable impression on Agnes. The largewindow, opening into a balcony, commanded an admirable view of the canal. Thedecorations on the walls and ceiling were skilfully copied from the exquisitelygraceful designs of Raphael in the Vatican. The massive wardrobe possessedcompartments of unusual size, in which double the number of dresses that Agnespossessed might have been conveniently hung at full length. In the inner cornerof the room, near the head of the bedstead, there was a recess which had beenturned into a little dressing-room, and which opened by a second door on theinterior staircase of the hotel, commonly used by the servants. Noticing theseaspects of the room at a glance, Agnes made the necessary change in her dress,as quickly as possible. On her way back to the drawing-room she was addressedby a chambermaid in the corridor who asked for her key. “I will put your roomtidy for the night, Miss,” the woman said, “and I will then bring the key backto you in the drawing-room.”

While the chambermaid was at her work, a solitary lady, loitering about thecorridor of the second storey, was watching her over the bannisters. After awhile, the maid appeared, with her pail in her hand, leaving the room by way ofthe dressing-room and the back stairs. As she passed out of sight, the lady onthe second floor (no other, it is needless to add, than the Countess herself)ran swiftly down the stairs, entered the bed-chamber by the principal door, andhid herself in the empty side compartment of the wardrobe. The chambermaidreturned, completed her work, locked the door of the dressing-room on the innerside, locked the principal entrance-door on leaving the room, and returned thekey to Agnes in the drawing-room.

The travellers were just sitting down to their late dinner, when one of thechildren noticed that Agnes was not wearing her watch. Had she left it in herbed-chamber in the hurry of changing her dress? She rose from the table at oncein search of her watch; Lady Montbarry advising her, as she went out, to see tothe security of her bed-chamber, in the event of there being thieves in thehouse. Agnes found her watch, forgotten on the toilet table, as she hadanticipated. Before leaving the room again she acted on Lady Montbarry’sadvice, and tried the key in the lock of the dressing-room door. It wasproperly secured. She left the bed-chamber, locking the main door behind her.

Immediately on her departure, the Countess, oppressed by the confined air inthe wardrobe, ventured on stepping out of her hiding place into the empty room.

Entering the dressing-room, she listened at the door, until the silence outsideinformed her that the corridor was empty. Upon this, she unlocked the door,and, passing out, closed it again softly; leaving it to all appearance (whenviewed on the inner side) as carefully secured as Agnes had seen it when shetried the key in the lock with her own hand.

While the Montbarrys were still at dinner, Henry Westwick joined them, arrivingfrom Milan.

When he entered the room, and again when he advanced to shake hands with her,Agnes was conscious of a latent feeling which secretly reciprocated Henry’sunconcealed pleasure on meeting her again. For a moment only, she returned hislook; and in that moment her own observation told her that she had silentlyencouraged him to hope. She saw it in the sudden glow of happiness whichoverspread his face; and she confusedly took refuge in the usual conventionalinquiries relating to the relatives whom he had left at Milan.

Taking his place at the table, Henry gave a most amusing account of theposition of his brother Francis between the mercenary opera-dancer on one side,and the unscrupulous manager of the French theatre on the other. Matters hadproceeded to such extremities, that the law had been called on to interfere,and had decided the dispute in favour of Francis. On winning the victory theEnglish manager had at once left Milan, recalled to London by the affairs ofhis theatre. He was accompanied on the journey back, as he had been accompaniedon the journey out, by his sister. Resolved, after passing two nights of terrorin the Venetian hotel, never to enter it again, Mrs. Norbury asked to beexcused from appearing at the family festival, on the ground of ill-health. Ather age, travelling fatigued her, and she was glad to take advantage of herbrother’s escort to return to England.

While the talk at the dinner-table flowed easily onward, the evening-timeadvanced to night—and it became necessary to think of sending the children tobed.

As Agnes rose to leave the room, accompanied by the eldest girl, she observedwith surprise that Henry’s manner suddenly changed. He looked serious andpre-occupied; and when his niece wished him good night, he abruptly said toher, “Marian, I want to know what part of the hotel you sleep in?” Marian,puzzled by the question, answered that she was going to sleep, as usual, with“Aunt Agnes.” Not satisfied with that reply, Henry next inquired whether thebedroom was near the rooms occupied by the other members of the travellingparty. Answering for the child, and wondering what Henry’s object couldpossibly be, Agnes mentioned the polite sacrifice made to her convenience byMrs. James. “Thanks to that lady’s kindness,” she said, “Marian and I are onlyon the other side of the drawing-room.” Henry made no remark; he lookedincomprehensibly discontented as he opened the door for Agnes and her companionto pass out. After wishing them good night, he waited in the corridor until hesaw them enter the fatal corner-room—and then he called abruptly to hisbrother, “Come out, Stephen, and let us smoke!”

As soon as the two brothers were at liberty to speak together privately, Henryexplained the motive which had led to his strange inquiries about the bedrooms.Francis had informed him of the meeting with the Countess at Venice, and of allthat had followed it; and Henry now carefully repeated the narrative to hisbrother in all its details. “I am not satisfied,” he added, “about that woman’spurpose in giving up her room. Without alarming the ladies by telling them whatI have just told you, can you not warn Agnes to be careful in securing herdoor?”

Lord Montbarry replied, that the warning had been already given by his wife,and that Agnes might be trusted to take good care of herself and her littlebed-fellow. For the rest, he looked upon the story of the Countess and hersuperstitions as a piece of theatrical exaggeration, amusing enough in itself,but unworthy of a moment’s serious attention.

While the gentlemen were absent from the hotel, the room which had been alreadyassociated with so many startling circumstances, became the scene of anotherstrange event in which Lady Montbarry’s eldest child was concerned.

Little Marian had been got ready for bed as usual, and had (so far) takenhardly any notice of the new room. As she knelt down to say her prayers, shehappened to look up at that part of the ceiling above her which was just overthe head of the bed. The next instant she alarmed Agnes, by starting to herfeet with a cry of terror, and pointing to a small brown spot on one of thewhite panelled spaces of the carved ceiling. “It’s a spot of blood!” the childexclaimed. “Take me away! I won’t sleep here!”

Seeing plainly that it would be useless to reason with her while she was in theroom, Agnes hurriedly wrapped Marian in a dressing-gown, and carried her backto her mother in the drawing-room. Here, the ladies did their best to sootheand reassure the trembling girl. The effort proved to be useless; theimpression that had been produced on the young and sensitive mind was not to beremoved by persuasion. Marian could give no explanation of the panic of terrorthat had seized her. She was quite unable to say why the spot on the ceilinglooked like the colour of a spot of blood. She only knew that she should die ofterror if she saw it again. Under these circumstances, but one alternative wasleft. It was arranged that the child should pass the night in the room occupiedby her two younger sisters and the nurse.

In half an hour more, Marian was peacefully asleep with her arm around hersister’s neck. Lady Montbarry went back with Agnes to her room to see the spoton the ceiling which had so strangely frightened the child. It was so small asto be only just perceptible, and it had in all probability been caused by thecarelessness of a workman, or by a dripping from water accidentally spilt onthe floor of the room above.

“I really cannot understand why Marian should place such a shockinginterpretation on such a trifling thing,” Lady Montbarry remarked.

“I suspect the nurse is in some way answerable for what has happened,” Agnessuggested. “She may quite possibly have been telling Marian some tragic nurserystory which has left its mischievous impression behind it. Persons in herposition are sadly ignorant of the danger of exciting a child’s imagination.You had better caution the nurse to-morrow.”

Lady Montbarry looked round the room with admiration. “Is it not prettilydecorated?” she said. “I suppose, Agnes, you don’t mind sleeping here byyourself.?”

Agnes laughed. “I feel so tired,” she replied, “that I was thinking of biddingyou good-night, instead of going back to the drawing-room.”

Lady Montbarry turned towards the door. “I see your jewel-case on the table,”she resumed. “Don’t forget to lock the other door there, in the dressing-room.”

“I have already seen to it, and tried the key myself,” said Agnes. “Can I be ofany use to you before I go to bed?”

“No, my dear, thank you; I feel sleepy enough to follow your example. Goodnight, Agnes—and pleasant dreams on your first night in Venice.”

CHAPTER XXII

Having closed and secured the door on Lady Montbarry’s departure, Agnes put onher dressing-gown, and, turning to her open boxes, began the business ofunpacking. In the hurry of making her toilet for dinner, she had taken thefirst dress that lay uppermost in the trunk, and had thrown her travellingcostume on the bed. She now opened the doors of the wardrobe for the firsttime, and began to hang her dresses on the hooks in the large compartment onone side.

After a few minutes only of this occupation, she grew weary of it, and decidedon leaving the trunks as they were, until the next morning. The oppressivesouth wind, which had blown throughout the day, still prevailed at night. Theatmosphere of the room felt close; Agnes threw a shawl over her head andshoulders, and, opening the window, stepped into the balcony to look at theview.

The night was heavy and overcast: nothing could be distinctly seen. The canalbeneath the window looked like a black gulf; the opposite houses were barelyvisible as a row of shadows, dimly relieved against the starless and moonlesssky. At long intervals, the warning cry of a belated gondolier was justaudible, as he turned the corner of a distant canal, and called to invisibleboats which might be approaching him in the darkness. Now and then, the nearerdip of an oar in the water told of the viewless passage of other gondolasbringing guests back to the hotel. Excepting these rare sounds, the mysteriousnight-silence of Venice was literally the silence of the grave.

Leaning on the parapet of the balcony, Agnes looked vacantly into the blackvoid beneath. Her thoughts reverted to the miserable man who had broken hispledged faith to her, and who had died in that house. Some change seemed tohave come over her since her arrival in Venice; some new influence appeared tobe at work. For the first time in her experience of herself, compassion andregret were not the only emotions aroused in her by the remembrance of the deadMontbarry. A keen sense of the wrong that she had suffered, never yet felt bythat gentle and forgiving nature, was felt by it now. She found herselfthinking of the bygone days of her humiliation almost as harshly as HenryWestwick had thought of them—she who had rebuked him the last time he hadspoken slightingly of his brother in her presence! A sudden fear and doubt ofherself, startled her physically as well as morally. She turned from theshadowy abyss of the dark water as if the mystery and the gloom of it had beenanswerable for the emotions which had taken her by surprise. Abruptly closingthe window, she threw aside her shawl, and lit the candles on the mantelpiece,impelled by a sudden craving for light in the solitude of her room.

The cheering brightness round her, contrasting with the black gloom outside,restored her spirits. She felt herself enjoying the light like a child!

Would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed? No! The sense ofdrowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since was gone. She returned tothe dull employment of unpacking her boxes. After a few minutes only, theoccupation became irksome to her once more. She sat down by the table, and tookup a guide-book. “Suppose I inform myself,” she thought, “on the subject ofVenice?”

Her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned the first page ofit.

