On entering the house I found my uncle looking over a packet of letters that his valet had just brought from Rivoli. Daphne was cutting open the envelopes with a paper knife. No one would have thought from her quiet demeanour that she had just been the recipient of a passionate love appeal.
"How well women can conceal these things," I thought, dropping despondently into a chair.
"Oh, papa, here is an envelope with a seal as big as a florin. Who is it from?" Daphne's curiosity gave her no time to observe the niceties of grammar. "Do read it."
My uncle settled his glasses on his nose and examined the letter.
"It is from an old schoolfellow, Hugh Wyville," he said. "He has just succeeded to the baronetcy and is now Sir Hugh Wyville, and master of a splendid property in Cornwall. Silverdale Abbey is the name of his place. He wants us to spend Christmas with him. It's a little early for the invitation, but I suppose he wants to forestall all other invitations. He says—it is shocking writing; he ought to get a Secretary—he says he will take a great interest in my slaughter. What the deuce does he mean? Slaughter? Oh, I see—daughter. That's you, Daphne."
"Much obliged to him, I'm sure, papa."
"He is now in Paris buying pictures. Says his gallery alone is worth a visit to Cornwall, and he is adding to it still. Well, what shall we say to the invitation, Daphne? Shall we accept it?"
"What do you say, Frank?" she said.
"I say, yes," I answered. "Christmas at an old abbey ought to be delightful."
"Then that is settled," my uncle said. "I'll write to him to-day." And being a man of his word, he wrote.
"There are to be all sorts of sports at Rivoli this afternoon," he announced at luncheon—"archery, musical contests, dances, and I don't know what else. Would you like to see them, Daphne, or are you too tired?"
She pleaded that she was, but would not hear of our remaining at home on her account, and as my uncle seemed to expect my company, I set off with him to the town, conscious that I was a little unchivalrous to Daphne in doing so.
On our way through the valley I paused to admire a cottage of firwood perched on a crag overhanging the road.
"That is the house in which Angelo said his old nurse lives," said my uncle, looking at it with interest. "Let us give a call."
"What for?" I asked, surprised.
"Well, I am curious to know what his explanation of that affair in the cathedral is, and he might refer to it; indeed, I don't see how he can avoid doing so."
We ascended some steps roughly cut out of the solid rock, and entering a porch over which a vine clambered, we tapped gently at the door. It was opened by the old woman who had offered her good services to Daphne in the cathedral. The moment shesaw us her face assumed a hard expression, and contrary to the hospitable spirit usual in the district did not invite us inside but kept us standing at the door.
"What do you want?" she demanded curtly.
"We want to see Mr. Vasari, if he is at home," my uncle answered civilly. "We are friends of his. Perhaps you have heard him speak of Mr. Leslie. I am Mr. Leslie."
"Angelo is not here. He has left for England."
"What? Without saying good-bye to us?"
"He left by the diligence two hours ago."
"So soon? Do you know why?"
"Why?" she flashed out. "Ask this boy here!" and she turned to me with a lowering brow. "But for you he would have won the love of the English lady. But for you he would have been saved from—from—"
"From what?" I said eagerly, too eagerly I suppose, for she shook her head as if she took a pleasure in withholding the information she was about to give.
"I will tell you nothing," she said. "He can live without your pity. Go! After all, she is a Protestant, and all Protestants go to hell. Father Ignatius says so."
"That is our ultimate destination, I believe," said my uncle with a sigh, due rather to vexation at finding himself unable to get the information he wanted than to proper regret at his future doom. "We are a wicked lot."
"Can you tell us why Father Ignatius refused Angelo the Mass?" I asked. "That looks as if the good Father were not any too confident abouthim."
Her eyes blazed at the suggestion.
"I will tell you nothing," she said again, and closed her lips tightly as if she feared that her thoughts might assume material shape and make their escapeagainst her will, if her mouth were ever so little open.
"We shall gain nothing by staying here," my uncle remarked. "Madame, I wish you a very good day," with which words he led the way down to the road again, and we resumed our journey to the town, wondering what it was from which the artist might have been saved, and how Daphne's love could have saved him from it.
"We may see your aged friend from Dover to-day, if we keep our eyes open," my uncle said presently. "The sports are sure to draw all the people out of doors."
"We may see Paolo too," I replied. "It is strange that he did not turn up last night as he promised, and strange that he wasn't at Mass this morning; at least if he was I did not see him."
