CHAPTER XX
'Shall I see you again?' she asked, as she held out her hand to takeleave. 'It is 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. 'Ifyou have anything more to say about this dramatic venture of yours, itmay be as well to say it now. Have you decided on a subject already?I know the public taste in England better than you do--I might save yousome waste of time and trouble, if you have not chosen your subjectwisely.'
'I don't care what subject I write about, so long as I write,' sheanswered carelessly. 'If you have got a subject in your head, give itto me. I answer for the characters and the dialogue.'
'You answer for the characters and the dialogue,' Francis repeated.'That's a bold way of speaking for a beginner! I wonder if I shouldshake your sublime confidence in yourself, if I suggested the mostticklish subject to handle which is known to the stage? What do yousay, Countess, to entering the lists with Shakespeare, and trying adrama with a ghost in it? A true story, mind! founded on events inthis very city in which you and I are interested.'
She caught him by the arm, and drew him away from the crowded colonnadeinto the solitary middle space of the square. 'Now tell me!' she saideagerly. '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 thecoming disclosure. For a moment he hesitated. Thus far, amused by herignorant belief in herself, he had merely spoken in jest. Now, for thefirst time, impressed by her irresistible earnestness, he began toconsider what he was about from a more serious point of view. With herknowledge of all that had passed in the old palace, before itstransformation into an hotel, it was surely possible that she mightsuggest some explanation of what had happened to his brother, andsister, and himself. Or, failing to do this, she might accidentallyreveal some event in her own experience which, acting as a hint to acompetent dramatist, might prove to be the making of a play. Theprosperity of his theatre was his one serious object in life. 'I maybe on the trace of another "Corsican Brothers,"' he thought. 'A newpiece of that sort would be ten thousand pounds in my pocket, at least.'
With these motives (worthy of the single-hearted devotion to dramaticbusiness which made Francis a successful manager) he related, withoutfurther hesitation, what his own experience had been, and what theexperience of his relatives had been, in the haunted hotel. He evendescribed the outbreak of superstitious terror which had escaped Mrs.Norbury's ignorant maid. 'Sad stuff, if you look at it reasonably,' heremarked. 'But there is something dramatic in the notion of theghostly influence making itself felt by the relations in succession, asthey one after another enter the fatal room--until the one chosenrelative comes who will see the Unearthly Creature, and know theterrible truth. Material for a play, Countess--first-rate material fora play!'
There he paused. She neither moved nor spoke. He stooped and lookedcloser at her.
What impression had he produced? It was an impression which his utmostingenuity had failed to anticipate. She stood by his side--just as shehad stood before Agnes when her question about Ferrari was plainlyanswered at last--like a woman turned to stone. Her eyes were vacantand rigid; all the life in her face had faded out of it. Francis tookher by the hand. Her hand was as cold as the pavement that they werestanding 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 beentelling you seriously?'
Her lips moved slowly. As it seemed, she was making an effort to speakto him.
'Louder,' he said. 'I can't hear you.'
She struggled to recover possession of herself. A faint light began tosoften the dull cold stare of her eyes. In a moment more she spoke sothat he could hear her.
'I never thought of the other world,' she murmured, in low dull tones,like a woman talking in her sleep.
Her mind had gone back to the day of her last memorable interview withAgnes; she was slowly recalling the confession that had escaped her,the warning words which she had spoken at that past time. Necessarilyincapable of understanding this, Francis looked at her in perplexity.She went on in the same dull vacant tone, steadily following out herown train of thought, with her heedless eyes on his face, and herwandering mind far away from him.
'I said some trifling event would bring us together the next time. Iwas wrong. No trifling event will bring us together. I said I mightbe the person who told her what had become of Ferrari, if she forced meto it. Shall I feel some other influence than hers? Will he force meto it? When she sees him, shall I see him too?'
Her head sank a little; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly; she heaved along low weary sigh. Francis put her arm in his, and made an attemptto rouse her.
'Come, Countess, you are weary and over-wrought. We have had enoughtalking to-night. Let me see you safe back to your hotel. Is it farfrom here?'