The image of Henry Westwick was the presiding image in her memory now.Recalling the minutest incidents and details of the evening, she could think ofnothing which presented him under other than a favourable and interestingaspect. She smiled to herself softly, her colour rose by fine gradations, asshe felt the full luxury of dwelling on the perfect truth and modesty of hisdevotion to her. Was the depression of spirits from which she had suffered sopersistently on her travels attributable, by any chance, to their longseparation from each other—embittered perhaps by her own vain regret when sheremembered her harsh reception of him in Paris? Suddenly conscious of this boldquestion, and of the self-abandonment which it implied, she returnedmechanically to her book, distrusting the unrestrained liberty of her ownthoughts. What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find theirhiding-places in a woman’s dressing-gown, when she is alone in her room atnight! With her heart in the tomb of the dead Montbarry, could Agnes even thinkof another man, and think of love? How shameful! how unworthy of her! For thesecond time, she tried to interest herself in the guide-book—and once more shetried in vain. Throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the oneresource that was left, to her luggage—resolved to fatigue herself withoutmercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a safe refuge inbed.

For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation oftransferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe. The large clock in thehall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was getting late. She sat downfor a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, to rest.

The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it—held itdisagreeably. Was everybody in bed and asleep but herself? Surely it was timefor her to follow the general example? With a certain irritable nervous haste,she rose again and undressed herself. “I have lost two hours of rest,” shethought, frowning at the reflection of herself in the glass, as she arrangedher hair for the night. “I shall be good for nothing to-morrow!”

She lit the night-light, and extinguished the candles—with one exception, whichshe removed to a little table, placed on the side of the bed opposite to theside occupied by the arm-chair. Having put her travelling-box of matches andthe guide-book near the candle, in case she might be sleepless and might wantto read, she blew out the light, and laid her head on the pillow.

The curtains of the bed were looped back to let the air pass freely over her.Lying on her left side, with her face turned away from the table, she could seethe arm-chair by the dim night-light. It had a chintz covering—representinglarge bunches of roses scattered over a pale green ground. She tried to wearyherself into drowsiness by counting over and over again the bunches of rosesthat were visible from her point of view. Twice her attention was distractedfrom the counting, by sounds outside—by the clock chiming the half-hour pasttwelve; and then again, by the fall of a pair of boots on the upper floor,thrown out to be cleaned, with that barbarous disregard of the comfort ofothers which is observable in humanity when it inhabits an hotel. In thesilence that followed these passing disturbances, Agnes went on counting theroses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly. Before long, she confused herselfin the figures—tried to begin counting again—thought she would wait a littlefirst—felt her eyelids drooping, and her head reclining lower and lower on thepillow—sighed faintly—and sank into sleep.

How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. She could only remember, inthe after-time, that she woke instantly.

Every faculty and perception in her passed the boundary line betweeninsensibility and consciousness, so to speak, at a leap. Without knowing why,she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening for she knew not what. Her head wasin a whirl; her heart beat furiously, without any assignable cause. But onetrivial event had happened during the interval while she had been asleep. Thenight-light had gone out; and the room, as a matter of course, was in totaldarkness.

She felt for the match-box, and paused after finding it. A vague sense ofconfusion was still in her mind. She was in no hurry to light the match. Thepause in the darkness was, for the moment, agreeable to her.

In the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she could ask herselfthe natural question:—What cause had awakened her so suddenly, and had sostrangely shaken her nerves? Had it been the influence of a dream? She had notdreamed at all—or, to speak more correctly, she had no waking remembrance ofhaving dreamed. The mystery was beyond her fathoming: the darkness began tooppress her. She struck the match on the box, and lit her candle.

As the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned from the tableand looked towards the other side of the bed.

In the moment when she turned, the chill of a sudden terror gripped her roundthe heart, as with the clasp of an icy hand.

She was not alone in her room!

There—in the chair at the bedside—there, suddenly revealed under the flow oflight from the candle, was the figure of a woman, reclining. Her head lay backover the chair. Her face, turned up to the ceiling, had the eyes closed, as ifshe was wrapped in a deep sleep.

The shock of the discovery held Agnes speechless and helpless. Her firstconscious action, when she was in some degree mistress of herself again, was tolean over the bed, and to look closer at the woman who had so incomprehensiblystolen into her room in the dead of night. One glance was enough: she startedback with a cry of amazement. The person in the chair was no other than thewidow of the dead Montbarry—the woman who had warned her that they were to meetagain, and that the place might be Venice!

Her courage returned to her, stung into action by the natural sense ofindignation which the presence of the Countess provoked.

“Wake up!” she called out. “How dare you come here? How did you get in? Leavethe room—or I will call for help!”

She raised her voice at the last words. It produced no effect. Leaning fartherover the bed, she boldly took the Countess by the shoulder and shook her. Noteven this effort succeeded in rousing the sleeping woman. She still lay back inthe chair, possessed by a torpor like the torpor of death—insensible to sound,insensible to touch. Was she really sleeping? Or had she fainted?

Agnes looked closer at her. She had not fainted. Her breathing was audible,rising and falling in deep heavy gasps. At intervals she ground her teethsavagely. Beads of perspiration stood thickly on her forehead. Her clenchedhands rose and fell slowly from time to time on her lap. Was she in the agonyof a dream? or was she spiritually conscious of something hidden in the room?

The doubt involved in that last question was unendurable. Agnes determined torouse the servants who kept watch in the hotel at night.

The bell-handle was fixed to the wall, on the side of the bed by which thetable stood.

She raised herself from the crouching position which she had assumed in lookingclose at the Countess; and, turning towards the other side of the bed,stretched out her hand to the bell. At the same instant, she stopped and lookedupward. Her hand fell helplessly at her side. She shuddered, and sank back onthe pillow.

What had she seen?

She had seen another intruder in her room.

Midway between her face and the ceiling, there hovered a human head—severed atthe neck, like a head struck from the body by the guillotine.

Nothing visible, nothing audible, had given her any intelligible warning of itsappearance. Silently and suddenly, the head had taken its place above her. Nosupernatural change had passed over the room, or was perceptible in it now. Thedumbly-tortured figure in the chair; the broad window opposite the foot of thebed, with the black night beyond it; the candle burning on the table—these, andall other objects in the room, remained unaltered. One object more, unutterablyhorrid, had been added to the rest. That was the only change—no more, no less.

By the yellow candlelight she saw the head distinctly, hovering in mid-airabove her. She looked at it steadfastly, spell-bound by the terror that heldher.

The flesh of the face was gone. The shrivelled skin was darkened in hue, likethe skin of an Egyptian mummy—except at the neck. There it was of a lightercolour; there it showed spots and splashes of the hue of that brown spot on theceiling, which the child’s fanciful terror had distorted into the likeness of aspot of blood. Thin remains of a discoloured moustache and whiskers, hangingover the upper lip, and over the hollows where the cheeks had once been, madethe head just recognisable as the head of a man. Over all the features deathand time had done their obliterating work. The eyelids were closed. The hair onthe skull, discoloured like the hair on the face, had been burnt away inplaces. The bluish lips, parted in a fixed grin, showed the double row ofteeth. By slow degrees, the hovering head (perfectly still when she first sawit) began to descend towards Agnes as she lay beneath. By slow degrees, thatstrange doubly-blended odour, which the Commissioners had discovered in thevaults of the old palace—which had sickened Francis Westwick in the bed-chamberof the new hotel—spread its fetid exhalations over the room. Downward anddownward the hideous apparition made its slow progress, until it stopped closeover Agnes—stopped, and turned slowly, so that the face of it confronted theupturned face of the woman in the chair.

There was a pause. Then, a supernatural movement disturbed the rigid repose ofthe dead face.

The closed eyelids opened slowly. The eyes revealed themselves, bright with theglassy film of death—and fixed their dreadful look on the woman in the chair.

Agnes saw that look; saw the eyelids of the living woman open slowly like theeyelids of the dead; saw her rise, as if in obedience to some silentcommand—and saw no more.

Her next conscious impression was of the sunlight pouring in at the window; ofthe friendly presence of Lady Montbarry at the bedside; and of the children’swondering faces peeping in at the door.

CHAPTER XXIII

“...You have some influence over Agnes. Try what you can do, Henry, to make hertake a sensible view of the matter. There is really nothing to make a fussabout. My wife’s maid knocked at her door early in the morning, with thecustomary cup of tea. Getting no answer, she went round to thedressing-room—found the door on that side unlocked—and discovered Agnes on thebed in a fainting fit. With my wife’s help, they brought her to herself again;and she told the extraordinary story which I have just repeated to you. Youmust have seen for yourself that she has been over-fatigued, poor thing, by ourlong railway journeys: her nerves are out of order—and she is just the personto be easily terrified by a dream. She obstinately refuses, however, to acceptthis rational view. Don’t suppose that I have been severe with her! All that aman can do to humour her I have done. I have written to the Countess (in herassumed name) offering to restore the room to her. She writes back, positivelydeclining to return to it. I have accordingly arranged (so as not to have thething known in the hotel) to occupy the room for one or two nights, and toleave Agnes to recover her spirits under my wife’s care. Is there anything morethat I can do? Whatever questions Agnes has asked of me I have answered to thebest of my ability; she knows all that you told me about Francis and theCountess last night. But try as I may I can’t quiet her mind. I have given upthe attempt in despair, and left her in the drawing-room. Go, like a goodfellow, and try what you can do to compose her.”

In those words, Lord Montbarry stated the case to his brother from the rationalpoint of view. Henry made no remark, he went straight to the drawing-room.

He found Agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards, flushed and excited. “Ifyou come here to say what your brother has been saying to me,” she broke out,before he could speak, “spare yourself the trouble. I don’t want common sense—Iwant a true friend who will believe in me.”

“I am that friend, Agnes,” Henry answered quietly, “and you know it.”

“You really believe that I am not deluded by a dream?”

I know that you are not deluded—in one particular, at least.”

“In what particular?”

“In what you have said of the Countess. It is perfectly true—”

Agnes stopped him there. “Why do I only hear this morning that the Countess andMrs. James are one and the same person?” she asked distrustfully. “Why was Inot told of it last night?”

“You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before I reachedVenice,” Henry replied. “I felt strongly tempted to tell you, even then—butyour sleeping arrangements for the night were all made; I should only haveinconvenienced and alarmed you. I waited till the morning, after hearing frommy brother that you had yourself seen to your security from any intrusion. Howthat intrusion was accomplished it is impossible to say. I can only declarethat the Countess’s presence by your bedside last night was no dream of yours.On her own authority I can testify that it was a reality.”

“On her own authority?” Agnes repeated eagerly. “Have you seen her thismorning?”

“I have seen her not ten minutes since.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was busily engaged in writing. I could not even get her to look at meuntil I thought of mentioning your name.”

“She remembered me, of course?”

