CHAPTER XXVIII
So the Second Act ended.
Turning to the Third Act, Henry looked wearily at the pages as he letthem slip through his fingers. Both in mind and body, he began to feelthe need of repose.
In one important respect, the later portion of the manuscript differedfrom the pages which he had just been reading. Signs of an overwroughtbrain showed themselves, here and there, as the outline of the playapproached its end. The handwriting grew worse and worse. Some of thelonger sentences were left unfinished. In the exchange of dialogue,questions and answers were not always attributed respectively to theright speaker. At certain intervals the writer's failing intelligenceseemed to recover itself for a while; only to relapse again, and tolose the thread of the narrative more hopelessly than ever.
After reading one or two of the more coherent passages Henry recoiledfrom the ever-darkening horror of the story. He closed the manuscript,heartsick and exhausted, and threw himself on his bed to rest. Thedoor opened almost at the same moment. Lord Montbarry entered the room.
'We have just returned from the Opera,' he said; 'and we have heard thenews of that miserable woman's death. They say you spoke to her in herlast moments; and I want to hear how it happened.'
'You shall hear how it happened,' Henry answered; 'and more than that.You are now the head of the family, Stephen; and I feel bound, in theposition which oppresses me, to leave you to decide what ought to bedone.'
With those introductory words, he told his brother how the Countess'splay had come into his hands. 'Read the first few pages,' he said. 'Iam anxious to know whether the same impression is produced on both ofus.'
Before Lord Montbarry had got half-way through the First Act, hestopped, and looked at his brother. 'What does she mean by boasting ofthis as her own invention?' he asked. 'Was she too crazy to rememberthat these things really happened?'
This was enough for Henry: the same impression had been produced onboth of them. 'You will do as you please,' he said. 'But if you willbe guided by me, spare yourself the reading of those pages to come,which describe our brother's terrible expiation of his heartlessmarriage.'
'Have you read it all, Henry?'
'Not all. I shrank from reading some of the latter part of it.Neither you nor I saw much of our elder brother after we left school;and, for my part, I felt, and never scrupled to express my feeling,that he behaved infamously to Agnes. But when I read that unconsciousconfession of the murderous conspiracy to which he fell a victim, Iremembered, with something like remorse, that the same mother bore us.I have felt for him to-night, what I am ashamed to think I never feltfor him before.'
Lord Montbarry took his brother's hand.
'You are a good fellow, Henry,' he said; 'but are you quite sure thatyou have not been needlessly distressing yourself? Because some ofthis crazy creature's writing accidentally tells what we know to be thetruth, does it follow that all the rest is to be relied on to the end?'
'There is no possible doubt of it,' Henry replied.
'No possible doubt?' his brother repeated. 'I shall go on with myreading, Henry--and see what justification there may be for thatconfident conclusion of yours.'
He read on steadily, until he had reached the end of the Second Act.Then he looked up.
'Do you really believe that the mutilated remains which you discoveredthis morning are the remains of our brother?' he asked. 'And do youbelieve it on such evidence as this?'
Henry answered silently by a sign in the affirmative.
Lord Montbarry checked himself--evidently on the point of entering anindignant protest.
'You acknowledge that you have not read the later scenes of the piece,'he said. 'Don't be childish, Henry! If you persist in pinning yourfaith on such stuff as this, the least you can do is to make yourselfthoroughly acquainted with it. Will you read the Third Act? No? ThenI shall read it to you.'
He turned to the Third Act, and ran over those fragmentary passageswhich were clearly enough written and expressed to be intelligible tothe mind of a stranger.
'Here is a scene in the vaults of the palace,' he began. 'The victimof the conspiracy is sleeping on his miserable bed; and the Baron andthe Countess are considering the position in which they stand. TheCountess (as well as I can make it out) has raised the money that iswanted by borrowing on the security of her jewels at Frankfort; and theCourier upstairs is still declared by the Doctor to have a chance ofrecovery. What are the conspirators to do, if the man does recover?The cautious Baron suggests setting the prisoner free. If he venturesto appeal to the law, it is easy to declare that he is subject toinsane delusion, and to call his own wife as witness. On the otherhand, if the Courier dies, how is the sequestrated and unknown noblemanto be put out of the way? Passively, by letting him starve in hisprison? No: the Baron is a man of refined tastes; he dislikesneedless cruelty. The active policy remains--say, assassination by theknife of a hired bravo? The Baron objects to trusting an accomplice;also to spending money on anyone but himself. Shall they drop theirprisoner into the canal? The Baron declines to trust water; water willshow him on the surface. Shall they set his bed on fire? An excellentidea; but the smoke might be seen. No: the circumstances being nowentirely altered, poisoning him presents the easiest way out of it. Hehas simply become a superfluous person. The cheapest poison willdo.--Is it possible, Henry, that you believe this consultation reallytook place?'