She started when he moved, and obliged her to move with him, as if hehad suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep.
'Not far,' she said faintly. 'The old hotel on the quay. My mind's ina strange state; I have forgotten the name.'
'Danieli's?'
'Yes!'
He led her on slowly. She accompanied him in silence as far as the endof the Piazzetta. There, when the full view of the moonlit Lagoonrevealed itself, she stopped him as he turned towards the Riva degliSchiavoni. 'I have something to ask 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 thatnight. 'But the manager has reserved it for me to-morrow,' he added,'if I wish to have 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 sleepin that room to-morrow night?'
'I must sleep in it.'
'Are you not afraid?'
'I am horribly afraid.'
'So I should have thought, after what I have observed in you to-night.Why should you take the room? You are not obliged to occupy it, unlessyou like.'
'I was not obliged to go to Venice, when I left America,' she answered.'And yet I came here. I must take the room, and keep the room,until--' She broke off at those words. 'Never mind the rest,' shesaid. 'It doesn't interest you.'
It was useless to dispute with her. Francis changed the subject. 'Wecan do nothing to-night,' he said. 'I will call on you to-morrowmorning, and hear what you think of it then.'
They moved on again to the hotel. As they approached the door, Francisasked if she was staying in Venice under her own name.
She shook her head. 'As your brother's widow, I am known here. AsCountess Narona, I am known here. I want to be unknown, this time, tostrangers in Venice; I am travelling under a common English name.' Shehesitated, and stood still. 'What has come to me?' she muttered toherself. 'Some things I remember; and some I forget. I forgotDanieli's--and now I forget my English name.' She drew him hurriedlyinto the hall of the hotel, on the wall of which hung a list ofvisitors' names. Running her finger slowly down the list, she pointedto the English name that she had assumed:--'Mrs. James.'
'Remember that when you call to-morrow,' she said. 'My head is heavy.Good night.'
Francis went back to his own hotel, wondering what the events of thenext day would bring forth. A new turn in his affairs had taken placein his absence. As he crossed the hall, he was requested by one of theservants to walk into the private office. The manager was waitingthere with a gravely pre-occupied manner, as if he had somethingserious to say. He regretted to hear that Mr. Francis Westwick had,like other members of the family, discovered serious sources ofdiscomfort in the new hotel. He had been informed in strict confidenceof Mr. Westwick's extraord
inary objection to the atmosphere of thebedroom upstairs. Without presuming to discuss the matter, he must begto be excused from reserving the room for Mr. Westwick after what hadhappened.
Francis answered sharply, a little ruffled by the tone in which themanager had spoken to him. 'I might, very possibly, have declined tosleep in the room, if you had reserved it,' he said. 'Do you wish meto leave the hotel?'
The manager saw the error that he had committed, and hastened to repairit. 'Certainly not, sir! We will do our best to make you comfortablewhile you stay with us. I beg your pardon, if I have said anything tooffend you. The reputation of an establishment like this is a matterof very serious importance. May I hope that you will do us the greatfavour to say nothing about what has happened upstairs? The two Frenchgentlemen have kindly promised to keep it a secret.'
This apology left Francis no polite alternative but to grant themanager's request. 'There is an end to the Countess's wild scheme,' hethought to himself, as he retired for the night. 'So much the betterfor the Countess!'
He rose late the next morning. Inquiring for his Parisian friends, hewas informed that both the French gentlemen had left for Milan. As hecrossed the hall, on his way to the restaurant, he noticed the headporter chalking the numbers of the rooms on some articles of luggagewhich were waiting to go upstairs. One trunk attracted his attentionby the extraordinary number of old travelling labels left on it. Theporter was marking it at the moment--and the number was, '13 A.'Francis instantly looked at the card fastened on the lid. It bore thecommon English name, 'Mrs. James'! He at once inquired about the lady.She had arrived early that morning, and she was then in the ReadingRoom. Looking into the room, he discovered a lady in it alone.Advancing a little nearer, he found himself face to face with theCountess.
She was seated in a dark corner, with her head down and her armscrossed over her bosom. 'Yes,' she said, in a tone of wearyimpatience, before Francis could speak to her. 'I thought it best notto wait for you--I determined to get here before anybody else couldtake the room.'