“She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she wouldn’t answer meon any other terms, I questioned her as if I had come direct from you. Then shespoke. She not only admitted that she had the same superstitious motive forplacing you in that room which she had acknowledged to Francis—she even ownedthat she had been by your bedside, watching through the night, ‘to see what yousaw,’ as she expressed it. Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me howshe got into the room. Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye;she returned to her writing. ‘The Baron wants money,’ she said; ‘I must get onwith my play.’ What she saw or dreamed while she was in your room last night,it is at present impossible to discover. But judging by my brother’s account ofher, as well as by what I remember of her myself, some recent influence hasbeen at work which has produced a marked change in this wretched woman for theworse. Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially deranged. One proof ofit is that she spoke to me of the Baron as if he were still a living man. WhenFrancis saw her, she declared that the Baron was dead, which is the truth. TheUnited States Consul at Milan showed us the announcement of the death in anAmerican newspaper. So far as I can see, such sense as she still possessesseems to be entirely absorbed in one absurd idea—the idea of writing a play forFrancis to bring out at his theatre. He admits that he encouraged her to hopeshe might get money in this way. I think he did wrong. Don’t you agree withme?”

Without heeding the question, Agnes rose abruptly from her chair.

“Do me one more kindness, Henry,” she said. “Take me to the Countess at once.”

Henry hesitated. “Are you composed enough to see her, after the shock that youhave suffered?” he asked.

She trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it deadly pale. But sheheld to her resolution. “You have heard of what I saw last night?” she saidfaintly.

“Don’t speak of it!” Henry interposed. “Don’t uselessly agitate yourself.”

“I must speak! My mind is full of horrid questions about it. I know I can’tidentify it—and yet I ask myself over and over again, in whose likeness did itappear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari? or was it—?” she stopped,shuddering. “The Countess knows, I must see the Countess!” she resumedvehemently. “Whether my courage fails me or not, I must make the attempt. Takeme to her before I have time to feel afraid of it!”

Henry looked at her anxiously. “If you are really sure of your own resolution,”he said, “I agree with you—the sooner you see her the better. You remember howstrangely she talked of your influence over her, when she forced her way intoyour room in London?”

“I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?”

“For this reason. In the present state of her mind, I doubt if she will be muchlonger capable of realizing her wild idea of you as the avenging angel who isto bring her to a reckoning for her evil deeds. It may be well to try what yourinfluence can do while she is still capable of feeling it.”

He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm and led him in silenceto the door.

They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered the Countess’sroom.

She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up from the paper, andsaw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the only expression in her wildblack eyes. After a few moments, the lost remembrances and associationsappeared to return slowly to her mind. The pen dropped from her hand. Haggardand trembling, she looked closer at Agnes, and recognised her at last. “Has thetime come already?” she said in low awe-struck tones. “Give me a little longerrespite, I haven’t done my writing yet!”

She dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands entreatingly. Agneswas far from having recovered, after the shock that she had suffered in thenight: her nerves were far from being equal to the strain that was now laid onthem. She was so startled by the change in the Countess, that she was at a losswhat to say or to do next. Henry was obliged to speak to her. “Put yourquestions while you have the chance,” he said, lowering his voice. “See! thevacant look is coming over her face again.”

Agnes tried to rally her courage. “You were in my room last night—” she began.Before she could add a word more, the Countess lifted her hands, and wrung themabove her head with a low moan of horror. Agnes shrank back, and turned as ifto leave the room. Henry stopped her, and whispered to her to try again. Sheobeyed him after an effort. “I slept last night in the room that you gave up tome,” she resumed. “I saw—”

The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. “No more of that,” she cried. “Oh, JesuMaria! do you think I want to be told what you saw? Do you think I don’t knowwhat it means for you and for me? Decide for yourself, Miss. Examine your ownmind. Are you well assured that the day of reckoning has come at last? Are youready to follow me back, through the crimes of the past, to the secrets of thedead?”

She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered. Hereyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke. It was onlyfor a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity were nearly worn out. Her headsank; she sighed heavily as she unlocked a desk which stood on the table.Opening a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with fadedwriting. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, asif it had been torn out of a book.

“Can you read Italian?” she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes.

Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head.

“The leaf,” the Countess proceeded, “once belonged to a book in the old libraryof the palace, while this building was still a palace. By whom it was torn outyou have no need to know. For what purpose it was torn out you may discover foryourself, if you will. Read it first—at the fifth line from the top of thepage.”

Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. “Give me a chair,” shesaid to Henry; “and I will do my best.” He placed himself behind her chair sothat he could look over her shoulder and help her to understand the writing onthe leaf. Rendered into English, it ran as follows:—

I have now completed my literary survey of the first floor of the palace. Atthe desire of my noble and gracious patron, the lord of this glorious edifice,I next ascend to the second floor, and continue my catalogue or description ofthe pictures, decorations, and other treasures of art therein contained. Let mebegin with the corner room at the western extremity of the palace, called theRoom of the Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. Thiswork is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenth centuryonly, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every part of it. Still,there is a certain interest which attaches to the mantel-piece: it conceals acleverly constructed hiding-place, between the floor of the room and theceiling of the room beneath, which was made during the last evil days of theInquisition in Venice, and which is reported to have saved an ancestor of mygracious lord pursued by that terrible tribunal. The machinery of this curiousplace of concealment has been kept in good order by the present lord, as aspecies of curiosity. He condescended to show me the method of working it.Approaching the two Caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead (midway betweenthe eyebrows) of the figure which is on your left as you stand opposite to thefireplace, then press the head inwards as if you were pushing it against thewall behind. By doing this, you set in motion the hidden machinery in the wallwhich turns the hearthstone on a pivot, and discloses the hollow place below.There is room enough in it for a man to lie easily at full length. The methodof closing the cavity again is equally simple. Place both your hands on thetemples of the figures; pull as if you were pulling it towards you—and thehearthstone will revolve into its proper position again.

“You need read no farther,” said the Countess. “Be careful to remember what youhave read.”

She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, and led the wayto the door.

“Come!” she said; “and see what the mocking Frenchman called ‘The beginning ofthe end.’”

Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from head to foot.Henry gave her his arm to support her. “Fear nothing,” he whispered; “I shallbe with you.”

The Countess proceeded along the westward corridor, and stopped at the doornumbered Thirty-eight. This was the room which had been inhabited by BaronRivar in the old days of the palace: it was situated immediately over thebedchamber in which Agnes had passed the night. For the last two days the roomhad been empty. The absence of luggage in it, when they opened the door, showedthat it had not yet been let.

“You see?” said the Countess, pointing to the carved figure at the fire-place;“and you know what to do. Have I deserved that you should temper justice withmercy?” she went on in lower tones. “Give me a few hours more to myself. TheBaron wants money—I must get on with my play.”

She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her right hand asshe pronounced the last words. The effort of concentrating her weakened mind onother and less familiar topics than the constant want of money in the Baron’slifetime, and the vague prospect of gain from the still unfinished play, hadevidently exhausted her poor reserves of strength. When her request had beengranted, she addressed no expressions of gratitude to Agnes; she only said,“Feel no fear, miss, of my attempting to escape you. Where you are, there Imust be till the end comes.”

Her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and stupefied look. Shereturned to her writing with slow and feeble steps, like the steps of an oldwoman.

CHAPTER XXIV

Henry and Agnes were left alone in the Room of the Caryatides.

The person who had written the description of the palace—probably a poor authoror artist—had correctly pointed out the defects of the mantel-piece. Bad taste,exhibiting itself on the most costly and splendid scale, was visible in everypart of the work. It was nevertheless greatly admired by ignorant travellers ofall classes; partly on account of its imposing size, and partly on account ofthe number of variously-coloured marbles which the sculptor had contrived tointroduce into his design. Photographs of the mantel-piece were exhibited inthe public rooms, and found a ready sale among English and American visitors tothe hotel.

Henry led Agnes to the figure on the left, as they stood facing the emptyfire-place. “Shall I try the experiment,” he asked, “or will you?” She abruptlydrew her arm away from him, and turned back to the door. “I can’t even look atit,” she said. “That merciless marble face frightens me!”

Henry put his hand on the forehead of the figure. “What is there to alarm you,my dear, in this conventionally classical face?” he asked jestingly. Before hecould press the head inwards, Agnes hurriedly opened the door. “Wait till I amout of the room!” she cried. “The bare idea of what you may find therehorrifies me!” She looked back into the room as she crossed the threshold. “Iwon’t leave you altogether,” she said, “I will wait outside.”

She closed the door. Left by himself, Henry lifted his hand once more to themarble forehead of the figure.

For the second time, he was checked on the point of setting the machinery ofthe hiding-place in motion. On this occasion, the interruption came from anoutbreak of friendly voices in the corridor. A woman’s voice exclaimed,“Dearest Agnes, how glad I am to see you again!” A man’s voice followed,offering to introduce some friend to “Miss Lockwood.” A third voice (whichHenry recognised as the voice of the manager of the hotel) became audible next,directing the housekeeper to show the ladies and gentlemen the vacantapartments at the other end of the corridor. “If more accommodation is wanted,”the manager went on, “I have a charming room to let here.” He opened the dooras he spoke, and found himself face to face with Henry Westwick.

“This is indeed an agreeable surprise, sir!” said the manager cheerfully. “Youare admiring our famous chimney-piece, I see. May I ask, Mr. Westwick, how youfind yourself in the hotel, this time? Have the supernatural influencesaffected your appetite again?”

“The supernatural influences have spared me, this time,” Henry answered.“Perhaps you may yet find that they have affected some other member of thefamily.” He spoke gravely, resenting the familiar tone in which the manager hadreferred to his previous visit to the hotel. “Have you just returned?” heasked, by way of changing the topic.

“Just this minute, sir. I had the honour of travelling in the same train withfriends of yours who have arrived at the hotel—Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Barville,and their travelling companions. Miss Lockwood is with them, looking at therooms. They will be here before long, if they find it convenient to have anextra room at their disposal.”

This announcement decided Henry on exploring the hiding-place, before theinterruption occurred. It had crossed his mind, when Agnes left him, that heought perhaps to have a witness, in the not very probable event of somealarming discovery taking place. The too-familiar manager, suspecting nothing,was there at his disposal. He turned again to the Caryan figure, maliciouslyresolving to make the manager his witness.

“I am delighted to hear that our friends have arrived at last,” he said.“Before I shake hands with them, let me ask you a question about this queerwork of art here. I see photographs of it downstairs. Are they for sale?”

“Certainly, Mr. Westwick!”

“Do you think the chimney-piece is as solid as it looks?” Henry proceeded.“When you came in, I was just wondering whether this figure here had notaccidentally got loosened from the wall behind it.” He laid his hand on themarble forehead, for the third time. “To my eye, it looks a little out of theperpendicular. I almost fancied I could jog the head just now, when I touchedit.” He pressed the head inwards as he said those words.

A sound of jarring iron was instantly audible behind the wall. The solidhearthstone in front of the fire-place turned slowly at the feet of the twomen, and disclosed a dark cavity below. At the same moment, the strange andsickening combination of odours, hitherto associated with the vaults of the oldpalace and with the bed-chamber beneath, now floated up from the open recess,and filled the room.

The manager started back. “Good God, Mr. Westwick!” he exclaimed, “what doesthis mean?”

