CHAPTER XXIII
'...You have some influence over Agnes. Try what you can do, Henry, tomake her take a sensible view of the matter. There is really nothingto make a fuss about. My wife's maid knocked at her door early in themorning, with the customary cup of tea. Getting no answer, she wentround to the dressing-room--found the door on that side unlocked--anddiscovered Agnes on the bed in a fainting fit. With my wife's help,they brought her to herself again; and she told the extraordinary storywhich I have just repeated to you. You must have seen for yourselfthat she has been over-fatigued, poor thing, by our long railwayjourneys: her nerves are out of order--and she is just the person tobe easily terrified by a dream. She obstinately refuses, however, toaccept this rational view. Don't suppose that I have been severe withher! All that a man can do to humour her I have done. I have writtento the Countess (in her assumed name) offering to restore the room toher. She writes back, positively declining to return to it. I haveaccordingly arranged (so as not to have the thing known in the hotel)to occupy the room for one or two nights, and to leave Agnes to recoverher spirits under my wife's care. Is there anything more that I cando? Whatever questions Agnes has asked of me I have answered to thebest of my ability; she knows all that you told me about Francis andthe Countess last night. But try as I may I can't quiet her mind. Ihave given up the attempt in despair, and left her in the drawing-room.Go, like a good fellow, and try what you can do to compose her.'
In those words, Lord Montbarry stated the case to his brother from therational point of view. Henry made no remark, he went straight to thedrawing-room.
He found Agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards, flushed andexcited. 'If you come here to say what your brother has been saying tome,' she broke out, before he could speak, 'spare yourself the trouble.I don't want common sense--I want 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 theCountess and Mrs. James are one and the same person?' she askeddistrustfully. 'Why was I not told of it last night?'
'You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before Ireached Venice,' Henry replied. 'I felt strongly tempted to tell you,even then--but your sleeping arrangements for the night were all made;I should only have inconvenienced and alarmed you. I waited till themorning, after hearing from my brother that you had yourself seen toyour security from any intrusion. How that intrusion was accomplishedit is impossible to say. I can only declare that the Countess'spresence by your bedside last night was no dream of yours. On her ownauthority I can testify that it was a reality.'
'On her own authority?' Agnes repeated eagerly. 'Have you seen herthis morning?'
'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 atme until I thought of mentioning your name.'
'She remembered me, of course?'
'She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she wouldn'tanswer me on any other terms, I questioned her as if I had come directfrom you. Then she spoke. She not only admitted that she had the samesuperstitious motive for placing you in that room which she hadacknowledged to Francis--she even owned that she had been by yourbedside, watching through the night, "to see what you saw," as sheexpressed it. Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how shegot into the room. Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught hereye; she returned to her writing. "The Baron wants money," she said;"I must get on with my play." What she saw or dreamed while she was inyour room last night, it is at present impossible to discover. Butjudging by my brother's account of her, as well as by what I rememberof her myself, some recent influence has been at work which hasproduced a marked change in this wretched woman for the worse. Hermind (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 livingman. When Francis saw her, she declared that the Baron was dead, whichis the truth. The United States Consul at Milan showed us theannouncement of the death in an American newspaper. So far as I cansee, such sense as she still possesses seems to be entirely absorbed inone absurd idea--the idea of writing a play for Francis to bring out athis theatre. He admits that he encouraged her to hope she might getmoney in this way. I think he did wrong. Don't you agree with me?'
Without heeding the question, Agnes rose abruptly from her chair.
'Do me one more kindness, Henry,' she said. 'Take me to the Countessat once.'
Henry hesitated. 'Are you composed enough to see her, after the shockthat you have suffered?' he asked.
She trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it deadly pale.But she held to her resolution. 'You have heard of what I saw lastnight?' she said faintly.
'Don't speak of it!' Henry interposed. 'Don't uselessly agitateyourself.'
'I must speak! My mind is full of horrid questions about it. I know Ican't identify it--and yet I ask myself over and over again, in whoselikeness did it appear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari? or wasit--?' she stopped, shuddering. 'The Countess knows, I must see theCountess!' she resumed vehemently. 'Whether my courage fails me ornot, I must make the attempt. Take me to her before I have time tofeel afraid of it!'
Henry looked at her anxiously. 'If you are really sure of your ownresolution,' he said, 'I agree with you--the sooner you see her thebetter. You remember how strangely she talked of your influence overher, when she forced her way into your room in London?'
'I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?'