'Have you taken it for long?' Francis asked.
'You told me Miss Lockwood would be here in a week's time. I havetaken it for a week.'
'What has Miss Lockwood to do with it?'
'She has everything to do with it--she must sleep in the room. I shallgive the room up to her when she comes here.'
Francis began to understand the superstitious purpose that she had inview. 'Are you (an educated woman) really of the same opinion as mysister's maid!' he exclaimed. 'Assuming your absurd superstition to bea serious thing, you are taking the wrong means to prove it true. If Iand my brother and sister have seen nothing, how should Agnes Lockwooddiscover what was not revealed to us? She is only distantly related tothe Montbarrys--she is only our cousin.'
'She was nearer to the heart of the Montbarry who is dead than any ofyou,' the Countess answered sternly. 'To the last day of his life, mymiserable husband repented his desertion of her. She will see whatnone of you have seen--she shall have the room.'
Francis listened, utterly at a loss to account for the motives thatanimated her. 'I don't see what interest you have in trying thisextraordinary experiment,' he said.
'It is my interest not to try it! It is my interest to fly fromVenice, and never set eyes on Agnes Lockwood or any of your familyagain!'
'What prevents you from doing that?'
She started to her feet and looked at him wildly. 'I know no more whatprevents me than you do!' she burst out. 'Some will that is strongerthan mine drives me on to my destruction, in spite of my own self!' Shesuddenly sat down again, and waved her hand for him to go. 'Leave me,'she said. 'Leave me to my thoughts.'
Francis left her, firmly persuaded by this time that she was out of hersenses. For the rest of the day, he saw nothing of her. The night, sofar as he knew, passed quietly. The next morning he breakfasted early,determining to wait in the restaurant for the appearance of theCountess. She came in and ordered her breakfast quietly, looking dulland worn and self-absorbed, as she had looked when he last saw her. Hehastened to her table, and asked if anything had happened 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? Haveyou heard when she is coming?'
'I have had no letters. Are you really going to stay here? Has yourexperience of last night not altered the opinion which you expressed tome yesterday?'
'Not in the least.'
The momentary gleam of animation which had crossed her face when shequestioned him about Agnes, died out of it again when he answered her.She looked, she spoke, she ate her breakfast, with a vacantresignation, like a woman who had done with hopes, done with interests,done with everything but the mechanical movements and instincts of life.
Francis went out, on the customary travellers' pilgrimage to theshrines of Titian and Tintoret. After some hours of absence, he founda letter waiting for him when he got back to the hotel. It was writtenby his brother Henry, and it recommended him to return to Milanimmediately. The proprietor of a French theatre, recently arrived fromVenice, was trying to induce the famous dancer whom Francis had engagedto break faith with him and accept a higher salary.
Having made this startling announcement, Henry proceeded to inform hisbrother that Lord and Lady Montbarry, with Agnes and the children,would arrive in Venice in three days more. 'They know nothing of ouradventures at the hotel,' Henry wrote; 'and they have telegraphed tothe manager for the accommodation that they want. There would besomething absurdly superstitious in our giving them a warning whichwould frighten the ladies and children out of the best hotel in Venice.We shall be a strong party this time--too strong a party for ghosts! Ishall meet the travellers on their arrival, of course, and try my luckagain 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'srelations have arranged to accompany them on the journey to Venice.'
Naturally indignant at the conduct of his Parisian colleague, Francismade his preparations 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 rooms were already reserved. 'I thought you would refuse to letany more of the family into the house,' he said satirically. Themanager answered (with the due dash of respect) in the same tone.'Number 13 A is safe, sir, in the occupation of a stranger. I am theservant of the Company; and I dare not turn money out of the hotel.'
Hearing this, Francis said good-bye--and said nothing more. He wasashamed to acknowledge it to himself, but he felt an irresistiblecuriosity to know what would happen when Agnes arrived at the hotel.Besides, 'Mrs. James' had reposed a confidence in him. He got into hisgondola, respecting the confidence of 'Mrs. James.'