"Not at all strange, if Father Ignatius has ordered him to avoid us."
"Why should he do that?" I asked in surprise.
"You remember Paolo breaking off from us suddenly, because, as he said, some deacon was watching him?"
"I do—Serafino he called him."
"That's the name. Well, it's not at all improbable that this Serafino told Ignatius that, immediately after his retirement to the sacristy with the old man, certain strangers began to question Paolo, giving him money. Thereupon Ignatius sends for Paolo. 'Paolo,' he demandsex cathedra, 'what did these strangers say to you?' perhaps threatening to dismiss him from his post, or, still more, threatening the poor fellow with excommunication, if he should refuse to disclose his knowledge. Paolo blurts out the truth, and lets the padre know that we are deeply interested in learning what the old man's confession was about. Whereuponthe reverend Father, not at all desirous of our becoming cognisant of statements given under the seal of the confessional, delivers judgment: 'Paolo you have done very wrong. Give up those silver coins to your holy mother the Church; and as a penance recite to me next holy-day the 119th Psalm, and remember to keep out of the way till these strangers have left Rivoli.' I may be wrong, but it's my opinion that something of this sort has taken place."
We were soon within the streets of Rivoli. All the inhabitants seemed to have turned out of their homes, and by the merriment of their talk and the brightness of their gala dresses were contributing to the gaiety of the scene.
The centre of attraction was the market-place, where picturesquely-clad hunters and shepherds were displaying their skill with the rifle to admiring and applauding crowds. These sons of William Tell did not receive from us the attention that their feats deserved, for our eyes were continually wandering from them to scan the faces of the spectators. Paolo, however, and the nameless old man from Dover were not to be seen.
From the sweet singing-contests in the cathedral we wandered to the meadows outside the town, where youths and flower-crowned maidens danced, wreathing and twining in pretty figures on the greensward, and thence back again to the town, peeping in each tavern, resonant with jollity and song, and odorous with the fragrance of the fir-cones that strewed the floor. But we could not find Paolo or the mysterious old man.
Tired at length of prosecuting a search that seemed to promise no success, we turned our attention to the innocent diversions, which were protracted till the moon, rising above the shining snows of the mountain-tops,projected the shadow of the cathedral belfry across the market-place. The white light silvered the quaint gables, was reflected from the diamond panes of many a casement, and, mingling with the glare of the torches carried by some of the crowd, produced a picturesque and romantic effect.
The sweet carillon of the cathedral bells, pealing forth the quarters, warned the people that midnight was drawing nigh, and gradually the throng began to disperse. Imitating their example my uncle and I directed our footsteps homewards. Groups of peasants and shepherds passed us on the way, some singing gaily, others winding with their horns the melodious "Ranz des Vaches."
As we turned to quit the road for the mountain-path, the cathedral bell chimed the first stroke of midnight.
"Twelve o'clock!" exclaimed my uncle in a deep, tragic voice. "Now is the time when elves and fairies trip it on the greensward, and spirits rise from yon haunted well. Come, let us sit by it for a time and enjoy the ghostly revels. It is an affront to Nature to sleep on such a night as this."
Slowly the silver tongue from the belfry continued to toll forth the chimes with a solemn little interval between each. As the twelfth stroke died gently away, a peculiar sound, muffled by the distance, was wafted to my ears, seeming to my quickened fancy like the cry of a woman. Whence the sound proceeded I could not tell. It might have come from the north; it might have come from the south.
"Did you hear it?" I said.
"Hear what?"
"A sound like a woman's scream."
We both listened for a few moments, but the sound, whatever it was, was not repeated.
"Your fancy," my uncle remarked with a smile. "In such a place as this you will hear many ghostly cries, if you give your imagination rein. But don't let us turn in just yet. I've some good news for you."
Wondering a good deal what the news would be, I followed him to the fountain. He found a seat on a mossy boulder close to the stone-work of the well, and leaning back against the trunk of a tree, proceeded to light a fresh cigar, as an indispensable aid to reflection.
The moon was now at its zenith, riding through a veil of light fleecy clouds. Around us at the distance of a furlong towered an amphitheatre of rocks, and the jagged edges of this cliff sharply defined against the deep violet sky exhibited crags of fantastic shape like the towers and pinnacles of some genie's castle. It required but small aid from fancy to believe that the blast of a horn startling the midnight air would summon to these crags beings as wild and unearthly as ever crowded the haunted Brocken on a Walpurgis-night. No more appropriate scene could be imagined for the revelry of demons and witches.