Remembering, not only what his brother Francis had felt in the room beneath,but what the experience of Agnes had been on the previous night, Henry wasdetermined to be on his guard. “I am as much surprised as you are,” was hisonly reply.

“Wait for me one moment, sir,” said the manager. “I must stop the ladies andgentlemen outside from coming in.”

He hurried away—not forgetting to close the door after him. Henry opened thewindow, and waited there breathing the purer air. Vague apprehensions of thenext discovery to come, filled his mind for the first time. He was doublyresolved, now, not to stir a step in the investigation without a witness.

The manager returned with a wax taper in his hand, which he lighted as soon ashe entered the room.

“We need fear no interruption now,” he said. “Be so kind, Mr. Westwick, as tohold the light. It is mybusiness to find out what this extraordinarydiscovery means.”

Henry held the taper. Looking into the cavity, by the dim and flickering light,they both detected a dark object at the bottom of it. “I think I can reach thething,” the manager remarked, “if I lie down, and put my hand into the hole.”

He knelt on the floor—and hesitated. “Might I ask you, sir, to give me mygloves?” he said. “They are in my hat, on the chair behind you.”

Henry gave him the gloves. “I don’t know what I may be going to take hold of,”the manager explained, smiling rather uneasily as he put on his right glove.

He stretched himself at full length on the floor, and passed his right arm intothe cavity. “I can’t say exactly what I have got hold of,” he said. “But I havegot it.”

Half raising himself, he drew his hand out.

The next instant, he started to his feet with a shriek of terror. A human headdropped from his nerveless grasp on the floor, and rolled to Henry’s feet. Itwas the hideous head that Agnes had seen hovering above her, in the vision ofthe night!

The two men looked at each other, both struck speechless by the same emotion ofhorror. The manager was the first to control himself. “See to the door, forGod’s sake!” he said. “Some of the people outside may have heard me.”

Henry moved mechanically to the door.

Even when he had his hand on the key, ready to turn it in the lock in case ofnecessity, he still looked back at the appalling object on the floor. There wasno possibility of identifying those decayed and distorted features with anyliving creature whom he had seen—and, yet, he was conscious of feeling a vagueand awful doubt which shook him to the soul. The questions which had torturedthe mind of Agnes, were now hisquestions too. Heasked himself,“In whose likeness might I have recognised it before the decay set in? Thelikeness of Ferrari? or the likeness of—?” He paused trembling, as Agnes hadpaused trembling before him. Agnes! The name, of all women’s names the dearestto him, was a terror to him now! What was he to say to her? What might be theconsequence if he trusted her with the terrible truth?

No footsteps approached the door; no voices were audible outside. Thetravellers were still occupied in the rooms at the eastern end of the corridor.

In the brief interval that had passed, the manager had sufficiently recoveredhimself to be able to think once more of the first and foremost interests ofhis life—the interests of the hotel. He approached Henry anxiously.

“If this frightful discovery becomes known,” he said, “the closing of the hoteland the ruin of the Company will be the inevitable results. I feel sure that Ican trust your discretion, sir, so far?”

“You can certainly trust me,” Henry answered. “But surely discretion has itslimits,” he added, “after such a discovery as we have made?”

The manager understood that the duty which they owed to the community, ashonest and law-abiding men, was the duty to which Henry now referred. “I willat once find the means,” he said, “of conveying the remains privately out ofthe house, and I will myself place them in the care of the police authorities.Will you leave the room with me? or do you not object to keep watch here, andhelp me when I return?”

While he was speaking, the voices of the travellers made themselves heard againat the end of the corridor. Henry instantly consented to wait in the room. Heshrank from facing the inevitable meeting with Agnes if he showed himself inthe corridor at that moment.

The manager hastened his departure, in the hope of escaping notice. He wasdiscovered by his guests before he could reach the head of the stairs. Henryheard the voices plainly as he turned the key. While the terrible drama ofdiscovery was in progress on one side of the door, trivial questions about theamusements of Venice, and facetious discussions on the relative merits ofFrench and Italian cookery, were proceeding on the other. Little by little, thesound of the talking grew fainter. The visitors, having arranged their plans ofamusement for the day, were on their way out of the hotel. In a minute or two,there was silence once more.

Henry turned to the window, thinking to relieve his mind by looking at thebright view over the canal. He soon grew wearied of the familiar scene. Themorbid fascination which seems to be exercised by all horrible sights, drew himback again to the ghastly object on the floor.

Dream or reality, how had Agnes survived the sight of it? As the questionpassed through his mind, he noticed for the first time something lying on thefloor near the head. Looking closer, he perceived a thin little plate of gold,with three false teeth attached to it, which had apparently dropped out(loosened by the shock) when the manager let the head fall on the floor.

The importance of this discovery, and the necessity of not too readilycommunicating it to others, instantly struck Henry. Here surely was a chance—ifany chance remained—of identifying the shocking relic of humanity which laybefore him, the dumb witness of a crime! Acting on this idea, he tookpossession of the teeth, purposing to use them as a last means of inquiry whenother attempts at investigation had been tried and had failed.

He went back again to the window: the solitude of the room began to weigh onhis spirits. As he looked out again at the view, there was a soft knock at thedoor. He hastened to open it—and checked himself in the act. A doubt occurredto him. Was it the manager who had knocked? He called out, “Who is there?”

The voice of Agnes answered him. “Have you anything to tell me, Henry?”

He was hardly able to reply. “Not just now,” he said, confusedly. “Forgive meif I don’t open the door. I will speak to you a little later.”

The sweet voice made itself heard again, pleading with him piteously. “Don’tleave me alone, Henry! I can’t go back to the happy people downstairs.”

How could he resist that appeal? He heard her sigh—he heard the rustling of herdress as she moved away in despair. The very thing that he had shrunk fromdoing but a few minutes since was the thing that he did now! He joined Agnes inthe corridor. She turned as she heard him, and pointed, trembling, in thedirection of the closed room. “Is it so terrible as that?” she asked faintly.

He put his arm round her to support her. A thought came to him as he looked ather, waiting in doubt and fear for his reply. “You shall know what I havediscovered,” he said, “if you will first put on your hat and cloak, and comeout with me.”

She was naturally surprised. “Can you tell me your object in going out?” sheasked.

He owned what his object was unreservedly. “I want, before all things,” hesaid, “to satisfy your mind and mine, on the subject of Montbarry’s death. I amgoing to take you to the doctor who attended him in his illness, and to theconsul who followed him to the grave.”

Her eyes rested on Henry gratefully. “Oh, how well you understand me!” shesaid. The manager joined them at the same moment, on his way up the stairs.Henry gave him the key of the room, and then called to the servants in the hallto have a gondola ready at the steps. “Are you leaving the hotel?” the managerasked. “In search of evidence,” Henry whispered, pointing to the key. “If theauthorities want me, I shall be back in an hour.”

CHAPTER XXV

The day had advanced to evening. Lord Montbarry and the bridal party had goneto the Opera. Agnes alone, pleading the excuse of fatigue, remained at thehotel. Having kept up appearances by accompanying his friends to the theatre,Henry Westwick slipped away after the first act, and joined Agnes in thedrawing-room.

“Have you thought of what I said to you earlier in the day?” he asked, taking achair at her side. “Do you agree with me that the one dreadful doubt whichoppressed us both is at least set at rest?”

Agnes shook her head sadly. “I wish I could agree with you, Henry—I wish Icould honestly say that my mind is at ease.”

The answer would have discouraged most men. Henry’s patience (where Agnes wasconcerned) was equal to any demands on it.

“If you will only look back at the events of the day,” he said, “you mustsurely admit that we have not been completely baffled. Remember how Dr. Brunodisposed of our doubts:—‘After thirty years of medical practice, do you think Iam likely to mistake the symptoms of death by bronchitis?’ If ever there was anunanswerable question, there it is! Was the consul’s testimony doubtful in anypart of it? He called at the palace to offer his services, after hearing ofLord Montbarry’s death; he arrived at the time when the coffin was in thehouse; he himself saw the corpse placed in it, and the lid screwed down. Theevidence of the priest is equally beyond dispute. He remained in the room withthe coffin, reciting the prayers for the dead, until the funeral left thepalace. Bear all these statements in mind, Agnes; and how can you deny that thequestion of Montbarry’s death and burial is a question set at rest? We havereally but one doubt left: we have still to ask ourselves whether the remainswhich I discovered are the remains of the lost courier, or not. There is thecase, as I understand it. Have I stated it fairly?”

Agnes could not deny that he had stated it fairly.

‘Then what prevents you from experiencing the same sense of relief that Ifeel?” Henry asked.

“What I saw last night prevents me,” Agnes answered. “When we spoke of thissubject, after our inquiries were over, you reproached me with taking what youcalled the superstitious view. I don’t quite admit that—but I do acknowledgethat I should find the superstitious view intelligible if I heard it expressedby some other person. Remembering what your brother and I once were to eachother in the bygone time, I can understand the apparition making itself visibleto me, to claim the mercy of Christian burial, and the vengeance due to acrime. I can even perceive some faint possibility of truth in the explanationwhich you described as the mesmeric theory—that what I saw might be the resultof magnetic influence communicated to me, as I lay between the remains of themurdered husband above me and the guilty wife suffering the tortures of remorseat my bedside. But what I do not understand is, that I should have passedthrough that dreadful ordeal; having no previous knowledge of the murdered manin his lifetime, or only knowing him (if you suppose that I saw the apparitionof Ferrari) through the interest which I took in his wife. I can’t dispute yourreasoning, Henry. But I feel in my heart of hearts that you are deceived.Nothing will shake my belief that we are still as far from having discoveredthe dreadful truth as ever.”

Henry made no further attempt to dispute with her. She had impressed him with acertain reluctant respect for her own opinion, in spite of himself.

“Have you thought of any better way of arriving at the truth?” he asked. “Whois to help us? No doubt there is the Countess, who has the clue to the mysteryin her own hands. But, in the present state of her mind, is her testimony to betrusted—even if she were willing to speak? Judging by my own experience, Ishould say decidedly not.”

“You don’t mean that you have seen her again?” Agnes eagerly interposed.

“Yes. I disturbed her once more over her endless writing; and I insisted on herspeaking out plainly.”

“Then you told her what you found when you opened the hiding-place?”

“Of course I did!” Henry replied. “I said that I held her responsible for thediscovery, though I had not mentioned her connection with it to the authoritiesas yet. She went on with her writing as if I had spoken in an unknown tongue! Iwas equally obstinate, on my side. I told her plainly that the head had beenplaced under the care of the police, and that the manager and I had signed ourdeclarations and given our evidence. She paid not the slightest heed to me. Byway of tempting her to speak, I added that the whole investigation was to bekept a secret, and that she might depend on my discretion. For the moment Ithought I had succeeded. She looked up from her writing with a passing flash ofcuriosity, and said, ‘What are they going to do with it?’—meaning, I suppose,the head. I answered that it was to be privately buried, after photographs ofit had first been taken. I even went the length of communicating the opinion ofthe surgeon consulted, that some chemical means of arresting decomposition hadbeen used and had only partially succeeded—and I asked her point-blank if thesurgeon was right? The trap was not a bad one—but it completely failed. Shesaid in the coolest manner, ‘Now you are here, I should like to consult youabout my play; I am at a loss for some new incidents.’ Mind! there was nothingsatirical in this. She was really eager to read her wonderful work tome—evidently supposing that I took a special interest in such things, becausemy brother is the manager of a theatre! I left her, making the first excusethat occurred to me. So far as I am concerned, I can do nothing with her. Butit is possible that yourinfluence may succeed with her again, as it hassucceeded already. Will you make the attempt, to satisfy your own mind? She isstill upstairs; and I am quite ready to accompany you.”

