23. CHAPTER XXIII
'...You have some influence over Agnes. Try what you can do, Henry, to
make her take a sensible view of the matter. There is really nothing to
make a fuss about. My wife's maid knocked at her door early in the
morning, with the customary cup of tea. Getting no answer, she went
round to the dressing-room — found the door on that side unlocked — and
discovered Agnes on the bed in a fainting fit. With my wife's help, they
brought her to herself again; and she told the extraordinary story which I
have just repeated to you. You must have seen for yourself that she has
been over-fatigued, poor thing, by our long railway journeys: her nerves
are out of order — and she is just the person to be easily terrified by a
dream. She obstinately refuses, however, to accept this rational view.
Don't suppose that I have been severe with her! All that a man can do to
humour her I have done. I have written to the Countess (in her assumed
name) offering to restore the room to her. She writes back, positively
declining to return to it. I have accordingly 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 recover her spirits under my wife's care. Is there anything
more that I can do? Whatever questions Agnes has asked of me I
have answered to the best of my ability; she knows all that you told me
about Francis and the Countess last night. But try as I may I can't quiet
her mind. I have 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 the
rational point of view. Henry made no remark, he went straight to the
drawing-room.
He found Agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards, flushed and
excited.
'If you come here to say what your brother has been saying to
me,'
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 the
Countess and Mrs. James are one and the same person?'
she asked
distrustfully.
'Why was I not told of it last night?'
'You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before I
reached 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 the morning,
after hearing from my brother that you had yourself seen to your security from
any intrusion. How that intrusion was accomplished it is impossible to say.
I can only declare that the Countess's presence by your bedside last night
was no dream of yours. On her own authority I can testify that it was a
reality.'
'On her own authority?'
Agnes repeated eagerly.
'Have you seen
her this 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 at
me until I thought of mentioning your name.'
'She remembered me, of course?'
'She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she wouldn't
answer me on any other terms, I questioned her as if I had come direct
from you. Then she spoke. She not only admitted that she had the same
superstitious motive for placing you in that room which she had acknowledged
to Francis — she even owned that she had been by your bedside,
watching through the night, "to see what you saw," as she expressed it.
Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how she got into the room.
Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye; 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 in your room last night, it is
at present impossible to discover. But judging by my brother's account of
her, as well as by what I remember of her myself, some recent influence
has been at work which has produced a marked change in this wretched
woman for the worse. Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially
deranged. One proof of it is that she spoke to me of the Baron as if he
were still a living man. When Francis saw her, she declared that the Baron
was dead, which is the truth. The United States Consul at Milan showed us
the announcement of the death in an American newspaper. So far as I can
see, such sense as she still possesses seems to be entirely absorbed in one
absurd idea — the idea of writing a play for Francis to bring out at his
theatre. He admits that he encouraged her to hope she might get money 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
Countess at once.'
Henry hesitated.
'Are you composed enough to see her, after the shock
that 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 last
night?'
she said faintly.
'Don't speak of it!'
Henry interposed.
'Don't uselessly agitate
yourself.'
'I must speak! My mind is full of horrid questions about it. I know I
can't identify it — and yet I ask myself over and over again, in whose
likeness did it appear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari? or was it — ?'
she stopped, shuddering.
'The Countess knows, I must see the
Countess!'
she resumed vehemently.
'Whether my courage fails me or
not, I must make the attempt. Take me to her before I have time to feel
afraid of it!'
Henry looked at her anxiously.
'If you are really sure of your own
resolution,'
he said,
'I agree with you — the sooner you see her the
better. You remember how strangely she talked of your influence over her,
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 she
will be much longer capable of realizing her wild idea of you as the avenging
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 still capable of feeling
it.'
He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm and led him
in silence to the door.
They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered the
Countess's room.
She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up from the
paper, and saw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the only expression in
her wild black eyes. After a few moments, the lost remembrances and
associations appeared to return slowly to her mind. The pen
dropped from her hand. Haggard and trembling, she looked closer at
Agnes, and recognised her at last.
'Has the time come already?'
she
said in low awe-struck tones.
'Give me a little longer respite, 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 had suffered
in the night: her nerves were far from being equal to the strain that was
now laid on them. She was so startled by the change in the Countess, that
she was at a loss what to say or to do next. Henry was obliged to speak to
her.
'Put your questions while you have the chance,'
he said, lowering
his voice.
'See! the vacant look is coming over 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 her hands, and wrung them above her head with a low moan of horror.
Agnes shrank 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.
'I
slept last night in the room that you gave up to me,'
she resumed.
'I
saw — '
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
you think I don't know what it means for you and for me? Decide for yourself,
Miss. Examine your own mind. Are you well assured that the day 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?'
She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered.
Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke. It
was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity were nearly worn
out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as she unlocked a desk which stood
on the table. Opening a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum,
covered with faded writing. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still
attached to the leaf, as if it had 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 old library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. By
whom it was torn out you have no need to know. For what purpose it was torn out
you may discover for yourself, if you will. Read it first — at the fifth line
from the top of the page.'
Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself.
'Give me a chair,'
she said to Henry;
'and I will do my best.'
He placed himself behind her
chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help her to understand
the writing on the leaf. Rendered into English, it ran as follows: —
I have now completed my literary survey of the first floor 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 the corner
room at the western extremity of the palace, called the Room of the
Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. This
work is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenth
century only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in
every part of it. Still, there is a certain interest which attaches
to the mantel-piece: it conceals a cleverly constructed hiding-place,
between the floor of the room and the ceiling of the room beneath,
which was made during the last evil days of the Inquisition in
Venice, and which is reported to have saved an ancestor of my
gracious lord pursued by that terrible tribunal. The machinery of
this curious place of concealment has been kept in good order by the
present lord, as a species of curiosity. He condescended to show me
the method of working it. Approaching the two Caryatides, rest
your hand on the forehead (midway between the eyebrows) of the
figure which is on your left as you stand opposite to the fireplace,
then press the head inwards as if you were pushing it against the wall
behind. By doing this, you set in motion the hidden machinery in
the wall which turns the hearthstone on a pivot, and discloses the
hollow place below. There is room enough in it for a man to lie
easily at full length. The method of closing the cavity again is equally
simple. Place both your hands on the temples of the figures; pull
as if you were pulling it towards you — and the hearthstone will
revolve into its proper position again.
'You need read no farther,'
said the Countess.
'Be careful to
remember what you have read.'
She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, and led
the way to the door.
'Come!'
she said;
'and see what the mocking Frenchman
called "The beginning of the end." '
Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from head to
foot. Henry gave her his arm to support her.
'Fear nothing,'
he whispered;
'I shall be with you.'
The Countess proceeded along the westward corridor, and stopped at
the door numbered Thirty-eight. This was the room which had been inhabited
by Baron Rivar in the old days of the palace: it was situated
immediately over the bedchamber in which Agnes had passed the night.
For the last two days the room had been empty. The absence of luggage in
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 the fireplace
'and you know what to do. Have I deserved that you should temper
justice with mercy?'
she went on in lower tones.
'Give me a few hours
more to myself. The Baron wants money — I must get on with my play.'
She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her right
hand as she pronounced the last words. The effort of concentrating her
weakened mind on other and less familiar topics than the constant want of
money in the Baron's lifetime, and the vague prospect of gain from the
still unfinished play, had evidently exhausted her poor reserves of strength.
When her request had been granted, she addressed no expressions of
gratitude to Agnes; she only said,
'Feel no fear, miss, of my attempting to
escape you. Where you are, there I must be till the 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 steps
of an old woman.