Henry made no reply. The succession of the questions that had justbeen read to him, exactly followed the succession of the dreams thathad terrified Mrs. Norbury, on the two nights which she had passed inthe hotel. It was useless to point out this coincidence to hisbrother. He only said, 'Go on.'
Lord Montbarry turned the pages until he came to the next intelligiblepassage.
'Here,' he proceeded, 'is a double scene on the stage--so far as I canunderstand the sketch of it. The Doctor is upstairs, innocentlywriting his certificate of my Lord's decease, by the dead Courier'sbedside. Down in the vaults, the Baron stands by the corpse of thepoisoned lord, preparing the strong chemical acids which are to reduceit to a heap of ashes--Surely, it is not worth while to troubleourselves with deciphering such melodramatic horrors as these? Let usget on! let us get on!'
He turned the leaves again; attempting vainly to discover the meaningof the confused scenes that followed. On the last page but one, hefound the last intelligible sentences.
'The Third Act seems to be divided,' he said, 'into two Parts orTableaux. I think I can read the writing at the beginning of theSecond Part. The Baron and the Countess open the scene. The Baron'shands are mysteriously concealed by gloves. He has reduced the body toashes by his own system of cremation, with the exception of the head--'
Henry interrupted his brother there. 'Don't read any more!' heexclaimed.
'Let us do the Countess justice,' Lord Montbarry persisted. 'There arenot half a dozen lines more that I can make out! The accidentalbreaking of his jar of acid has burnt the Baron's hands severely. Heis still unable to proceed to the destruction of the head--and theCountess is woman enough (with all her wickedness) to shrink fromattempting to take his place--when the first news is received of thecoming arrival of the commission of inquiry despatched by the insuranceoffices. The Baron feels no alarm. Inquire as the commission may, itis the natural death of the Courier (in my Lord's character) that theyare blindly investigating. The head not being destroyed, the obviousalternative is to hide it--and the Baron is equal to the occasion. Hisstudies in the old library have informed him of a safe place ofconcealment in the palace. The Countess may recoil from handling theacids and watching the process of cremation; but she can surelysprinkle a little disinfecting powder--'
'No more!' Henry reiterated. 'No more!'
'There is no more that can be read, my dear fellow. The last pagelooks like sheer delirium. She may well have told you that herinvention had failed her!'
'Face the truth honestly, Stephen, and say her memory.'
Lord Montbarry rose from the table at w
hich he had been sitting, andlooked at his brother with pitying eyes.
'Your nerves are out of order, Henry,' he said. 'And no wonder, afterthat frightful discovery under the hearth-stone. We won't dispute aboutit; we will wait a day or two until you are quite yourself again. Inthe meantime, let us understand each other on one point at least. Youleave the question of what is to be done with these pages of writing tome, as the head of the family?'
'I do.'
Lord Montbarry quietly took up the manuscript, and threw it into thefire. 'Let this rubbish be of some use,' he said, holding the pagesdown with the poker. 'The room is getting chilly--the Countess's playwill set some of these charred logs flaming again.' He waited a littleat the fire-place, and returned to his brother. 'Now, Henry, I have alast word to say, and then I have done. I am ready to admit that youhave stumbled, by an unlucky chance, on the proof of a crime committedin the old days of the palace, nobody knows how long ago. With thatone concession, I dispute everything else. Rather than agree in theopinion you have formed, I won't believe anything that has happened.The supernatural influences that some of us felt when we first slept inthis hotel--your loss of appetite, our sister's dreadful dreams, thesmell that overpowered Francis, and the head that appeared to Agnes--Ideclare them all to be sheer delusions! I believe in nothing, nothing,nothing!' He opened the door to go out, and looked back into the room.'Yes,' he resumed, 'there is one thing I believe in. My wife hascommitted a breach of confidence--I believe Agnes will marry you. Goodnight, Henry. We leave Venice the first thing to-morrow morning.
So Lord Montbarry disposed of the mystery of The Haunted Hotel.