Agnes shuddered at the bare suggestion of another interview with the Countess.

“I can’t! I daren’t!” she exclaimed. “After what has happened in that horribleroom, she is more repellent to me than ever. Don’t ask me to do it, Henry! Feelmy hand—you have turned me as cold as death only with talking of it!”

She was not exaggerating the terror that possessed her. Henry hastened tochange the subject.

“Let us talk of something more interesting,” he said. “I have a question to askyou about yourself. Am I right in believing that the sooner you get away fromVenice the happier you will be?”

“Right?” she repeated excitedly. “You are more than right! No words can say howI long to be away from this horrible place. But you know how I am situated—youheard what Lord Montbarry said at dinner-time?”

“Suppose he has altered his plans, since dinner-time?” Henry suggested.

Agnes looked surprised. “I thought he had received letters from England whichobliged him to leave Venice to-morrow,” she said.

“Quite true,” Henry admitted. “He had arranged to start for England to-morrow,and to leave you and Lady Montbarry and the children to enjoy your holiday inVenice, under my care. Circumstances have occurred, however, which have forcedhim to alter his plans. He must take you all back with him to-morrow because Iam not able to assume the charge of you. I am obliged to give up my holiday inItaly, and return to England too.”

Agnes looked at him in some little perplexity: she was not quite sure whethershe understood him or not.

“Are you really obliged to go back?” she asked.

Henry smiled as he answered her. “Keep the secret,” he said, “or Montbarry willnever forgive me!”

She read the rest in his face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, blushing brightly, “youhave not given up your pleasant holiday in Italy on my account?”

“I shall go back with you to England, Agnes. That will be holiday enough forme.”

She took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of gratitude. “How good you areto me!” she murmured tenderly. “What should I have done in the troubles thathave come to me, without your sympathy? I can’t tell you, Henry, how I feelyour kindness.”

She tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. He gently stopped her.“Agnes,” he said, “are you beginning to understand how truly I love you?”

That simple question found its own way to her heart. She owned the whole truth,without saying a word. She looked at him—and then looked away again.

He drew her nearer to him. “My own darling!” he whispered—and kissed her.Softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered, and touched his lips inreturn. Then her head drooped. She put her arms round his neck, and hid herface on his bosom. They spoke no more.

The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it was mercilesslybroken by a knock at the door.

Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano; the instrumentbeing opposite to the door, it was impossible, when she seated herself on themusic-stool, for any person entering the room to see her face. Henry called outirritably, “Come in.”

The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it asked a strangequestion.

“Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone?”

Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She hurried to a seconddoor, which communicated with one of the bedrooms. “Don’t let her come nearme!” she whispered nervously. “Good night, Henry! good night!”

If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the Countess to theuttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effort without remorse. Asit was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever, “Come in!”

She entered the room slowly with her everlasting manuscript in her hand. Herstep was unsteady; a dark flush appeared on her face, in place of its customarypallor; her eyes were bloodshot and widely dilated. In approaching Henry, sheshowed a strange incapability of calculating her distances—she struck againstthe table near which he happened to be sitting. When she spoke, herarticulation was confused, and her pronunciation of some of the longer wordswas hardly intelligible. Most men would have suspected her of being under theinfluence of some intoxicating liquor. Henry took a truer view—he said, as heplaced a chair for her, “Countess, I am afraid you have been working too hard:you look as if you wanted rest.”

She put her hand to her head. “My invention has gone,” she said. “I can’t writemy fourth act. It’s all a blank—all a blank!”

Henry advised her to wait till the next day. “Go to bed,” he suggested; “andtry to sleep.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “I must finish the play,” she answered. “I onlywant a hint from you. You must know something about plays. Your brother has gota theatre. You must often have heard him talk about fourth and fifth acts—youmust have seen rehearsals, and all the rest of it.” She abruptly thrust themanuscript into Henry’s hand. “I can’t read it to you,” she said; “I feel giddywhen I look at my own writing. Just run your eye over it, there’s a goodfellow—and give me a hint.”

Henry glanced at the manuscript. He happened to look at the list of the personsof the drama. As he read the list he started and turned abruptly to theCountess, intending to ask her for some explanation. The words were suspendedon his lips. It was but too plainly useless to speak to her. Her head lay backon the rail of the chair. She seemed to be half asleep already. The flush onher face had deepened: she looked like a woman who was in danger of having afit.

He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to send one of thechambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to partially rouse the Countess; sheopened her eyes in a slow drowsy way. “Have you read it?” she asked.

It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her. “I will read itwillingly,” said Henry, “if you will go upstairs to bed. You shall hear what Ithink of it to-morrow morning. Our heads will be clearer, we shall be betterable to make the fourth act in the morning.”

The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. “I am afraid the lady is ill,”Henry whispered. “Take her up to her room.” The woman looked at the Countessand whispered back, “Shall we send for a doctor, sir?”

Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking the manager’s opinion.There was great difficulty in persuading her to rise, and accept the support ofthe chambermaid’s arm. It was only by reiterated promises to read the play thatnight, and to make the fourth act in the morning, that Henry prevailed on theCountess to return to her room.

Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity in relation tothe manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading a line here and a line there.Suddenly he changed colour as he read—and looked up from the manuscript like aman bewildered. “Good God! what does this mean?” he said to himself.

His eyes turned nervously to the door by which Agnes had left him. She mightreturn to the drawing-room, she might want to see what the Countess hadwritten. He looked back again at the passage which had startled him—consideredwith himself for a moment—and, snatching up the unfinished play, suddenly andsoftly left the room.

CHAPTER XXVI

Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the manuscript on histable, open at the first leaf. His nerves were unquestionably shaken; his handtrembled as he turned the pages, he started at chance noises on the staircaseof the hotel.

The scenario, or outline, of the Countess’s play began with no formal prefatoryphrases. She presented herself and her work with the easy familiarity of an oldfriend.

“Allow me, dear Mr. Francis Westwick, to introduce to you the persons in myproposed Play. Behold them, arranged symmetrically in a line.

“My Lord. The Baron. The Courier. The Doctor. The Countess.

“I don’t trouble myself, you see, to invest fictitious family names. Mycharacters are sufficiently distinguished by their social titles, and by thestriking contrast which they present one with another.

The First Act opens— “No! Before I open the First Act, I must announce,injustice to myself, that this Play is entirely the work of my own invention. Iscorn to borrow from actual events; and, what is more extraordinary still, Ihave not stolen one of my ideas from the Modern French drama. As the manager ofan English theatre, you will naturally refuse to believe this. It doesn’tmatter. Nothing matters—except the opening of my first act.

“We are at Homburg, in the famous Salon d’Or, at the height of the season. TheCountess (exquisitely dressed) is seated at the green table. Strangers of allnations are standing behind the players, venturing their money or only lookingon. My Lord is among the strangers. He is struck by the Countess’s personalappearance, in which beauties and defects are fantastically mingled in the mostattractive manner. He watches the Countess’s game, and places his money wherehe sees her deposit her own little stake. She looks round at him, and says,‘Don’t trust to my colour; I have been unlucky the whole evening. Place yourstake on the other colour, and you may have a chance of winning.’ My Lord (atrue Englishman) blushes, bows, and obeys. The Countess proves to be a prophet.She loses again. My Lord wins twice the sum that he has risked.

“The Countess rises from the table. She has no more money, and she offers myLord her chair.

“Instead of taking it, he politely places his winnings in her hand, and begsher to accept the loan as a favour to himself. The Countess stakes again, andloses again. My Lord smiles superbly, and presses a second loan on her. Fromthat moment her luck turns. She wins, and wins largely. Her brother, the Baron,trying his fortune in another room, hears of what is going on, and joins myLord and the Countess.

“Pay attention, if you please, to the Baron. He is delineated as a remarkableand interesting character.

“This noble person has begun life with a single-minded devotion to the scienceof experimental chemistry, very surprising in a young and handsome man with abrilliant future before him. A profound knowledge of the occult sciences haspersuaded the Baron that it is possible to solve the famous problem called the‘Philosopher’s Stone.’ His own pecuniary resources have long since beenexhausted by his costly experiments. His sister has next supplied him with thesmall fortune at her disposal: reserving only the family jewels, placed in thecharge of her banker and friend at Frankfort. The Countess’s fortune also beingswallowed up, the Baron has in a fatal moment sought for new supplies at thegaming table. He proves, at starting on his perilous career, to be a favouriteof fortune; wins largely, and, alas! profanes his noble enthusiasm for scienceby yielding his soul to the all-debasing passion of the gamester.

“At the period of the Play, the Baron’s good fortune has deserted him. He seeshis way to a crowning experiment in the fatal search after the secret oftransmuting the baser elements into gold. But how is he to pay the preliminaryexpenses? Destiny, like a mocking echo, answers, How?

“Will his sister’s winnings (with my Lord’s money) prove large enough to helphim? Eager for this result, he gives the Countess his advice how to play. Fromthat disastrous moment the infection of his own adverse fortune spreads to hissister. She loses again, and again—loses to the last farthing.

“The amiable and wealthy Lord offers a third loan; but the scrupulous Countesspositively refuses to take it. On leaving the table, she presents her brotherto my Lord. The gentlemen fall into pleasant talk. My Lord asks leave to payhis respects to the Countess, the next morning, at her hotel. The Baronhospitably invites him to breakfast. My Lord accepts, with a last admiringglance at the Countess which does not escape her brother’s observation, andtakes his leave for the night.

“Alone with his sister, the Baron speaks out plainly. ‘Our affairs,’ he says,‘are in a desperate condition, and must find a desperate remedy. Wait for mehere, while I make inquiries about my Lord. You have evidently produced astrong impression on him. If we can turn that impression into money, no matterat what sacrifice, the thing must be done.’

“The Countess now occupies the stage alone, and indulges in a soliloquy whichdevelops her character.

“It is at once a dangerous and attractive character. Immense capacities forgood are implanted in her nature, side by side with equally remarkablecapacities for evil. It rests with circumstances to develop either the one orthe other. Being a person who produces a sensation wherever she goes, thisnoble lady is naturally made the subject of all sorts of scandalous reports. Toone of these reports (which falsely and abominably points to the Baron as herlover instead of her brother) she now refers with just indignation. She hasjust expressed her desire to leave Homburg, as the place in which the vilecalumny first took its rise, when the Baron returns, overhears her last words,and says to her, ‘Yes, leave Homburg by all means; provided you leave it in thecharacter of my Lord’s betrothed wife!’

