The Haunted Hotel: A Mystery of Modern Venice

  'Can I never make you think of other days than those--of the happierdays to come? Or, if you must think of the time that is passed, canyou not look back to the time when I first loved you?'

  She sighed as he put the question. 'Spare me, Henry,' she answeredsadly. 'Say no more!'

  The colour again rose in her cheeks; her hand trembled in his. Shelooked lovely, with her eyes cast down and her bosom heaving gently.At that moment he would have given everything he had in the world totake her in his arms and kiss her. Some mysterious sympathy, passingfrom his hand to hers, seemed to tell her what was in his mind. Shesnatched her hand away, and suddenly looked up at him. The tears werein her eyes. She said nothing; she let her eyes speak for her. Theywarned him--without anger, without unkindness--but still they warnedhim 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-tablebefore she replied. The unfinished letter which she had been writingwhen Lady Montbarry interrupted her, lay open on the blotting-book. Asshe looked at the letter, and then looked at Henry, the smile thatcharmed everybody showed itself in her face.

  'You must not go just yet,' she said: 'I have something to tell you.I hardly know how to express it. The shortest way perhaps will be tolet you find it out for yourself. You have been speaking of my lonelyunprotected life here. It is not a very happy life, Henry--I ownthat.' She paused, observing the growing anxiety of his expression ashe looked at her, with a shy satisfaction that perplexed him. 'Do youknow that I have anticipated your idea?' she went on. 'I am going tomake a great change in my life--if your brother Stephen and his wifewill only consent to it.' She opened the desk of the writing-tablewhile she spoke, took a letter out, and handed it to Henry.

  He received it from her mechanically. Vague doubts, which he hardlyunderstood himself, kept him silent. It was impossible that the'change in her life' of which she had spoken could mean that she wasabout to be married--and yet he was conscious of a perfectlyunreasonable reluctance to open the letter. Their eyes met; she smiledagain. '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, uncertainwriting of a child. He opened the letter instantly.

  'Dear Aunt Agnes,--Our governess is going away. She has had money leftto her, and a house of her own. We have had cake and wine to drink herhealth. You promised to be our governess if we wanted another. Wewant you. Mamma knows nothing about this. Please come before Mammacan get another governess. Your loving Lucy, who writes this. Claraand Blanche have tried to write too. But they are too young to do it.They blot the paper.'

  'Your eldest niece,' Agnes explained, as Henry looked at her inamazement. 'The children used to call me aunt when I was staying withtheir mother in Ireland, in the autumn. The three girls were myinseparable companions--they are the most charming children I know. Itis quite true that I offered to be their governess, if they ever wantedone, on the day when I left them to return to London. I was writing topropose it to their mother, just before you came.'

  'Not seriously!' Henry exclaimed.

  Agnes placed her unfinished letter in his hand. Enough of it had beenwritten to show that she did seriously propose to enter the householdof Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Westwick as governess to their children!Henry's bewilderment was not to 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 byteaching. There is something absurd in your entering their service asa governess!'

  'What is there absurd in it? The children love me; the mother lovesme; the father has shown me innumerable instances of his truefriendship and regard. I am the very woman for the place--and, as tomy education, I must have completely forgotten it indeed, if I am notfit to teach three children the eldest of whom is only eleven yearsold. You say I am their equal. Are there no other women who serve asgovernesses, and who are the equals of the persons whom they serve?Besides, I don't know that I am their equal. Have I not heard thatyour brother Stephen was the next heir to the title? Will he not bethe new lord? Never mind answering me! We won't dispute whether I amright or wrong in turning governess--we will wait the event. I amweary of my lonely useless existence here, and eager to make my lifemore happy and more useful, in the household of all others in which Ishould like most to have a place. If you will look again, you will seethat I have these personal considerations still to urge before I finishmy letter. You don't know your brother and his wife as well 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 androutine; and he felt especially suspicious of the change proposed inthe life of Agnes. With new interests to occupy her mind, she might beless favourably disposed to listen to him, on the next occasion when heurged his suit. The influence of the 'lonely useless existence' ofwhich she complained, was distinctly an influence in his favour. Whileher heart was empty, her heart was accessible. But with his nieces infull possession of it, the clouds of doubt overshadowed his prospects.He knew the sex well enough to keep these purely selfish perplexitiesto himself. The waiting policy was especially the policy to pursuewith a woman as sensitive as Agnes. If he once offended her delicacyhe was lost. For the moment he wisely controlled himself and changedthe subject.

  'My little niece's letter has had an effect,' he said, 'which the childnever contemplated in writing it. She has just reminded me of one ofthe objects that I 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 lefther,' 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 youthe letter.'

  He took a handful of letters from his pocket, and looked through them,while Agnes rang the bell. Returning to him, she noticed a printedletter among the rest, which lay open on the table. It was a'prospectus,' and the title of it was 'Palace Hotel Company of Venice(Limited).' The two words, 'Palace' and 'Venice,' instantly recalledher mind to the unwelcome visit of Lady Montbarry. 'What is that?' sheasked, pointing to the title.

  Henry suspended his search, and glanced at the prospectus. 'A reallypromising speculation,' he said. 'Large hotels always pay well, ifthey are well managed. I know the man who is appointed to be managerof this hotel when it is opened to the public; and I have such entireconfidence in him that I have become one of the shareholders of theCompany.'