The solemn hour and the wild legends connected with the spring contributed to invest the place with an atmosphere of mystery. The trees whispered secrets to each other: the waters rippled with a cold and ghostly sparkle. In the distance foaming waterfalls standing out in relief against a background of dark rocks glimmered like waving white-robed spirits with a never-ceasing murmur. The air seemed alive with the mystic "tongues that syllable men's names on sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses."
Who that has visited a scene of deep beauty by moonlight has not felt an awe stealing over him, as if some unseen presence were by? Such a presenceseemed to be floating around us, whispering that we were on haunted ground. Was it the far-off murmur of a cascade or the faint voice of some one calling for help that was wafted to our ears?
So firm was my belief that the sound was of human origin that I appealed to my uncle, who had been strangely silent.
"Did you not hear a distant cry, as of some one in pain?"
"I thought so, but it must be fancy. Let us listen again."
We were silent for a time, but there was no repetition of the sound.
"Some shepherds calling one another," he said, resuming his cigar with a laugh. "We are becoming influenced by the superstitions of the place."
He seemed to have forgotten the communication he had promised to make, so I reverted to it.
"You were going to tell me a piece of news, I think?"
"Ah! so I was. (If you wouldn't mind turning your head from me, Frank; your eyes seem to have an unearthly gleam by this light. Thank you!) Well, here is my news. Daphne had a proposal to-day. You can guess from whom."
"Is that your news? Then it is no news at all. I know it already."
"The deuce you do! How didyoulearn it?"
"I was present during the whole interview." I gave him an account of how I came to play the spy, adding: "How did you learn it?"
"She told me directly after parting from him. Poor Daphne! she was quite upset over it—crying, in fact."
"She might have spared her tears," I grumbled. "His love was not so disinterested that she need weep.My candid opinion is that the fellow is so mad over his art that it governs even his choice of a wife, and he selects Daphne because he thinks her figure will serve as a model for some of his pictures." And I detailed to my uncle those utterances of the artist that seemed to bear out my opinion.
"A naïve avowal, certainly. His mode of lovemaking was a fine example of 'How not to do it.' And so," he continued, after a brief interval, "Daphne still hopes and dreams that George will return. Absurd! I thought she had given up that idea long ago. However, let him return. He shall never have Daphne—never!"
He said that last word in a decidedly emphatic manner, and scarcely had he said it when a startled expression crossed his face, the cigar dropped from his lips, and he looked nervously round in all directions.
"My dear uncle, what is the matter?" said I, amused at his alarm.
"Didn't you hear a laugh?"
"A laugh? No! Why, you are becoming nervous!"
Never before had I seen my uncle looking so startled as he was at that moment. The one point of his character on which he prided himself was his disbelief in the supernatural. To see him trembling at a mere sound was a surprise to me. I had yet to learn that extremes meet. Have there not lived philosophers who, denying the existence of ghosts, have nevertheless been so apprehensive of meeting them as never to enter a dark room without a light? My uncle's philosophy savoured very much of this character.
"Bah!" he exclaimed, picking up his cigar from the grass after listening intently. "You are right. Iambecoming nervous. Well, I was on the point of saying——"
"That you will never allow George to marry Daphne. Why?"
"Why? Can you ask? Is not the reason obvious? A man who could desert her on her wedding-day, sending a cold note to the effect that she must never see him more, forfeits her by that very act. Good God! I become mad when I think of his conduct. Remember Daphne's thin, wasted figure and wan, wistful look last spring. She might have died. Grief has killed people before to-day. He must have known how much her heart would be wrung by his conduct, and yet—never a word of explanation from him. No. If he were to return this very night, he should never have her—never!"
"I have often wondered why he took his departure so hurriedly."
"His reason must have been a very bad one if it could not be stated by letter even to his nearest relatives," replied my uncle, speaking in a very bitter tone, for naturally he could not be expected to think well of the man who had deserted his daughter, even though that man were his own nephew. "His flight was accompanied by very suspicious circumstances, you must admit, seeming to point to complicity with, if not to the actual perpetration of crime. He will never return, rest assured of that; and I told Daphne to abandon the idea."
"What was her answer?"
