University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.,
In which I meet with the Dowager Countess, and
see a strange portrait.

His lordship kept his word as a nobleman
should. Mr. Osborne, the steward,
called at the shop a few days afterward,
and told me that I had permission
to read in the library of the
castle at suitable hours. These suitable
hours I found, upon inquiry, were
from three to six in the afternoon, while
the family were there, and at any hours
I might choose when the family were
away. The time first named interfered
with my duties in the composing-room,
but Mr. Guttenberg looked upon the
permission as an express command from
an authority not to be contemned, and
insisted that I should spend the time
set down for me among his lordship's
books. I was readily obedient, for I
thus had a field of study opened to me,
otherwise far beyond my reach. I found
the library to be a full one—the rarest
and finest editions of new and old works
occupying the shelves. It struck me
that neither the earl nor his visitors
ever troubled the library, unless perchance
to lounge there, since none of
the works on the shelves bore traces
of frequent use. My mind did not
dwell on that fact. I thought only of
enjoying the advantages which I possessed.
Among the volumes were
grammars and dictionaries of all the
European languages, and some of Asiatic
tongues, besides a few hundred of
the writings of various foreign authors
in the original. My fondness for acquiring
languages found new stimulus
and satisfaction, and I applied myself
earnestly to a pursuit which some
would have called a task.

Time passed for several months with
little incident worthy of notice. I heard
nothing of Zara or her father in the
meanwhile, and it was only at rare intervals
that they came to my memory.
I was lost in my rambles through a
new world. My ordinary life was simply
monotonous, the same round of employment
in the printing-room or circulating
library, and I made no acquaintance
beyond our circle of patrons, with
whom I was a favorite. The officers
of the regiment, through Berkely, had
me in to assist when they gave amateur
dramatic performances, but this
was only an occasional amusement.
The servants at the castle got to know
me very well, and often amused me by
a bit of gossip concerning the family,
or an anecdote of one of its members.
To all these I listened, but made no

comments. I was naturally fond of
talking, but I was naturally prudent.
This was soon discovered, and I became
gradually the depository of a deal
of secret history, useless enough, but
very amusing.

Among other facts, I speedily learned
that the Dowager Countess of Landys,
the mother of the late earl, was
nearly imbecile—so much so that she
was constantly attended to by her
maid, a woman who had been brought
up in the family; and that the present
earl suffered her to retain the apartments
she had occupied during her
son's life-time. She was said to have
become insane on receiving the news
of her son's shipwreck; but the violent
paroxysms ceased, leaving her mind in
a state approaching idiocy, and giving
rise to a few harmless peculiarities.
Her cousin, Lady Caroline Bowlington,
was the only one who had the power
to interest her. During her short yearly
visit the countess seemed to rally,
and her mind resumed its normal condition.
On the departure of her cousin
there was an apparent relapse.

I also became well acquainted with
the steward, Mr. Osborne. He was
quite a fine gentleman in manners, and
had the entire confidence of his noble
master. Indeed it was remarked by
many that the consultations between
the two were conducted on a footing
of equality, and that the manner of the
steward to the peer was that of one
who felt secure of his position under
all circumstances. No one knew the
origin of this Mr. Osborne. He came
when the wearer of the title succeeded
to the earldom, having been summoned
from a distance. It was said that they
traveled together abroad, and had been
connected for many years. People
wondered how the servant maintained
such absolute control over the master,
for it was evident that the smooth,
smirking and dapper gentleman lost a
portion of his deferential manner when
conversing with his patron, and paid
but little heed to the commands generally
put as suggestions of the latter.
There was some secret in this which
none had been able to discover. I made
no effort to penetrate it. It was no affair
of mine.

Thus it passed until about a year after
the rescue of Zara, when, as I sat
one day in my customary place in the
library, Lord Landys entered. I rose
to go, but he bade me remain and be
seated. He took up the book I had
been reading, the Dejing Navodu Creskeho,
of Francis Palacky, and put me
some questions as to its contents, possibly
to ascertain what progress I had
made in the language in which it was
written. At length he said:

“Do you keep up communication
with your mysterious Spanish friend
still, Mr. Fecit?”

“No, my lord,” was my answer. “I
have not heard of him or of his daughter,
for a long while.”

“I should have thought Mr Bagby
would have kept you advised of their
movements.”

“No, my lord. He never mentions
them in the occasional letters I receive
from him, and I suppose is as ignorant
of their whereabouts as I.”

“Hardly since he painted the little
Zara's portrait.”

“That was a sketch from memory,
my lord. She has a striking face, apt
to fix its features in an artist's mind.”

“You are to be free of your indentures
in a couple of years, I believe,”
continued the earl. “Have you thought
on your future pursuits?”

“Not particularly, my lord. I shall
be a printer, of course.”