“The Countess is startled and shocked. She protests that she does notreciprocate my Lord’s admiration for her. She even goes the length of refusingto see him again. The Baron answers, ‘I must positively have command of money.Take your choice, between marrying my Lord’s income, in the interest of mygrand discovery—or leave me to sell myself and my title to the first rich womanof low degree who is ready to buy me.’

“The Countess listens in surprise and dismay. Is it possible that the Baron isin earnest? He is horribly in earnest. ‘The woman who will buy me,’ he says,‘is in the next room to us at this moment. She is the wealthy widow of a Jewishusurer. She has the money I want to reach the solution of the great problem. Ihave only to be that woman’s husband, and to make myself master of untoldmillions of gold. Take five minutes to consider what I have said to you, andtell me on my return which of us is to marry for the money I want, you or I.’

“As he turns away, the Countess stops him.

“All the noblest sentiments in her nature are exalted to the highest pitch.‘Where is the true woman,’ she exclaims, ‘who wants time to consummate thesacrifice of herself, when the man to whom she is devoted demands it? She doesnot want five minutes—she does not want five seconds—she holds out her hand tohim, and she says, Sacrifice me on the altar of your glory! Take asstepping-stones on the way to your triumph, my love, my liberty, and my life!’

“On this grand situation the curtain falls. Judging by my first act, Mr.Westwick, tell me truly, and don’t be afraid of turning my head:— Am I notcapable of writing a good play?”

Henry paused between the First and Second Acts; reflecting, not on the meritsof the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents so farpresented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous marriage of thefirst Lord Montbarry.

Was it possible that the Countess, in the present condition of her mind,supposed herself to be exercising her invention when she was only exercisingher memory?

The question involved considerations too serious to be made the subject of ahasty decision. Reserving his opinion, Henry turned the page, and devotedhimself to the reading of the next act. The manuscript proceeded as follows:

“The Second Act opens at Venice. An interval of four months has elapsed sincethe date of the scene at the gambling table. The action now takes place in thereception-room of one of the Venetian palaces.

“The Baron is discovered, alone, on the stage. He reverts to the events whichhave happened since the close of the First Act. The Countess has sacrificedherself; the mercenary marriage has taken place—but not without obstacles,caused by difference of opinion on the question of marriage settlements.

“Private inquiries, instituted in England, have informed the Baron that myLord’s income is derived chiefly from what is called entailed property. In caseof accidents, he is surely bound to do something for his bride? Let him, forexample, insure his life, for a sum proposed by the Baron, and let him sosettle the money that his widow shall have it, if he dies first.

“My Lord hesitates. The Baron wastes no time in useless discussion. ‘Let us byall means’ (he says) ‘consider the marriage as broken off.’ My Lord shifts hisground, and pleads for a smaller sum than the sum proposed. The Baron brieflyreplies, ‘I never bargain.’ My lord is in love; the natural result follows—hegives way.

“So far, the Baron has no cause to complain. But my Lord’s turn comes, when themarriage has been celebrated, and when the honeymoon is over. The Baron hasjoined the married pair at a palace which they have hired in Venice. He isstill bent on solving the problem of the ‘Philosopher’s Stone.’ His laboratoryis set up in the vaults beneath the palace—so that smells from chemicalexperiments may not incommode the Countess, in the higher regions of the house.The one obstacle in the way of his grand discovery is, as usual, the want ofmoney. His position at the present time has become truly critical. He owesdebts of honour to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively bepaid; and he proposes, in his own friendly manner, to borrow the money of myLord. My Lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms. The Baron applies to hissister to exercise her conjugal influence. She can only answer that her noblehusband (being no longer distractedly in love with her) now appears in his truecharacter, as one of the meanest men living. The sacrifice of the marriage hasbeen made, and has already proved useless.

“Such is the state of affairs at the opening of the Second Act.

“The entrance of the Countess suddenly disturbs the Baron’s reflections. She isin a state bordering on frenzy. Incoherent expressions of rage burst from herlips: it is some time before she can sufficiently control herself to speakplainly. She has been doubly insulted—first, by a menial person in heremployment; secondly, by her husband. Her maid, an Englishwoman, has declaredthat she will serve the Countess no longer. She will give up her wages, andreturn at once to England. Being asked her reason for this strange proceeding,she insolently hints that the Countess’s service is no service for an honestwoman, since the Baron has entered the house. The Countess does, what any ladyin her position would do; she indignantly dismisses the wretch on the spot.

“My Lord, hearing his wife’s voice raised in anger, leaves the study in whichhe is accustomed to shut himself up over his books, and asks what thisdisturbance means. The Countess informs him of the outrageous language andconduct of her maid. My Lord not only declares his entire approval of thewoman’s conduct, but expresses his own abominable doubts of his wife’s fidelityin language of such horrible brutality that no lady could pollute her lips byrepeating it. ‘If I had been a man,’ the Countess says, ‘and if I had had aweapon in my hand, I would have struck him dead at my feet!’

“The Baron, listening silently so far, now speaks. ‘Permit me to finish thesentence for you,’ he says. ‘You would have struck your husband dead at yourfeet; and by that rash act, you would have deprived yourself of the insurancemoney settled on the widow—the very money which is wanted to relieve yourbrother from the unendurable pecuniary position which he now occupies!’

“The Countess gravely reminds the Baron that this is no joking matter. Afterwhat my Lord has said to her, she has little doubt that he will communicate hisinfamous suspicions to his lawyers in England. If nothing is done to preventit, she may be divorced and disgraced, and thrown on the world, with noresource but the sale of her jewels to keep her from starving.

“At this moment, the Courier who has been engaged to travel with my Lord fromEngland crosses the stage with a letter to take to the post. The Countess stopshim, and asks to look at the address on the letter. She takes it from him for amoment, and shows it to her brother. The handwriting is my Lord’s; and theletter is directed to his lawyers in London.

“The Courier proceeds to the post-office. The Baron and the Countess look ateach other in silence. No words are needed. They thoroughly understand theposition in which they are placed; they clearly see the terrible remedy for it.What is the plain alternative before them? Disgrace and ruin—or, my Lord’sdeath and the insurance money!

“The Baron walks backwards and forwards in great agitation, talking to himself.The Countess hears fragments of what he is saying. He speaks of my Lord’sconstitution, probably weakened in India—of a cold which my Lord has caught twoor three days since—of the remarkable manner in which such slight things ascolds sometimes end in serious illness and death.

“He observes that the Countess is listening to him, and asks if she hasanything to propose. She is a woman who, with many defects, has the great meritof speaking out. ‘Is there no such thing as a serious illness,’ she asks,‘corked up in one of those bottles of yours in the vaults downstairs?’

“The Baron answers by gravely shaking his head. What is he afraid of?—apossible examination of the body after death? No: he can set any post-mortemexamination at defiance. It is the process of administering the poison that hedreads. A man so distinguished as my Lord cannot be taken seriously ill withoutmedical attendance. Where there is a Doctor, there is always danger ofdiscovery. Then, again, there is the Courier, faithful to my Lord as long as myLord pays him. Even if the Doctor sees nothing suspicious, the Courier maydiscover something. The poison, to do its work with the necessary secrecy, mustbe repeatedly administered in graduated doses. One trifling miscalculation ormistake may rouse suspicion. The insurance offices may hear of it, and mayrefuse to pay the money. As things are, the Baron will not risk it, and willnot allow his sister to risk it in his place.

“My Lord himself is the next character who appears. He has repeatedly rung forthe Courier, and the bell has not been answered. ‘What does this insolencemean?’

“The Countess (speaking with quiet dignity—for why should her infamous husbandhave the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he has wounded her?) reminds myLord that the Courier has gone to the post. My Lord asks suspiciously if shehas looked at the letter. The Countess informs him coldly that she has nocuriosity about his letters. Referring to the cold from which he is suffering,she inquires if he thinks of consulting a medical man. My Lord answers roughlythat he is quite old enough to be capable of doctoring himself.

“As he makes this reply, the Courier appears, returning from the post. My Lordgives him orders to go out again and buy some lemons. He proposes to try hotlemonade as a means of inducing perspiration in bed. In that way he hasformerly cured colds, and in that way he will cure the cold from which he issuffering now.

“The Courier obeys in silence. Judging by appearances, he goes very reluctantlyon this second errand.

“My Lord turns to the Baron (who has thus far taken no part in theconversation) and asks him, in a sneering tone, how much longer he proposes toprolong his stay in Venice. The Baron answers quietly, ‘Let us speak plainly toone another, my Lord. If you wish me to leave your house, you have only to saythe word, and I go.’ My Lord turns to his wife, and asks if she can support thecalamity of her brother’s absence—laying a grossly insulting emphasis on theword ‘brother.’ The Countess preserves her impenetrable composure; nothing inher betrays the deadly hatred with which she regards the titled ruffian who hasinsulted her. ‘You are master in this house, my Lord,’ is all she says. ‘Do asyou please.’

“My Lord looks at his wife; looks at the Baron—and suddenly alters his tone.Does he perceive in the composure of the Countess and her brother somethinglurking under the surface that threatens him? This is at least certain, hemakes a clumsy apology for the language that he has used. (Abject wretch!)

“My Lord’s excuses are interrupted by the return of the Courier with the lemonsand hot water.

“The Countess observes for the first time that the man looks ill. His handstremble as he places the tray on the table. My Lord orders his Courier tofollow him, and make the lemonade in the bedroom. The Countess remarks that theCourier seems hardly capable of obeying his orders. Hearing this, the manadmits that he is ill. He, too, is suffering from a cold; he has been keptwaiting in a draught at the shop where he bought the lemons; he feelsalternately hot and cold, and he begs permission to lie down for a little whileon his bed.

“Feeling her humanity appealed to, the Countess volunteers to make the lemonadeherself. My Lord takes the Courier by the arm, leads him aside, and whispersthese words to him: ‘Watch her, and see that she puts nothing into thelemonade; then bring it to me with your own hands; and, then, go to bed, if youlike.’

“Without a word more to his wife, or to the Baron, my Lord leaves the room.

“The Countess makes the lemonade, and the Courier takes it to his master.

“Returning, on the way to his own room, he is so weak, and feels, he says, sogiddy, that he is obliged to support himself by the backs of the chairs as hepasses them. The Baron, always considerate to persons of low degree, offers hisarm. ‘I am afraid, my poor fellow,’ he says, ‘that you are really ill.’ TheCourier makes this extraordinary answer: ‘It’s all over with me, Sir: I havecaught my death.’

“The Countess is naturally startled. ‘You are not an old man,’ she says, tryingto rouse the Courier’s spirits. ‘At your age, catching cold doesn’t surely meancatching your death?’ The Courier fixes his eyes despairingly on the Countess.

