CHAPTER XXII
Having closed and secured the door on Lady Montbarry's departure, Agnesput on her dressing-gown, and, turning to her open boxes, began thebusiness of unpacking. In the hurry of making her toilet for dinner,she had taken the first dress that lay uppermost in the trunk, and hadthrown her travelling costume on the bed. She now opened the doors ofthe wardrobe for the first time, and began to hang her dresses on thehooks in the large compartment on one side.
After a few minutes only of this occupation, she grew weary of it, anddecided on leaving the trunks as they were, until the next morning.The oppressive south wind, which had blown throughout the day, stillprevailed at night. The atmosphere of the room felt close; Agnes threwa shawl over her head and shoulders, and, opening the window, steppedinto the balcony to look at the view.
The night was heavy and overcast: nothing could be distinctly seen.The canal beneath the window looked like a black gulf; the oppositehouses were barely visible as a row of shadows, dimly relieved againstthe starless and moonless sky. At long intervals, the warning cry of abelated gondolier was just audible, as he turned the corner of adistant canal, and called to invisible boats which might be approachinghim in the darkness. Now and then, the nearer dip of an oar in thewater told of the viewless passage of other gondolas bringing guestsback 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 theblack void beneath. Her thoughts reverted to the miserable man who hadbroken his pledged faith to her, and who had died in that house. Somechange seemed to have come over her since her arrival in Venice; somenew influence appeared to be at work. For the first time in herexperience of herself, compassion and regret were not the only emotionsaroused in her by the remembrance of the dead Montbarry. A keen senseof the wrong that she had suffered, never yet felt by that gentle andforgiving nature, was felt by it now. She found herself thinking ofthe bygone days of her humiliation almost as harshly as Henry Westwickhad thought of them--she who had rebuked him the last time he hadspoken slightingly of his brother in her presence! A sudden fear anddoubt of herself, startled her physically as well as morally. Sheturned from the shadowy abyss of the dark water as if the mystery andthe gloom of it had been answerable for the emotions which had takenher by surprise. Abruptly closing the window, she threw aside hershawl, and lit the candles on the mantelpiece, impelled by a suddencraving for light in the solitude of her room.
The cheering brightness round her, contrasting with the black gloomoutside, restored her spirits. She felt herself enjoying the lightlike a child!
Would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed? No! Thesense of drowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since was gone.She returned to the dull employment of unpacking her boxes. After afew minutes only, the occupation became irksome to her once more. Shesat down by the table, and took up a guide-book. 'Suppose I informmyself,' she thought, 'on the subject of Venice?'
Her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned the firstpage of it.
The image of Henry Westwick was the presiding image in her memory now.Recalling the minutest incidents and details of the evening, she couldthink of nothing which presented him under other than a favourable andinteresting aspect. She smiled to herself softly, her colour rose byfine gradations, as she felt the full luxury of dwelling on the perfecttruth and modesty of his devotion to her. Was the depression ofspirits from which she had suffered so persistently on her travelsattributable, by any chance, to their long separation from eachother--embittered perhaps by her own vain regret when she rememberedher 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 herown thoughts. What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness findtheir hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone inher room at night! With her heart in the tomb of the dead Montbarry,could Agnes even think of another man, and think of love? Howshameful! how unworthy of her! For the second time, she tried tointerest herself in the guide-book--and once more she tried in vain.Throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the one resourcethat was left, to her luggage--resolved to fatigue herself withoutmercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a saferefuge in bed.
For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation oftransferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe. The largeclock in the hall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was gettinglate. She sat down for a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, torest.
The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it--held itdisagreeably. Was everybody in bed and asleep but herself? Surely itwas time for her to follow the general example? With a certainirritable nervous haste, she rose again and undressed herself. 'I havelost two hours of rest,' she thought, frowning at the reflection ofherself in the glass, as she arranged her hair for the night. 'I shallbe good for nothing to-morrow!'
She lit the night-light, and extinguished the candles--with oneexception, which she removed to a little table, placed on the side ofthe bed opposite to the side occupied by the arm-chair. Having put hertravelling-box of matches and the guide-book near the candle, in caseshe might be sleepless and might want to 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 freelyover her. Lying on her left side, with her face turned away from thetable, she could see the arm-chair by the dim night-light. It had achintz covering--representing large bunches of roses scattered over apale green ground. She tried to weary herself into drowsiness bycounting over and over again the bunches of roses that were visiblefrom her point of view. Twice her attention was distracted from thecounting, by sounds outside--by the clock chiming the half-hour pasttwelve; and then again, by the fall of a pair of boots on the upperfloor, thrown out to be cleaned, with that barbarous disregard of thecomfort of others which is observable in humanity when it inhabits anhotel. In the silence that followed these passing disturbances, Agneswent on counting the roses on the arm-chair, more and more slowly.Before long, she confused herself in the figures--tried to begincounting again--thought she would wait a little first--felt her eyelidsdrooping, and her head reclining lower and lower on the pillow--sighedfaintly--and sank into sleep.