"Tears. 'Look around you,' I said. 'You will soon find a worthier lover. Frank loves you, and you know it.' And I launched out into your praises, for between ourselves, Frank, there is no one to whom I would more willingly give Daphne than yourself."
I suppose I ought to have thanked my uncle for thus championing my cause, but I preferred Daphne's love to turn towards me without being directed by paternal authority, so I merely said:
"What did she say?"
"She said that she could not so soon forget George, but that if he had not returned by a twelvemonth from the day he left—"
"That is, next Christmas Day?"
"Just so; next Christmas Day. If he had not returned by then she would try to think no more of him."
"Next Christmas Day! What a whimsical notion!"
"Exactly. Womenarewhimsical," returned my uncle, speaking as if he had had all the experience of a Mormon. "Well, she did not seem— What the devil's that?" he exclaimed with a suddenness that startled me.
The "airy tongues," that during the whole time of our conversation had never ceased to whisper mysteriously, had now changed to a series of deep and regularly recurring sighs. They were not the creation of our fancy. Distinguishable from the murmur of the fountain was a sound as of some one breathing. It proceeded from a cluster of trees on one side of the spring.
Too much surprised to speak, my uncle and I sat staring at each other without either will or power to move. Then, shaking off the spell that lay upon us, we rose and stepped on tip-toe to the spot whence came the sound, moving cautiously and softly, as though within the grove some terrible dragon lay sleeping which loud footsteps might awaken. Within the gloom created by a canopy of dense foliage we caught the gleam of something white. Our eyes,unaccustomed at first to the darkness, could distinguish nothing clearly, but gradually the object of our attention resolved itself into the seated figure of a woman. I thought at first that it was the statue of some nymph, but the eyes, shining like stars, dispelled this illusion. Four steps nearer, and I saw that it was no Dryad of the grove or Undine of the waters, but our own loved Daphne. She seemed petrified with terror.
"Good heavens, Daphne!" cried her father. "What are you doing here at this hour of night?"
The only reply to this question was a continuation of the deep inspirations that had drawn our attention to her. Fright had deprived her of the power of speech.
"She is recovering from a swoon," said my uncle. "What can have frightened her? Daphne, dear, tell us what is the matter. All is well now. Don't be afraid. Tell us how long you have been here."
"How long? Ah! a long time," she murmured, speaking like one in a dream.
A sigh of relief escaped her father's lips, for her reply seemed an assurance of her sanity, and his first thought had been that fright had turned her brain. Her wild expression might well have given him this idea.
"Tell me what is the matter, darling," he said, lifting her, and stroking her hair with a fatherly tenderness. "My poor little girl!"
She gazed fearfully around, as if dreading some awful vision. Then closing her eyes with a shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder, and clung like a child to his embrace.
"Have you not seen it?" she asked in a whisper.
"We have seen nothing, that is, nothing to be frightened at. Come, open your eyes and look at me, darling. Tell me all about it. What has frightened you so?"
She was so thoroughly unnerved that it was a long time before she could be induced to talk at all. When at last shedidreply her words were not a little startling.
"O, papa. I have seen George's ghost!"
My uncle shot a glance half whimsical, half nervous at me, for it was very odd that her explanation should have reference to the man of whom we ourselves had just been talking. But he affected a laugh of kindly scepticism.
"George's ghost, eh? And how could you see George's ghost when he isn't dead? How long have you been here, and why did you come at all?"
"I have been thinking of him ever since you went out," she said, after another long pause. "He has been in my mind all the time, and try as I would I could not get his face out of my thoughts. I wondered whether he were alive or dead, and at last I began to feel that he must be dead, or he would have returned before this, or would at least have written to me. To-night was so lovely that I came out partly to meet you, and I came to this well, and stopped as I was rather tired. And then I took off the ring he gave me, and—" She paused between each sentence as if it hurt her to go on, but the mere fact of telling her story seemed to do her good, and she continued. "And I thought that as he had broken all his promises and cast me off on the very day fixed for our wedding, I would cast off his ring; and at last I made up my mind, and I threw it into the well. And presently I looked up, and there, on the other side of the well was—" she hesitated again, and clung closer to her father—"don't laugh, papa dear, it really was George's ghost."
"I'm not laughing," her father said. "Tell me how he looked."
