The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it wasmercilessly broken by a knock at the door.
Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano; theinstrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible, when sheseated herself on the music-stool, for any person entering the room tosee her face. Henry called out irritably, 'Come in.'
The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it asked astrange question.
'Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone?'
Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She hurried to asecond door, which communicated with one of the bedrooms. 'Don't lether come near me!' she whispered nervously. 'Good night, Henry! goodnight!'
If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the Countess tothe uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effort withoutremorse. As it was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever, 'Comein!'
She entered the room slowly with her everlasting manuscript in herhand. Her step was unsteady; a dark flush appeared on her face, inplace of its customary pallor; her eyes were bloodshot and widelydilated. In approaching Henry, she showed a strange incapability ofcalculating her distances--she struck against the table near which hehappened to be sitting. When she spoke, her articulation was confused,and her pronunciation of some of the longer words was hardlyintelligible. Most men would have suspected her of being under theinfluence of some intoxicating liquor. Henry took a truer view--hesaid, as he placed a chair for her, 'Countess, I am afraid you havebeen working too hard: you look as if you wanted rest.'
She put her hand to her head. 'My invention has gone,' she said. 'Ican't write my fourth act. It's all a blank--all a blank!'
Henry advised her to wait till the next day. 'Go to bed,' hesuggested; 'and try to sleep.'
She waved her hand impatiently. 'I must finish the play,' sheanswered. 'I only want a hint from you. You must know something aboutplays. Your brother has got a theatre. You must often have heard himtalk about fourth and fifth acts--you must have seen rehearsals, andall the rest of it.' She abruptly thrust the manuscript into Henry'shand. 'I can't read it to you,' she said; 'I feel giddy when I look atmy own writing. Just run your eye over it, there's a good fellow--andgive me a hint.'
Henry glanced at the manuscript. He happened to look at the list ofthe persons of the drama. As he read the list he started and turnedabruptly to the Countess, intending to ask her for some explanation.The words were suspended on his lips. It was but too plainly uselessto speak to her. Her head lay back on the rail of the chair. Sheseemed to be half asleep already. The flush on her face had deepened:she looked like a woman who was in danger of having a fit.
He rang the bell, and directed the man who answered it to send one ofthe chambermaids upstairs. His voice seemed to partially rouse theCountess; she opened her eyes in a slow drowsy way. 'Have you readit?' she asked.
It was necessary as a mere act of humanity to humour her. 'I will readit willingly,' said Henry, 'if you will go upstairs to bed. You shallhear what I think of it to-morrow morning. Our heads will be clearer,we shall be better able to make the fourth act in the morning.'
The chambermaid came in while he was speaking. 'I am afraid the ladyis ill,' Henry whispered. 'Take her up to her room.' The woman lookedat the Countess and whispered back, 'Shall we send for a doctor, sir?'
Henry advised taking her upstairs first, and then asking the manager'sopinion. There was great difficulty in persuading her to rise, andaccept the support of the chambermaid's arm. It was only by reiteratedpromises to read the play that night, and to make the fourth act in themorning, that Henry prevailed on the Countess to return to her room.
Left to himself, he began to feel a certain languid curiosity inrelation to the manuscript. He looked over the pages, reading a linehere and a line there. Suddenly he changed colour as he read--andlooked up from the manuscript like a man bewildered. 'Good God! whatdoes this mean?' he said to himself.
His eyes turned nervously to the door by which Agnes had left him. Shemight return to the drawing-room, she might want to see what theCountess had written. He looked back again at the passage which hadstartled him--considered with himself for a moment--and, snatching upthe unfinished play, suddenly and softly left the room.
CHAPTER XXVI
Entering his own room on the upper floor, Henry placed the manuscripton his table, open at the first leaf. His nerves were unquestionablyshaken; his hand trembled as he turned the pages, he started at chancenoises on the staircase of the hotel.
The scenario, or outline, of the Countess's play began with no formalprefatory phrases. She presented herself and her work with the easyfamiliarity of an old friend.