‘My lungs are weak, my Lady,’ he says; ‘I have already had two attacks ofbronchitis. The second time, a great physician joined my own doctor inattendance on me. He considered my recovery almost in the light of a miracle.Take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘If you have a third attack of bronchitis, ascertainly as two and two make four, you will be a dead man. I feel the sameinward shivering, my Lady, that I felt on those two former occasions—and I tellyou again, I have caught my death in Venice.’

“Speaking some comforting words, the Baron leads him to his room. The Countessis left alone on the stage.

“She seats herself, and looks towards the door by which the Courier has beenled out. ‘Ah! my poor fellow,’ she says, ‘if you could only changeconstitutions with my Lord, what a happy result would follow for the Baron andfor me! If youcould only get cured of a trumpery cold with a little hotlemonade, and if hecould only catch his death in your place—!’

“She suddenly pauses—considers for a while—and springs to her feet, with a cryof triumphant surprise: the wonderful, the unparalleled idea has crossed hermind like a flash of lightning. Make the two men change names and places—andthe deed is done! Where are the obstacles? Remove my Lord (by fair means orfoul) from his room; and keep him secretly prisoner in the palace, to live ordie as future necessity may determine. Place the Courier in the vacant bed, andcall in the doctor to see him—ill, in my Lord’s character, and (if he dies)dying under my Lord’s name!”

The manuscript dropped from Henry’s hands. A sickening sense of horroroverpowered him. The question which had occurred to his mind at the close ofthe First Act of the Play assumed a new and terrible interest now. As far asthe scene of the Countess’s soliloquy, the incidents of the Second Act hadreflected the events of his late brother’s life as faithfully as the incidentsof the First Act. Was the monstrous plot, revealed in the lines which he hadjust read, the offspring of the Countess’s morbid imagination? or had she, inthis case also, deluded herself with the idea that she was inventing when shewas really writing under the influence of her own guilty remembrances of thepast? If the latter interpretation were the true one, he had just read thenarrative of the contemplated murder of his brother, planned in cold blood by awoman who was at that moment inhabiting the same house with him. While, to makethe fatality complete, Agnes herself had innocently provided the conspiratorswith the one man who was fitted to be the passive agent of their crime.

Even the bare doubt that it might be so was more than he could endure. He lefthis room; resolved to force the truth out of the Countess, or to denounce herbefore the authorities as a murderess at large.

Arrived at her door, he was met by a person just leaving the room. The personwas the manager. He was hardly recognisable; he looked and spoke like a man ina state of desperation.

“Oh, go in, if you like!” he said to Henry. “Mark this, sir! I am not asuperstitious man; but I do begin to believe that crimes carry their own cursewith them. This hotel is under a curse. What happens in the morning? Wediscover a crime committed in the old days of the palace. The night comes, andbrings another dreadful event with it—a death; a sudden and shocking death, inthe house. Go in, and see for yourself! I shall resign my situation, Mr.Westwick: I can’t contend with the fatalities that pursue me here!”

Henry entered the room.

The Countess was stretched on her bed. The doctor on one side, and thechambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. From time to time, shedrew a heavy stertorous breath, like a person oppressed in sleeping. “Is shelikely to die?” Henry asked.

“She is dead,” the doctor answered. “Dead of the rupture of a blood-vessel onthe brain. Those sounds that you hear are purely mechanical—they may go on forhours.”

Henry looked at the chambermaid. She had little to tell. The Countess hadrefused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her desk to proceed with herwriting. Finding it useless to remonstrate with her, the maid had left the roomto speak to the manager. In the shortest possible time, the doctor was summonedto the hotel, and found the Countess dead on the floor. There was this totell—and no more.

Looking at the writing-table as he went out, Henry saw the sheet of paper onwhich the Countess had traced her last lines of writing. The characters werealmost illegible. Henry could just distinguish the words, “First Act,” and“Persons of the Drama.” The lost wretch had been thinking of her Play to thelast, and had begun it all over again!

CHAPTER XXVII

Henry returned to his room.

His first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript, and never to look at itagain. The one chance of relieving his mind from the dreadful uncertainty thatoppressed it, by obtaining positive evidence of the truth, was a chanceannihilated by the Countess’s death. What good purpose could be served, whatrelief could he anticipate, if he read more?

He walked up and down the room. After an interval, his thoughts took a newdirection; the question of the manuscript presented itself under another pointof view. Thus far, his reading had only informed him that the conspiracy hadbeen planned. How did he know that the plan had been put in execution?

The manuscript lay just before him on the floor. He hesitated; then picked itup; and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the point at which hehad left off.

“While the Countess is still absorbed in the bold yet simple combination ofcircumstances which she has discovered, the Baron returns. He takes a seriousview of the case of the Courier; it may be necessary, he thinks, to send formedical advice. No servant is left in the palace, now the English maid hastaken her departure. The Baron himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor isreally needed.

“‘Let us have medical help, by all means,’ his sister replies. ‘But wait andhear something that I have to say to you first.’ She then electrifies the Baronby communicating her idea to him. What danger of discovery have they to dread?My Lord’s life in Venice has been a life of absolute seclusion: nobody but hisbanker knows him, even by personal appearance. He has presented his letter ofcredit as a perfect stranger; and he and his banker have never seen each othersince that first visit. He has given no parties, and gone to no parties. On thefew occasions when he has hired a gondola or taken a walk, he has always beenalone. Thanks to the atrocious suspicion which makes him ashamed of being seenwith his wife, he has led the very life which makes the proposed enterpriseeasy of accomplishment.

“The cautious Baron listens—but gives no positive opinion, as yet. ‘See whatyou can do with the Courier,’ he says; ‘and I will decide when I hear theresult. One valuable hint I may give you before you go. Your man is easilytempted by money—if you only offer him enough. The other day, I asked him, injest, what he would do for a thousand pounds. He answered, “Anything.” Bearthat in mind; and offer your highest bid without bargaining.’

“The scene changes to the Courier’s room, and shows the poor wretch with aphotographic portrait of his wife in his hand, crying. The Countess enters.

“She wisely begins by sympathising with her contemplated accomplice. He is dulygrateful; he confides his sorrows to his gracious mistress. Now that hebelieves himself to be on his death-bed, he feels remorse for his neglectfultreatment of his wife. He could resign himself to die; but despair overpowershim when he remembers that he has saved no money, and that he will leave hiswidow, without resources, to the mercy of the world.

“On this hint, the Countess speaks. ‘Suppose you were asked to do a perfectlyeasy thing,’ she says; ‘and suppose you were rewarded for doing it by a presentof a thousand pounds, as a legacy for your widow?’

“The Courier raises himself on his pillow, and looks at the Countess with anexpression of incredulous surprise. She can hardly be cruel enough (he thinks)to joke with a man in his miserable plight. Will she say plainly what thisperfectly easy thing is, the doing of which will meet with such a magnificentreward?

“The Countess answers that question by confiding her project to the Courier,without the slightest reserve.

“Some minutes of silence follow when she has done. The Courier is not weakenough yet to speak without stopping to think first. Still keeping his eyes onthe Countess, he makes a quaintly insolent remark on what he has just heard. ‘Ihave not hitherto been a religious man; but I feel myself on the way to it.Since your ladyship has spoken to me, I believe in the Devil.’ It is theCountess’s interest to see the humorous side of this confession of faith. Shetakes no offence. She only says, ‘I will give you half an hour by yourself, tothink over my proposal. You are in danger of death. Decide, in your wife’sinterests, whether you will die worth nothing, or die worth a thousand pounds.’

“Left alone, the Courier seriously considers his position—and decides. He riseswith difficulty; writes a few lines on a leaf taken from his pocket-book; and,with slow and faltering steps, leaves the room.

“The Countess, returning at the expiration of the half-hour’s interval, findsthe room empty. While she is wondering, the Courier opens the door. What has hebeen doing out of his bed? He answers, ‘I have been protecting my own life, mylady, on the bare chance that I may recover from the bronchitis for the thirdtime. If you or the Baron attempts to hurry me out of this world, or to depriveme of my thousand pounds reward, I shall tell the doctor where he will find afew lines of writing, which describe your ladyship’s plot. I may not havestrength enough, in the case supposed, to betray you by making a completeconfession with my own lips; but I can employ my last breath to speak thehalf-dozen words which will tell the doctor where he is to look. Those words,it is needless to add, will be addressed to your Ladyship, if I find yourengagements towards me faithfully kept.’

“With this audacious preface, he proceeds to state the conditions on which hewill play his part in the conspiracy, and die (if he does die) worth a thousandpounds.

“Either the Countess or the Baron are to taste the food and drink brought tohis bedside, in his presence, and even the medicines which the doctor mayprescribe for him. As for the promised sum of money, it is to be produced inone bank-note, folded in a sheet of paper, on which a line is to be written,dictated by the Courier. The two enclosures are then to be sealed up in anenvelope, addressed to his wife, and stamped ready for the post. This done, theletter is to be placed under his pillow; the Baron or the Countess being atliberty to satisfy themselves, day by day, at their own time, that the letterremains in its place, with the seal unbroken, as long as the doctor has anyhope of his patient’s recovery. The last stipulation follows. The Courier has aconscience; and with a view to keeping it easy, insists that he shall be leftin ignorance of that part of the plot which relates to the sequestration of myLord. Not that he cares particularly what becomes of his miserly master—but hedoes dislike taking other people’s responsibilities on his own shoulders.

“These conditions being agreed to, the Countess calls in the Baron, who hasbeen waiting events in the next room.

“He is informed that the Courier has yielded to temptation; but he is still toocautious to make any compromising remarks. Keeping his back turned on the bed,he shows a bottle to the Countess. It is labelled ‘Chloroform.’ She understandsthat my Lord is to be removed from his room in a convenient state ofinsensibility. In what part of the palace is he to be hidden? As they open thedoor to go out, the Countess whispers that question to the Baron. The Baronwhispers back, ‘In the vaults!’ The curtain falls.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

So the Second Act ended.

Turning to the Third Act, Henry looked wearily at the pages as he let them slipthrough his fingers. Both in mind and body, he began to feel the need ofrepose.

In one important respect, the later portion of the manuscript differed from thepages which he had just been reading. Signs of an overwrought brain showedthemselves, here and there, as the outline of the play approached its end. Thehandwriting grew worse and worse. Some of the longer sentences were leftunfinished. In the exchange of dialogue, questions and answers were not alwaysattributed respectively to the right speaker. At certain intervals the writer’sfailing intelligence seemed to recover itself for a while; only to relapseagain, and to lose the thread of the narrative more hopelessly than ever.

After reading one or two of the more coherent passages Henry recoiled from theever-darkening horror of the story. He closed the manuscript, heartsick andexhausted, and threw himself on his bed to rest. The door opened almost at thesame moment. Lord Montbarry entered the room.

“We have just returned from the Opera,” he said; “and we have heard the news ofthat miserable woman’s death. They say you spoke to her in her last moments;and I want to hear how it happened.”

“You shall hear how it happened,” Henry answered; “and more than that. You arenow the head of the family, Stephen; and I feel bound, in the position whichoppresses me, to leave you to decide what ought to be done.”