"He was wearing the same dress and the same grey cloak that he wore the night he left me. He looked so sad, as if he had understood all that I had been thinking. I tried to speak, but in a moment he was gone. And then I screamed and turned to run away, but I suppose I fainted.—It was not fancy, papa. It was George's ghost. I could see the stars shining through him."
"Well, well!" her father said, shrugging his shoulders, but still stroking her hair; "we will see whether you are of the same opinion to-morrow morning. You see, your mind has been full of him all day, and at last it has played you a trick, and you think you have seen with your bodily eyes what could have existed only in your imagination. Sitting all alone at twelve o'clock at night, in this eerie place, I only wonder that you haven't seen half-a-dozen ghosts. When you are indoors by a bright fire after a second supper, you will laugh yourself at your fright. Do you think you can walk all right now, if I give you an arm? Come, that's splendid! The sooner you are away from this weird spot and out of this heavy dew, the better."
"Did you say you threw the ring into the well, Daphne," I asked, "or only that you were going to do so?"
"I threw it in," she replied; "but never mind, let it stay there."
"Oh, but that's a pity," her father said. "You may be sorry afterwards, and it will not be difficult to recover it. Have a try, Frank."
"Didn't you take it out of the water, again?" I asked.
"No."
"Then where is it? I am looking hard, but I can't see it."
We all peered into the fountain. There was plenty of light for the purpose, and we could see the sandy bottom of the well quite clearly, but the ring was nowhere visible.
"Can't you see it?" said Daphne anxiously.
I hesitated to reply as I did not want to add to her alarm, but as she pressed me I said as carelessly as I could—
"I don't see it in the water. You must have thrown it on to the grass;" and I began to feel among the moss and verdure that fringed the stonework of the well.
"No, it fell into the water," Daphne said. "I heard the splash, and noticed the rings of water widening out before I looked up and saw—George! It must be there."
It was not to be found, however, either in the well or on the bordering grass, and we had to give up the search and make up our minds to go home without it. Language is but a feeble thing to express the surprise we all felt, and I could guess from the expression on Daphne's face something of her thoughts. In throwing away George's ring she had thrown away the pledge of her love for him, and from the mysterious manner in which it had disappeared it seemed almost as if the dead had accepted her renunciation.
I had long been familiar with the idea that at the point of death the disembodied spirit may appear to distant friends; and the thought now held me that the figure I had seen last Christmas amid the falling snow at Dover was the apparition of my brother, who had perhaps been seized with death in a manner secret and sudden. Could it be that, owingto some telepathic influence exerted on him by Daphne's mind, his spirit had been permitted to return to earth for a brief space to assure her of his death, and by vanishing with the ring that she was now free from her engagement to him? In the light of day and far from the scene of the event one may smile at this theory, but by that well in the ghostly moonlight, with Daphne's terror fresh on me, and the ring gone, it seemed quite in harmony with the circumstances. The eerie sensation that had been creeping over my uncle and myself since we had taken our station by the haunted well deepened now to an indescribable intensity.
Our interval of uneasy silence was brought to a close by a sound of many voices stealing faintly on the breeze—so faintly that we disputed at first what it was. The sounds drew gradually nearer, and their measured rhythmic cadence would have suggested a party of peasants returning home, but that the music had more the air of a solemn litany than of revelry. Daphne, wondering what new source of surprise or terror was in store for her, clung trembling to her father. The place where we stood was elevated above the roadway, and we by and by saw winding along its course a procession of cowled and corded monks, marching two and two in solemn order, and chanting a mournful refrain. Some bore aloft flaming torches, an act that, even in the excitement of the moment, I could not help thinking to be an absurdity, seeing that the moonlight made everything as bright as day. A few of the train were boys, and their silvery trebles made sweet contrast with the deep bass of their elders.
With bowed heads and measured pace the monks advanced, seeming in their grey robes silvered by themoonlight more like ghostly figures in a dream than living beings in a real world.
Those at the head of the procession were carrying a bier upon which lay something covered with a cassock.
"A strange hour for a burial," said my uncle, "if burial it be. Or are they carrying to the town some dead body they have discovered among the mountains?"
"O papa!" cried Daphne, clutching her father's arm, and speaking in a broken voice, "can he have committed suicide?"
"Who?"