'For this reason. In the present state of her mind, I doubt if shewill be much longer capable of realizing her wild idea of you as theavenging angel who is to bring her to a reckoning for her evil deeds.It may be well to try what your influence can do while she is stillcapable of feeling it.'
He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm and led himin silence to the door.
They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered theCountess's room.
She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up from thepaper, and saw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the onlyexpression in her wild black eyes. After a few moments, the lostremembrances and associations appeared to return slowly to her mind.The pen dropped from her hand. Haggard and trembling, she lookedcloser at Agnes, and recognised her at last. 'Has the time comealready?' 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.Agnes was far from having recovered, after the shock that she hadsuffered in the night: her nerves were far from being equal to thestrain that was now laid on them. She was so startled by the change inthe Countess, that she was at a loss what to say or to do next. Henrywas obliged to speak to her. 'Put your questions while you have thechance,' he said, lowering his voice. 'See! the vacant look is comingover 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 herhands, and wrung them above her head with a low moan of horror. Agnesshrank back, and turned as if to leave the room. Henry stopped her,and whispered to her to try again. She obeyed him after an effort. 'Islept last night in the room that you gave up to me,' she resumed. 'Isaw--'
The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. 'No more of that,' she cried.'Oh, Jesu Maria! do you think I want to be told what you saw? Do youthink I don't know what it means for you and for me? Decide foryourself, Miss. Examine your own mind. Are you well assured that theday of reckoning has come at last? Are you ready to follow me back,through the crimes of the past, to the secrets of the dead?'
r /> She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to beanswered. Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more asshe spoke. It was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuositywere nearly worn out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as sheunlocked a desk which stood on the table. Opening a drawer in thedesk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing. Someragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, as if ithad 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 oldlibrary of the palace, while this building was still a palace. By whomit was torn out you have no need to know. For what purpose it was tornout you may discover for yourself, if you will. Read it first--at thefifth line from the top of the page.'
Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. 'Give me achair,' she said to Henry; 'and I will do my best.' He placed himselfbehind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help herto understand the writing on the leaf. Rendered into English, it ranas follows:--
I have now completed my literary survey of the firstfloor of the palace. At the 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 of the pictures, decorations,and other treasures of art therein contained. Let me begin with thecorner room at the western extremity of the palace, called the Room ofthe Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. Thiswork is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenthcentury only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every partof it. Still, there is a certain interest which attaches to themantel-piece: it conceals a cleverly constructed hiding-place, betweenthe floor of the room and the ceiling of the room beneath, which wasmade during the last evil days of the Inquisition in Venice, and whichis reported to have saved an ancestor of my gracious lord pursued bythat terrible tribunal. The machinery of this curious place ofconcealment has been kept in good order by the present lord, as aspecies of curiosity. He condescended to show me the method of workingit. Approaching the two Caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead(midway between the eyebrows) of the figure which is on your left asyou stand opposite to the fireplace, then press the head inwards as ifyou were pushing it against the wall behind. By doing this, you set inmotion the hidden machinery in the wall which turns the hearthstone ona pivot, and discloses the hollow place below. There is room enough init for a man to lie easily at full length. The method of closing thecavity again is equally simple. Place both your hands on the templesof 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 rememberwhat you have read.'
She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, and ledthe way to the door.
'Come!' she said; 'and see what the mocking Frenchman called "Thebeginning of the end."'
Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from head tofoot. Henry gave her his arm to support her. 'Fear nothing,' hewhispered; 'I shall be with you.'
The Countess proceeded along the westward corridor, and stopped at thedoor numbered Thirty-eight. This was the room which had been inhabitedby Baron Rivar in the old days of the palace: it was situatedimmediately over the bedchamber in which Agnes had passed the night.For the last two days the room had been empty. The absence of luggagein it, when they opened the door, showed that it had not yet been let.
'You see?' said the Countess, pointing to the carved figure at thefire-place; 'and you know what to do. Have I deserved that you shouldtemper justice with mercy?' she went on in lower tones. 'Give me a fewhours more to myself. The Baron wants money--I must get on with myplay.'
She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her righthand as she pronounced the last words. The effort of concentrating herweakened mind on other and less familiar topics than the constant wantof money in the Baron's lifetime, and the vague prospect of gain fromthe still unfinished play, had evidently exhausted her poor reserves ofstrength. When her request had been granted, she addressed noexpressions of gratitude to Agnes; she only said, 'Feel no fear, miss,of my attempting to escape you. Where you are, there I must be tillthe end comes.'
Her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and stupefied look.She returned to her writing with slow and feeble steps, like the stepsof an old woman.