  The reply did not appear to satisfy Agnes. 'Why is the hotel calledthe "Palace Hotel"?' she inquired.

  Henry looked at her, and at once penetrated her motive for asking thequestion. 'Yes,' he said, 'it is the palace that Montbarry hired atVenice; and it has been purchased by the Company to be changed into anhotel.'

  Agnes turned away in silence, and took a chair at the farther end ofthe room. Henry had disappointed her. His income as a younger sonstood in need, as she well knew, of all the additions that he couldmake to it by successful speculation. But she was unreasonable enough,nevertheless, to disapprove of his attempting to make money already outof the house in which his brother had died. Incapable of understandingthis purely sentimental view of a plain matter of business, Henryreturned to his papers, in some perplexity at th
e sudden change in themanner of Agnes towards him. Just as he found the letter of which hewas in search, the nurse made her appearance. He glanced at Agnes,expecting that she would speak first. She never even looked up whenthe nurse came in. It was left to Henry to tell the old woman why thebell had summoned her to the drawing-room.

  'Well, nurse,' he said, 'you have had a windfall of luck. You have hada legacy left you of a hundred pounds.'

  The nurse showed no outward signs of exultation. She waited a littleto get the announcement of the legacy well settled in her mind--andthen she said quietly, 'Master Henry, who gives me that money, if youplease?'

  'My late brother, Lord Montbarry, gives it to you.' (Agnes instantlylooked up, interested in the matter for the first time. Henry wenton.) 'His will leaves legacies to the surviving old servants of thefamily. There is a letter from his lawyers, authorising you to applyto them for the money.'

  In every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all humanvirtues. In the nurse's class it is extremely rare. Her opinion ofthe man who had deceived and deserted her mistress remained the sameopinion still, perfectly undisturbed by the passing circumstance of thelegacy.

  'I wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants?' she said. 'Hewould never have heart enough to remember them himself!'

  Agnes suddenly interposed. Nature, always abhorring monotony,institutes reserves of temper as elements in the composition of thegentlest women living. Even Agnes could, on rare occasions, be angry.The nurse's view of Montbarry's character seemed to have provoked herbeyond endurance.

  'If you have any sense of shame in you,' she broke out, 'you ought tobe ashamed of what you have just said! Your ingratitude disgusts me.I leave you to speak with her, Henry--you won't mind it!' With thissignificant intimation that he too had dropped out of his customaryplace in her good opinion, she left the room.

  The nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with everyappearance of feeling rather amused by it than not. When the door hadclosed, this female philosopher winked at Henry.

  'There's a power of obstinacy in young women,' she remarked. 'MissAgnes wouldn't give my lord up as a bad one, even when he jilted her.And now she's sweet on him after he's dead. Say a word against him,and she fires up as you see. All obstinacy! It will wear out withtime. Stick to her, Master Henry--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 inher tantrums; it reminds me of her when she was a baby. Lord blessyou! when I go to bid her good-night, she'll give me a big kiss, poordear--and say, Nurse, I didn't mean it! About this money, MasterHenry? If I was younger I should spend it in dress and jewellery. ButI'm too old for that. What shall I do with my legacy when I have gotit?'

  'Put it out at interest,' Henry suggested. 'Get so much a year for it,you know.' 'How much shall I get?' the nurse asked.

  'If you put your hundred pounds into the Funds, you will get betweenthree and four pounds a year.'

  The nurse shook her head. 'Three or four pounds a year? That won'tdo! I want more than that. Look here, Master Henry. I don't careabout this bit of money--I never did like the man who has left it tome, though he was your brother. If I lost it all to-morrow, Ishouldn't break my heart; I'm well enough off, as it is, for the restof my days. They say you're a speculator. Put me in for a good thing,there's a dear! Neck-or-nothing--and that for the Funds!' She snappedher fingers to express her contempt for security of investment at threeper cent.

  Henry produced the prospectus of the Venetian Hotel Company. 'You're afunny old woman,' he said. 'There, you dashing speculator--there isneck-or-nothing for you! You must keep it a secret from Miss Agnes,mind. I'm not at all sure that she would approve of my helping you tothis investment.'

  The nurse took out her spectacles. 'Six per cent., guaranteed,' sheread; 'and the Directors have every reason to believe that ten percent., or more, will be ultimately realised to the shareholders by thehotel.' 'Put me into that, Master Henry! And, wherever you go, forHeaven's sake recommend the hotel to your friends!'

  So the nurse, following Henry's mercenary example, had her pecuniaryinterest, too, in the house in which Lord Montbarry had died.

  Three days passed before Henry was able to visit Agnes again. In thattime, the little cloud between them had entirely passed away. Agnesreceived him with even more than her customary kindness. She was inbetter spirits than usual. Her letter to Mrs. Stephen Westwick hadbeen answered by return of post; and her proposal had been joyfullyaccepted, with one modification. She was to visit the Westwicks for amonth--and, if she really liked teaching the children, she was then tobe governess, aunt, and cousin, all in one--and was only to go away inan 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 seeme when you like.' She held out her hand. 'Pardon me for leavingyou--I am beginning to pack 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 hisprivilege as a cousin was a good sign--it was indirectly an act ofencouragement to him in the character of her lover.

  On the first day in the new week, Agnes left London on her way toIreland. As the event proved, this was not destined to be the end ofher journey. The way to Ireland was only the first stage on aroundabout road--the road that led to the palace at Venice.

  THE THIRD PART