"Angelo! I remember his wild look when he left me. Oh, if it should be——"
"No, no, you are frightening yourself without reason," said her father in a reassuring tone. "It is not Angelo. Can you not see? It is one of their own order whom they are mourning. They would not make such a lament over mere secular clay, I warrant you. Stay here, and Frank and I will ascertain who it is. You do not mind being left alone for a minute or two? No harm can happen to you. We will not be long. Come, Frank." And my uncle and I descended hastily to the road.
As this is a faithful autobiography I must not shrink from recording my thoughts at this time. Full of my selfish love for Daphne, I was hoping that the dead form carried by the monks might be—George. A wicked wish, and one that I was ashamed of the minute after I had entertained it.
The monks had ceased their singing for a brief space, but as they neared us a fresh outburst of mournful harmony rose from them. It spread through the vale around, and, rolling onward, echoed and re-echoedfrom many a distant cliff, and, as if refused a lodgment there, mounted upward to the midnight sky:
"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
"DIES IRÆ, DIES ILLA,
SOLVET SÆCULUM IN FAVILLA."
The deep cowl that veiled the head of each grey brother gave a singular appearance to the throng, and the peculiarly wild effect of their harmony was heightened by the solemn hour and the moonlight.
"What ghostly looking figures!" I muttered to my uncle.
"Ay! Charon multiplied by forty. How I hate these doleful Gregorians! Let us stop these sandalled friars, and ask—if indeed they will be so condescending as to tell us—who it is that has received hisNunc Dimittis."
As the train came abreast of us, my uncle stepped forward and lifted his hat to the monks, who at once stopped both their march and their requiem.
"Pardon the curiosity of a stranger," he said, addressing the leading brother: "may we ask the reason of this midnight procession?"
The monk regarded the questioner with a look that seemed to ask what business it was of his; but, verbally courteous, he replied:
"Pax vobiscum, mi fili.We mourn one who but a few hours ago was alive. Now—sic est voluntas divina—he is no more."
"How came he by his death?"
"By falling from the cliff on which our monastery is built. The holy Virgin—gloria tibi, O sancta Maria—foreshadowed the event this morning by the fall of her image in the chapel."
"Ah, the days of Urim and Thummim are not past, then," remarked my uncle, with a tinge of irony in histone unnoticed by him to whom he spoke. "Is the dead man a brother of your order?"
"An old inhabitant of Rivoli, but a neophyte of two days only. It was but yesterday that the good Father Ignatius brought him to us, bidding us receive him as a novice. This evening at vespers he quitted the convent unknown to us. He did not return. At nocturns Brother Francis startled us by rushing in and saying that he had heard groans coming from the foot of the cliff. We descended to the spot. This is what we found."
With these words the speaker drew back the covering from the bier. And there, calm and still in death, with glazed eyes staring up at the sky, as if in reproach of the cold, silent moon that had seen him die, was the face of the silver-haired old man, the penitent of Father Ignatius. My sudden exclamation of surprise drew all eyes upon me.
"Did you know him, young sir?"
"I have seen him once in England, and once here in the cathedral yesterday. I know nothing of him, not even his name. Where are you taking the body?" I added after a moment's interval.
"To the house of Father Ignatius," replied the leading monk, as he motioned thecortègeto proceed.
"Stop!" cried my uncle, and at his imperative voice the monks paused.
For some moments he had been closely scrutinising the corpse, and now, pointing to it with a stern look, he said:
"There must be an inquiry on the body, for this man did not die by accident. He was pushed over the cliff. See! these marks on the throat were made by a strong hand. He has been murdered."
"Murdered!" repeated forty voices.
The bier was hastily set down. The bright torches were lowered to the level of the dead man's face and, making the sign of the cross, the monks crowded around to look.
"O sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!"
The dark purple bruises on the throat, and the frayed condition of the clothing round it, were proofs too strong to be confuted, of my uncle's statement.
"These marks may have arisen from some other cause than the one you suggest," remarked the leading monk in tones sweetly supercilious. He seemed annoyed, probably because my uncle had discovered what his monkish dulness had overlooked.
The fingers of the dead man's right hand were tightly clenched. My uncle proceeded to force them open, and as he did so there fell to the ground something which when picked up proved to be a grey cloth button adhering to a fragment of grey cloth, and assuredly not belonging to the garments of the dead man.
"This," said my uncle, "has been torn by the dead man from the clothes of him who hurled him over. There was evidently a struggle. This button must not be lost. It may be a means of tracing the assassin."
