The Haunted Hotel: A Mystery of Modern Venice

  CHAPTER XIX

  Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up anddown the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of therising moon.

  Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. Thestrange effect produced on him by the room--following on the otherstrange effects produced on the other relatives of his deadbrother--exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of thissensible man. 'Perhaps,' he reflected, 'my temperament is moreimaginative than I supposed it to be--and this is a trick played on meby my own fancy? Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something isphysically amiss with me? I don't feel ill, certainly. But that is nosafe criterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominableroom to-night--I can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shallspeak to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn't seemlikely to supply me with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell froman invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback.If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of thetheatre.'

  As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, hebecame aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observinghim with marked attention. 'Am I right in supposing you to be Mr.Francis Westwick?' the lady asked, at the moment when he looked at her.

  'That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour ofspeaking?'

  'We have only met once,' she answered a little evasively, 'when yourlate brother introduced me to the members of his family. I wonder ifyou have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?'She lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlightrested on her face.

  Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he mostcordially disliked--the widow of his dead brother, the first LordMontbarry. He frowned as he looked at her. His experience on thestage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorelytried his temper, had accustomed him to speak roughly to women who weredistasteful to him. 'I remember you,' he said. 'I thought you were inAmerica!'

  She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simplystopped him when 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 to yield. He did it with the worst possible grace. 'Well?' heresumed. 'What do you want of me?'

  'You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first tell you what myposition is. I am alone in the world. To the loss of my husband hasnow been added another bereavement, the loss of my companion inAmerica, my brother--Baron Rivar.'

  The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown onhis assumed relationship to the Countess, were well known to Francis.'Shot in a gambling-saloon?' he asked brutally.

  'The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,' she said, withthe impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certainoccasions. 'As a native of horse-racing England, you belong to anation of gamblers. My brother died no extraordinary death, Mr.Westwick. He sank, with many other unfortunate people, under a feverprevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit. The calamityof his loss made the United States unendurable to me. I left by thefirst steamer that sailed from New York--a French vessel which broughtme to Havre. I continued my lonely journey to the South of France.And then I went on to Venice.'

  'What does all this matter to me?' Francis thought to himself. Shepaused, evidently expecting him to say something. 'So you have come toVenice?' he said carelessly. 'Why?'

  'Because I couldn't help it,' she answered.

  Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. 'That sounds odd,' heremarked. 'Why couldn't you help it?'

  'Women are accustomed to act on impulse,' she explained. 'Suppose wesay that an impulse has directed my journey? And yet, this is the lastplace in the world that I wish to find myself in. Associations that Idetest are connected with it in my mind. If I had a will of my own, Iwould never see it again. I hate Venice. As you see, however, I amhere. When did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before?Never, I am sure!' She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenlyaltered her tone. 'When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be inVenice?' she asked.

  It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but thatextraordinary question did it. 'How the devil did you know that MissLockwood was coming to Venice?' he exclaimed.

  She laughed--a bitter mocking laugh. 'Say, I guessed it!'

  Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defianceof her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was inFrancis Westwick. 'Lady Montbarry--!' he began.

  'Stop there!' she interposed. 'Your brother Stephen's wife callsherself Lady Montbarry now. I share my title with no woman. Call meby my name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying yourbrother. Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.'

  'Countess Narona,' Francis resumed, 'if your object in claiming myacquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. Speakplainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.'

  'If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood's arrival in Venice a secret,'she retorted, 'speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on your side, and say so.'

  Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded.'Nonsense!' he broke out petulantly. 'My brother's travellingarrangements are secrets to nobody. He brings Miss Lockwood here, withLady Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well informed, perhapsyou know why she is coming to Venice?'

  The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She made noreply. The two strangely associated companions, having reached oneextremity of the square, were now standing before the church of St.Mark. The moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture of thegrand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail. Even the pigeonsof St. Mark were visible, in dark closely packed rows, roosting in thearchways of the great entrance doors.

  'I never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,' theCountess said quietly; speaking, not to Francis, but to herself.'Good-bye, St. Mark's by moonlight! 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 lostthread of the conversation, 'I don't know why Miss Lockwood is cominghere, I only know that we are to meet in Venice.'

  'By previous appointment?'

  'By Destiny,' she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyeson the ground. Francis burst out laughing. 'Or, if you like itbetter,' she instantly resumed, 'by what fools call Chance.' Francisanswered easily, out of the depths of his strong common sense. 'Chanceseems to be taking a queer way of bringing the meeting about,' he said.'We have all arranged to meet at the Palace Hotel. How is it that yourname is not on the Visitors' List? Destiny ought to have brought youto the Palace Hotel too.'

  She abruptly pulled down her veil. 'Destiny may do that yet!' shesaid. 'The Palace Hotel?' she repeated, speaking once more to herself.'The old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. The place itself!Jesu Maria! the place itself!' She paused and laid her hand on hercompanion's arm. 'Perhaps Miss Lockwood is not going there with therest of you?' she burst out with sudden eagerness. 'Are you positivelysure she will be at the hotel?'

  'Positively! Haven't I told you that Miss Lockwood travels with Lordand Lady Montbarry? and don't you know that she is a member of thefamily? You will have to 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 handwas still on his arm--he could feel her shivering from head to footwhile she spoke. Heartily as he disliked and distrusted her, thecommon instinct of humanity obliged him to ask if she felt cold.