With those introductory words, he told his brother how the Countess’s play hadcome into his hands. “Read the first few pages,” he said. “I am anxious to knowwhether the same impression is produced on both of us.”

Before Lord Montbarry had got half-way through the First Act, he stopped, andlooked at his brother. “What does she mean by boasting of this as her owninvention?” he asked. “Was she too crazy to remember that these things reallyhappened?”

This was enough for Henry: the same impression had been produced on both ofthem. “You will do as you please,” he said. “But if you will be guided by me,spare yourself the reading of those pages to come, which describe our brother’sterrible expiation of his heartless marriage.”

“Have youread it all, Henry?”

“Not all. I shrank from reading some of the latter part of it. Neither you norI saw much of our elder brother after we left school; and, for my part, I felt,and never scrupled to express my feeling, that he behaved infamously to Agnes.But when I read that unconscious confession of the murderous conspiracy towhich he fell a victim, I remembered, with something like remorse, that thesame mother bore us. I have felt for him to-night, what I am ashamed to think Inever felt for him before.”

Lord Montbarry took his brother’s hand.

“You are a good fellow, Henry,” he said; “but are you quite sure that you havenot been needlessly distressing yourself? Because some of this crazy creature’swriting accidentally tells what we know to be the truth, does it follow thatall the rest is to be relied on to the end?”

“There is no possible doubt of it,” Henry replied.

“No possible doubt?” his brother repeated. “I shall go on with my reading,Henry—and see what justification there may be for that confident conclusion ofyours.”

He read on steadily, until he had reached the end of the Second Act. Then helooked up.

“Do you really believe that the mutilated remains which you discovered thismorning are the remains of our brother?” he asked. “And do you believe it onsuch evidence as this?”

Henry answered silently by a sign in the affirmative.

Lord Montbarry checked himself—evidently on the point of entering an indignantprotest.

“You acknowledge that you have not read the later scenes of the piece,” hesaid. “Don’t be childish, Henry! If you persist in pinning your faith on suchstuff as this, the least you can do is to make yourself thoroughly acquaintedwith it. Will you read the Third Act? No? Then I shall read it to you.”

He turned to the Third Act, and ran over those fragmentary passages which wereclearly enough written and expressed to be intelligible to the mind of astranger.

“Here is a scene in the vaults of the palace,” he began. “The victim of theconspiracy is sleeping on his miserable bed; and the Baron and the Countess areconsidering the position in which they stand. The Countess (as well as I canmake it out) has raised the money that is wanted by borrowing on the securityof her jewels at Frankfort; and the Courier upstairs is still declared by theDoctor to have a chance of recovery. What are the conspirators to do, if theman does recover? The cautious Baron suggests setting the prisoner free. If heventures to appeal to the law, it is easy to declare that he is subject toinsane delusion, and to call his own wife as witness. On the other hand, if theCourier dies, how is the sequestrated and unknown nobleman to be put out of theway? Passively, by letting him starve in his prison? No: the Baron is a man ofrefined tastes; he dislikes needless cruelty. The active policy remains—say,assassination by the knife of a hired bravo? The Baron objects to trusting anaccomplice; also to spending money on anyone but himself. Shall they drop theirprisoner into the canal? The Baron declines to trust water; water will show himon the surface. Shall they set his bed on fire? An excellent idea; but thesmoke might be seen. No: the circumstances being now entirely altered,poisoning him presents the easiest way out of it. He has simply become asuperfluous person. The cheapest poison will do.—Is it possible, Henry, thatyou believe this consultation really took place?”

Henry made no reply. The succession of the questions that had just been read tohim, exactly followed the succession of the dreams that had terrified Mrs.Norbury, on the two nights which she had passed in the hotel. It was useless topoint out this coincidence to his brother. He only said, “Go on.”

Lord Montbarry turned the pages until he came to the next intelligible passage.

“Here,” he proceeded, “is a double scene on the stage—so far as I canunderstand the sketch of it. The Doctor is upstairs, innocently writing hiscertificate of my Lord’s decease, by the dead Courier’s bedside. Down in thevaults, the Baron stands by the corpse of the poisoned lord, preparing thestrong chemical acids which are to reduce it to a heap of ashes—Surely, it isnot worth while to trouble ourselves with deciphering such melodramatic horrorsas these? Let us get on! let us get on!”

He turned the leaves again; attempting vainly to discover the meaning of theconfused scenes that followed. On the last page but one, he found the lastintelligible sentences.

“The Third Act seems to be divided,” he said, “into two Parts or Tableaux. Ithink I can read the writing at the beginning of the Second Part. The Baron andthe Countess open the scene. The Baron’s hands are mysteriously concealed bygloves. He has reduced the body to ashes by his own system of cremation, withthe exception of the head—”

Henry interrupted his brother there. “Don’t read any more!” he exclaimed.

“Let us do the Countess justice,” Lord Montbarry persisted. “There are not halfa dozen lines more that I can make out! The accidental breaking of his jar ofacid has burnt the Baron’s hands severely. He is still unable to proceed to thedestruction of the head—and the Countess is woman enough (with all herwickedness) to shrink from attempting to take his place—when the first news isreceived of the coming arrival of the commission of inquiry despatched by theinsurance offices. The Baron feels no alarm. Inquire as the commission may, itis the natural death of the Courier (in my Lord’s character) that they areblindly investigating. The head not being destroyed, the obvious alternative isto hide it—and the Baron is equal to the occasion. His studies in the oldlibrary have informed him of a safe place of concealment in the palace. TheCountess may recoil from handling the acids and watching the process ofcremation; but she can surely sprinkle a little disinfecting powder—”

“No more!” Henry reiterated. “No more!”

“There is no more that can be read, my dear fellow. The last page looks likesheer delirium. She may well have told you that her invention had failed her!”

“Face the truth honestly, Stephen, and say her memory.”

Lord Montbarry rose from the table at which he had been sitting, and looked athis brother with pitying eyes.

“Your nerves are out of order, Henry,” he said. “And no wonder, after thatfrightful discovery under the hearth-stone. We won’t dispute about it; we willwait a day or two until you are quite yourself again. In the meantime, let usunderstand each other on one point at least. You leave the question of what isto be done with these pages of writing to me, as the head of the family?”

“I do.”

Lord Montbarry quietly took up the manuscript, and threw it into the fire. “Letthis rubbish be of some use,” he said, holding the pages down with the poker.“The room is getting chilly—the Countess’s play will set some of these charredlogs flaming again.” He waited a little at the fire-place, and returned to hisbrother. “Now, Henry, I have a last word to say, and then I have done. I amready to admit that you have stumbled, by an unlucky chance, on the proof of acrime committed in the old days of the palace, nobody knows how long ago. Withthat one concession, I dispute everything else. Rather than agree in theopinion you have formed, I won’t believe anything that has happened. Thesupernatural influences that some of us felt when we first slept in thishotel—your loss of appetite, our sister’s dreadful dreams, the smell thatoverpowered Francis, and the head that appeared to Agnes—I declare them all tobe sheer delusions! I believe in nothing, nothing, nothing!” He opened the doorto go out, and looked back into the room. “Yes,” he resumed, “there is onething I believe in. My wife has committed a breach of confidence—I believeAgnes will marry you. Good night, Henry. We leave Venice the first thingto-morrow morning.

So Lord Montbarry disposed of the mystery of The Haunted Hotel.

POSTSCRIPT

A last chance of deciding the difference of opinion between the two brothersremained in Henry’s possession. He had his own idea of the use to which hemight put the false teeth as a means of inquiry when he and hisfellow-travellers returned to England.

The only surviving depositary of the domestic history of the family in pastyears, was Agnes Lockwood’s old nurse. Henry took his first opportunity oftrying to revive her personal recollections of the deceased Lord Montbarry. Butthe nurse had never forgiven the great man of the family for his desertion ofAgnes; she flatly refused to consult her memory. “Even the bare sight of mylord, when I last saw him in London,” said the old woman, “made my finger-nailsitch to set their mark on his face. I was sent on an errand by Miss Agnes; andI met him coming out of his dentist’s door—and, thank God, that’s the last Iever saw of him!”

Thanks to the nurse’s quick temper and quaint way of expressing herself, theobject of Henry’s inquiries was gained already! He ventured on asking if shehad noticed the situation of the house. She had noticed, and still rememberedthe situation—did Master Henry suppose she had lost the use of her senses,because she happened to be nigh on eighty years old? The same day, he took thefalse teeth to the dentist, and set all further doubt (if doubt had still beenpossible) at rest for ever. The teeth had been made for the first LordMontbarry.

Henry never revealed the existence of this last link in the chain of discoveryto any living creature, his brother Stephen included. He carried his terriblesecret with him to the grave.

There was one other event in the memorable past on which he preserved the samecompassionate silence. Little Mrs. Ferrari never knew that her husband hadbeen—not, as she supposed, the Countess’s victim—but the Countess’s accomplice.She still believed that the late Lord Montbarry had sent her the thousand-poundnote, and still recoiled from making use of a present which she persisted indeclaring had “the stain of her husband’s blood on it.” Agnes, with the widow’sentire approval, took the money to the Children’s Hospital; and spent it inadding to the number of the beds.

In the spring of the new year, the marriage took place. At the special requestof Agnes, the members of the family were the only persons present at theceremony. There was no wedding breakfast—and the honeymoon was spent in theretirement of a cottage on the banks of the Thames.

During the last few days of the residence of the newly married couple by theriverside, Lady Montbarry’s children were invited to enjoy a day’s play in thegarden. The eldest girl overheard (and reported to her mother) a littleconjugal dialogue which touched on the topic of The Haunted Hotel.

“Henry, I want you to give me a kiss.”

“There it is, my dear.”

“Now I am your wife, may I speak to you about something?”

“What is it?”

“Something that happened the day before we left Venice. You saw the Countess,during the last hours of her life. Won’t you tell me whether she made anyconfession to you?”

“No conscious confession, Agnes—and therefore no confession that I needdistress you by repeating.”

“Did she say nothing about what she saw or heard, on that dreadful night in myroom?”

“Nothing. We only know that her mind never recovered the terror of it.”

Agnes was not quite satisfied. The subject troubled her. Even her own briefintercourse with her miserable rival of other days suggested questions thatperplexed her. She remembered the Countess’s prediction. “You have to bring meto the day of discovery, and to the punishment that is my doom.” Had theprediction simply faded, like other mortal prophecies?—or had it been fulfilledon the terrible night when she had seen the apparition, and when she hadinnocently tempted the Countess to watch her in her room?

Let it, however, be recorded, among the other virtues of Mrs. Henry Westwick,that she never again attempted to persuade her husband into betraying hissecrets. Other men’s wives, hearing of this extraordinary conduct (and beingtrained in the modern school of morals and manners), naturally regarded herwith compassionate contempt. They spoke of Agnes, from that time forth, as“rather an old-fashioned person.”

Is that all?

That is all.

Is there no explanation of the mystery of The Haunted Hotel?

Ask yourself if there is any explanation of the mystery of your own life anddeath.—Farewell.

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