How long that first sleep lasted, she never knew. She could onlyremember, in the 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. Withoutknowing why, she sat up suddenly in the bed, listening for she knew notwhat. Her head was in a whirl; her heart beat furiously, without anyassignable cause. But one trivial event had happened during theinterval while she had been asleep. The night-light had gone out; andthe room, as a matter of course, was in total darkness.
She felt for the match-box, and paused after finding it. A vague senseof confusion was still in her mind. She was in no hurry to light thematch. The pause in the darkness was, for the moment, agreeable to her.
In the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she could askherself the natural question:--What cause had awakened her so suddenly,and had so strangely shaken her nerves? Had it been the influence of adream? She had not dreamed at all--or, to speak more correctly, shehad no waking remembrance of having dreamed. The mystery was beyondher fathoming: the darkness began to oppress her. She struck the matchon the box, and lit her candle.
As the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned from thetable and looked towards the other side of the bed.
In the moment when she turned, the chill of a sudden terror gripped herround the 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 theflow of light from the candle, was the figure of a woma
n, reclining.Her head lay back over the chair. Her face, turned up to the ceiling,had the eyes closed, as if she was wrapped in a deep sleep.
The shock of the discovery held Agnes speechless and helpless. Herfirst conscious action, when she was in some degree mistress of herselfagain, was to lean over the bed, and to look closer at the woman whohad so incomprehensibly stolen into her room in the dead of night. Oneglance was enough: she started back with a cry of amazement. Theperson in the chair was no other than the widow of the deadMontbarry--the woman who had warned her that they were to meet again,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 getin? Leave the room--or I will call for help!'
She raised her voice at the last words. It produced no effect.Leaning farther over the bed, she boldly took the Countess by theshoulder and shook her. Not even this effort succeeded in rousing thesleeping woman. She still lay back in the chair, possessed by a torporlike 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 wasaudible, rising and falling in deep heavy gasps. At intervals sheground her teeth savagely. Beads of perspiration stood thickly on herforehead. Her clenched hands rose and fell slowly from time to time onher lap. Was she in the agony of a dream? or was she spirituallyconscious of something hidden in the room?
The doubt involved in that last question was unendurable. Agnesdetermined to rouse 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 whichthe table stood.
She raised herself from the crouching position which she had assumed inlooking close at the Countess; and, turning towards the other side ofthe bed, stretched out her hand to the bell. At the same instant, shestopped and looked upward. Her hand fell helplessly at her side. Sheshuddered, and sank back on the pillow.
What had she seen?
She had seen another intruder in her room.
Midway between her face and the ceiling, there hovered a humanhead--severed at the neck, like a head struck from the body by theguillotine.
Nothing visible, nothing audible, had given her any intelligiblewarning of its appearance. Silently and suddenly, the head had takenits place above her. No supernatural change had passed over the room,or was perceptible in it now. The dumbly-tortured figure in the chair;the broad window opposite the foot of the bed, with the black nightbeyond it; the candle burning on the table--these, and all otherobjects 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 inmid-air above her. She looked at it steadfastly, spell-bound by theterror that held her.
The flesh of the face was gone. The shrivelled skin was darkened inhue, like the skin of an Egyptian mummy--except at the neck. There itwas of a lighter colour; there it showed spots and splashes of the hueof that brown spot on the ceiling, which the child's fanciful terrorhad distorted into the likeness of a spot of blood. Thin remains of adiscoloured moustache and whiskers, hanging over the upper lip, andover the hollows where the cheeks had once been, made the head justrecognisable as the head of a man. Over all the features death andtime had done their obliterating work. The eyelids were closed. Thehair on the skull, discoloured like the hair on the face, had beenburnt away in places. The bluish lips, parted in a fixed grin, showedthe double row of teeth. By slow degrees, the hovering head (perfectlystill when she first saw it) began to descend towards Agnes as she laybeneath. By slow degrees, that strange doubly-blended odour, which theCommissioners had discovered in the vaults of the old palace--which hadsickened Francis Westwick in the bed-chamber of the new hotel--spreadits fetid exhalations over the room. Downward and downward the hideousapparition made its slow progress, until it stopped close overAgnes--stopped, and turned slowly, so that the face of it confrontedthe upturned face of the woman in the chair.
There was a pause. Then, a supernatural movement disturbed the rigidrepose of the dead face.
The closed eyelids opened slowly. The eyes revealed themselves, brightwith the glassy film of death--and fixed their dreadful look on thewoman in the chair.
Agnes saw that look; saw the eyelids of the living woman open slowlylike the eyelids of the dead; saw her rise, as if in obedience to somesilent command--and saw no more.
Her next conscious impression was of the sunlight pouring in at thewindow; of the friendly presence of Lady Montbarry at the bedside; andof the children's wondering faces peeping in at the door.