  'Yes,' she said. 'Cold and faint.'

  'Cold and faint, Countess, on such a ni
ght as this?'

  'The night has nothing to do with it, Mr. Westwick. How do you supposethe criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting therope around his neck? Cold and faint, too, I should think. Excuse mygrim fancy. You see, Destiny has got the rope round my neck--and Ifeel it.'

  She looked about her. They were at that moment close to the famouscafe known as 'Florian's.' 'Take me in there,' she said; 'I must havesomething to revive me. You had better not hesitate. You areinterested in reviving me. I have not said what I wanted to say to youyet. It's business, and it's connected with your theatre.'

  Wondering inwardly what she could possibly want with his theatre,Francis reluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situation, andtook her into the cafe. He found a quiet corner in which they couldtake their places without attracting notice. 'What will you have?' heinquired resignedly. She gave her own orders to the waiter, withouttroubling him to speak for her.

  'Maraschino. And a pot of tea.'

  The waiter stared; Francis stared. The tea was a novelty (inconnection with maraschino) to both of them. Careless whether shesurprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her directionshad been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full of the liqueurinto a tumbler, and to fill it up from the teapot. 'I can't do it formyself,' she remarked, 'my hand trembles so.' She drank the strangemixture eagerly, hot as it was. 'Maraschino punch--will you taste someof it?' she said. 'I inherit the discovery of this drink. When yourEnglish Queen Caroline was on the Continent, my mother was attached toher Court. That much injured Royal Person invented, in her happierhours, maraschino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, mymother shared her tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my mother.Now, Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. You aremanager of a theatre. Do you want 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 I write the play, will you read it?'

  Francis hesitated. 'What has put writing a play into your head?' heasked.

  'Mere accident,' she answered. 'I had once occasion to tell my latebrother of a visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood, when I was last inEngland. He took no interest at what happened at the interview, butsomething struck him in my way of relating it. He said, "You describewhat passed between you and the lady with the point and contrast ofgood stage dialogue. You have the dramatic instinct--try if you canwrite a play. You might make money." That put it into my head.'

  Those last words seemed to startle Francis. 'Surely you don't wantmoney!' he exclaimed.

  'I always want money. My tastes are expensive. I have nothing but mypoor little four hundred a year--and the wreck that is left of theother money: about two hundred pounds in circular notes--no more.'

  Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid bythe insurance offices. 'All those thousands gone already!' heexclaimed.

  She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. 'Gone like that!' sheanswered coolly.

  '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 aproposal--and you have not answered me yet. Don't say No, withoutthinking first. Remember what a life mine has been. I have seen moreof the world than most people, playwrights included. I have hadstrange adventures; I have heard remarkable stories; I have observed; Ihave remembered. Are there no materials, here in my head, for writinga 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 questionits fit reply. She mixed another tumbler full of maraschino punch, anddrank one good half of it before she spoke again.

  'It has everything to do with my new play,' was all she said. 'Answerme.' Francis answered her.

  'Miss Lockwood may be here in a week. Or, for all I know to thecontrary, sooner than that.'

  'Very well. If I am a living woman and a free woman in a week'stime--or if I am in possession of my senses in a week's time (don'tinterrupt me; I know what I am talking about)--I shall have a sketch oroutline of my play ready, as a specimen 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 ofmaraschino punch.

  '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 anutshell. There is a foolish idea in the minds of many persons thatthe natives of the warm climates are imaginative people. There neverwas a greater mistake. You will find no such unimaginative peopleanywhere as you find in Italy, Spain, Greece, and the other Southerncountries. To anything fanciful, to anything spiritual, their mindsare deaf and blind by nature. Now and then, in the course ofcenturies, a great genius springs up among them; and he is theexception which proves the rule. Now see! I, though I am no genius--Iam, in my little way (as I suppose), an exception too. To my sorrow, Ihave some of that imagination which is so common among the English andthe Germans--so rare among the Italians, the Spaniards, and the rest ofthem! And what is the result? I think it has become a disease in me.I am filled with presentiments which make this wicked life of mine onelong terror to me. It doesn't matter, just now, what they are. Enoughthat they absolutely govern me--they drive me over land and sea attheir own horrible will; they are in me, and torturing me, at thismoment! Why don't I resist them? Ha! but I do resist them. I amtrying (with the help of the good punch) to resist them now. Atintervals I cultivate the difficult virtue of common sense. Sometimes,sound sense makes a hopeful woman of me. At one time, I had the hopethat what seemed reality to me was only mad delusion, after all--I evenasked the question of an English doctor! At other times, othersensible doubts of myself beset me. Never mind dwelling on themnow--it always ends in the old terrors and superstitions takingpossession of me again. In a week's time, I shall know whether Destinydoes indeed decide my future for me, or whether I decide it for myself.In the last case, my resolution is to absorb this self-tormenting fancyof mine in the occupation that I have told you of already. Do youunderstand me a little better now? And, our business being settled,dear Mr. Westwick, shall we get out of this hot room into the nice coolair again?'

  They rose to leave the cafe. Francis privately concluded that themaraschino punch offered the only discoverable explanation of what theCountess had said to him.