“Your information and quickness,”
said he, and I rose and bowed an acknowledgment
of the compliment, “lift
you out of that sphere of life. There
are few avenues for ambition in England,
without the command of money
and connexions, but abroad you might
rise rapidly.”

“It is possible, my lord,” I replied;
“but it would require means there
too.”

“Those might be found. I have influence
with the present ministry, and
could procure you a creditable position
in India. The road there to reputation
and wealth is not yet choked
up. At least, youth, health, talent
and enterprise might remove all obstacles.”

“I thank your lordship, but I have
no desire to abandon the land where I
was born.”

“Are you sure that you were born
here, at all?” was the quick reply.

I was startled at the question, and
the tone in which it was uttered. Before
I could frame an answer, he continued—

“I do not mean to wound your feelings
at all, but you know your own
history, and you might have been
born in France, you know. Think on
my proposition well before you reject
it. It gives you an opportunity which
you can never have upon the soil of
England. But perhaps you are determined
to remain here in order to investigate
the mystery of your birth.”

“No,” I replied, “I have thought of
that, but there seems to be no clue.
The loss of the packet of papers by
Mr. Guttenberg is irreparable. I shall
not waste time in a fruitless pursuit.
When I come to grapple with the world
I will do it boldly, and I will allow no
vain object to weaken my efforts.”

“You are ambitious, then,” said the
earl, as he arose to leave the room.
“Think well on India—wealth and distinction.”

Without reflecting any more on his
offers, I resumed my reading, when he
had retired. How long I read it is
impossible to say, but I had certainly
gone through a great number of pages,
when I heard the rustling of silk, and,
looking up, beheld a very old woman
regarding me with apparent interest.

There was something startling in
the apparition.

The features, from the indications
presented, must at one time have been
handsome; age had not entirely destroyed
their pleasing regularity of outline;
but the soul which formerly animated
them was clouded. In strange
contrast with the brilliant black eyes,
and the white hair which escaped in
masses from beneath the laced cap,
was the vacant expression about the
mouth, whose puckered lips, slightly
parted, disclosed the toothless gums.
The old woman looked at me intently,
and then muttered something which I
could not distinguish. This was followed
by the words, plainly uttered:

“Her son! it must be; yes, look at
the ear.”

I recovered from my astonishment
at length, and, rising, bowed respectfully;
for I was sure that this was the
Dowager Countess of Landys. She
motioned me to resume my seat, and
when I hesitated, sank in a chair, and
waving her hand, said in a peremptory
way:

“Sit, sir!”

I obeyed, and she still kept her eyes
fixed on me, the features lighting up,

and the vacant expression quite gone.
I was meditating how to escape the
painful scrutiny, when she spoke
again, and this time in a voice of tenderness:

“I have not seen you for many days,
my son. Why do you mourn her loss
still? She was not worthy of you. I
told you in the beginning how it would
be. Let her go.”

I made no answer. What could I
have said?

“He will come again,” continued the
Countess, now apparently talking to
herself. “I know it. He will come
again. What the living promised the
dead would do, were the body a hundred
fathoms beneath the sea. The
dead has never come, and the living
will.”

The interview with one thus crazed
became so embarrassing that I was
about to escape it by flight, when the
steward entered the room. The Countess
glared at him for a moment, rose,
and walked with a haughty, and, for
her years, a vigorous step from the library.

“Were you much disturbed, Ambrose?”
inquired Osborne.

“Yes, sir; and in some fear, though
she has been here but a few minutes.
It is the Dowager Countess—is it not?”

“Yes. It is singular that she said
nothing to you. She is very apt to
make queer remarks to strangers.”

“She did say something,” I said, and
repeated her words.

“Do you understand it?” he inquired.

Now, why should he ask that? Why
should I understand it? Is there some
secret here they fear I may fathom?

These were the questions that I instantly
put to myself. But to Osborne
I merely gave a negative to his question.

“She sometimes eludes the vigilance
of her attendant,” he said, “and goes
wandering about in this strange kind
of way, startling visitors with all kinds
of queer sayings. She often fancies if
she meets with a stranger that he must
be her son. She has never recovered
the late earl's loss.”

“Her ladyship seems to be very old,”
I said.

“Yes; but I merely came to get a
book, and will not disturb you.”

Mr. Osborne selected a book from
the shelves, and left the room.

I resumed my study, but was doomed
to another interruption. I heard
the door open, and on looking around,
saw another stranger.

The last intruder was a woman, neatly
clad in black, apparently a kind of
domestic. She was about forty years
of age, with bold, strong features, short
in stature, rather stout, but not fat.
Her eyes were grey, and were fixed on
me in some surprise.

“I beg pardon, sir,” she said, “but
I have missed the Countess Dowager,
and looked to see if she were here. She
sometimes comes in the library.”

“Ah! you are her attendant then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She was here, but left when Mr.
Osborne came.”

“She does not like him—who does?
I hope you won't think me impertinent,
but pray who are you, sir?”

“My name is Ambrose Fecit. I am
Mr. Guttenberg's apprentice and adopted
son.”

“A printer's boy! How singular!”

I was amused at the tone in which
the words were uttered, and the look
of wonder in her face.

“Pray,” I inquired, “is it singular
that I should be a printer's apprentice,
or that, being a printer's apprentice, I
should be seated here?”

“No, it was not that; but the likeness
was so strong.”

“What likeness?”

“Yours; you look like the portrait
in the north gallery.”

“Whose portrait?”

“I'm sure I don't know. The butler
says he was a pirate. It has hung
there for years. The late earl brought
it here. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much,” I replied.

“Come with me, and I will show
you.”

“But,” I said, “I have only the privilege
of the library, and doubt if that
permission extends to any other part of
the castle.”

“Oh, the north gallery is a showroom?”

“But the Countess may want you.”

“No, she always keeps herself alone
for an hour or so after she meets a
stranger.”

I was curious to see the portrait,
and so, without farther objections, I
accompanied the woman, who told me
that her name was Gifford. She led
me to the north gallery, and there
pointed out the portrait.

Certainly the features on the canvass
and my own were strikingly alike—at
least as far as the upper part of the
face went; but the mouth in the portrait
was broader, and the chin heavier
and squarer than mine.

The portrait was a full length likeness
of a man apparently about twenty-five.
The costume was oriental, but
of what particular country in the east
I could not say.

“You say this was a pirate,” I ask
ed, after I had looked at it well.

“The butler, who served the former
earl, says so,” answered she. “For
my part, I know nothing about it. He
was a foreigner of some kind. My
lord sent it home from abroad, when
he was a young man. Before he went
away for the last time he would stand
before the picture for hours, or rather
he would walk the gallery for hours,
and stop every now and then before
the picture, and look at it. He did not
appear to be fond of the man it was
like, either. He would scowl at it in
a way that was fearful. The servants
say”—and here she looked around cautiously—“that
every year, on the day
my lord was born—that is the late
earl—the picture walks.”

I laughed.

“It is silly, I know,” she said, “but
there is one thing quite certain; I saw
that face once—whether a ghost or alive,
I don't know. It was the year before
my lord came back the last time. I
had to cross the gallery late at night.
I had a candle in my hand, and stopped
to look at the picture as I passed. I
went on, after I had taken a look, and
just as I reached yonder door, which
was my lord's chamber, it opened. As
the door was kept locked always during
my lord's absence, it startled me a
deal. I turned to look, and saw a fignre
wrapped in a dark cloak. My light
fell on the face.”

“Well?” said I, for she paused.

“It was the face of the picture,”
said she. “I could not be mistaken.
I dropped the light and ran. The house
was alarmed, and when all gathered
there the door was found locked. It
was opened, and as no trace could be
found of any one, they all said I dreamed

the matter.”

“What did the earl say to it when
he came back?”

“He never knew it. My lady, his
mother, forbade any of us to tell him.
But I must go, lest my lady want me.
You do look like the picture—very
much—especially that look from the
eyes.”

And Gifford left me alone.

I looked a little while longer at the
portrait, and then returned to the library,
where I sat down, and began
to think. According to Guttenberg,
the man who gave me in his charge
was a foreigner. Could this be he?
His likeness to me, too! Could he
have been my father? How was I to
learn more of this strange portrait,
and the name of the original? While
I was engaged in these reflections, the
steward came in to replace the book he
had taken away.

“Has the Countess Dowager been
here since?”

“No,” I replied, “but her attendant
has.”

“Ah!” he ejaculated. “A strange
creature is Gifford—a woman of strong
prejudices. I have had to talk sharply
to Gifford, once or twice, and she don't
like me much.”

“Mr. Osborne,” I said, looking him
full in the face, “there is a portrait in
the gallery yonder, which is said to be
that of a pirate. May I ask who he
was?”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is nobody; a mere fancy
piece. The servants have an absurd
notion that it represents a pirate.”

“Does it not, then?”

“No more than it does his lordship,
or his lordship's son, or me. It was
picked up abroad by the late earl, I
believe, at a sale somewhere on the
continent. It is a very odd picture,
but is said to be a very good piece of
painting.”

“The likeness to me, then, would appear
to be accidental, after all?”

“Entirely so.”

I did not believe him, and for a plain
reason. The gay cloak or robe on the
picture was fastened by a belt, clasped
by turquoises; the striped jacket was
buttoned at the neck, with a brooch
exactly like that found in the old house
in the Ram's Horn; there was a crooked
dagger in the sash around the
waist; and on the dagger's handle
were several characters similar to
those on the inside of the ring which
had been found suspended from my
neck.