So, while the pious monks had been lifting to heaven their prayers and psalms, a death-struggle had been going on under the walls of their convent, perhaps within the very sound of their voices. But what motive had prompted the deed, and whose was the hand that had so swiftly hurled the aged man into the arms of death?
The sight of the grey cloth button—suggestive of a military cloak—recalled to my memory the figure that Daphne had seen at the fountain; and instantly there darted into my mind a terrible suspicion. The samehad occurred to my uncle. Bending his head over to me, and pointing to the corpse, he said in a whisper:
"Is this George's work?"
A warm breath on my cheek checked the reply I was about to make. I turned. Daphne was at my side, her hands raised, her eyes dilated with horror, and her figure swaying like a young sapling in the breeze. Unperceived by myself or her father, she had followed us to the road—had seen the dead man, the damnatory evidence, had caught her father's whispered words. A scream such as I shall never forget broke from her, and before I could catch her in my arms she had dropped at my feet, a white senseless heap. Her voice, like a death-cry, rang over the moonlit valley, awakening countless echoes from the sleeping rocks, and mingling with the mournful refrain of the monks:
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAMET LUCEM PERPETUAMDONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAMET LUCEM PERPETUAMDONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAMET LUCEM PERPETUAMDONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"
"REQUIEM ÆTERNAM
ET LUCEM PERPETUAM
DONA MORTUO, DOMINE!"
We had not expected to see Sir Hugh Wyville until the following Christmas, which we were to spend as his guests in Cornwall. It chanced, however, that he too was taking a Continental tour, and joined our Rhine steamer at Cologne. He was delighted to see his old schoolfellow, my uncle, and arm in arm with him paced the deck in friendly converse, talking of the old days at Eton.
Daphne's beauty made a great impression upon the Baronet, and he inquired the reason of the sad look on her face, a look that had become habitual since that terrible night at Rivoli. So my uncle related her story to him, finishing with an account of the mysterious circumstances that had attended our stay at Rivoli, to all of which the Baronet listened with deep interest.
"And so," he remarked, when the tale was ended, "the enquiry held on the body of the old man led to no result?"
"None, so far as the discovery of the assassin was concerned. All that we learned was that the old man's name was Matteo Carito; that he was a native of Rivoli, but had been absent from the town for twenty years or more, and that he had returned to it only three days before his death. It is strange that he should have been struck down so soon after reaching his home."
"The assassin had perhaps followed him there. And so the button proved no clue?"
"None at all."
"A pity, that. And the priest you have spoken of?"
"Father Ignatius?"
"Yes. Was he questioned as to the nature of the confession made to him by the murdered man?"
"Yes, but naturally he refused to divulge the secrets of the confessional. He declared, however, it had no bearing on the crime, and could not in any way help towards the discovery of the murderer, and with that we had to be content. Legal procedure is carried on at Rivoli in a fashion different from what it is in England. Father Ignatius isthegreat man of the town, and he would be a bold magistrate who would dare to question him too closely. The reverend padre would think nothing of excommunicating him next Sunday from the altar with bell, book, and candle, and the people of Rivoli would approve, so devoted are they to him."
"It is certainly a mysterious business," said Sir Hugh, "and one more so never came within my experience. At any rate, let us hope your suspicions are unfounded, and that Captain Willard was not at Rivoli as you suppose."
"Remember, Leslie," he said a day or two later, "you are not to spend Christmas at your London house. The place and the time of the year would only serve to recall your daughter's grief on the very day when she should be most happy. You must come to the Abbey and help me to burn the Yule log. There will be more than fifty guests, so you will hardly be dull. My niece, Florrie, will be just the companion for Miss Daphne, so you must make no excuses."
And he parted from us at Cologne on theunderstanding that we were to pass our Christmas-tide at Silverdale Abbey.
Once removed from Rivoli and its weird associations Daphne rapidly recovered her health and spirits, and we spent the summer exploring the beauties of the Rhineland.
When we returned to London, my first care was to obtain a copy of theStandardof July the 2nd, and I turned eagerly to the remainder of the article relating to Vasari's picture, and found the passage referring to the Anglo-Indian office to be as follows:—
"Mr. Vasari's explanation of his success is to the effect that he has rediscovered a secret known only to the ancient Greek artists, a statement that must be taken with a grain of salt. A few days ago a strange incident happened in connection with the picture. A gentleman in uniform—an Anglo-Indian officer, to judge by a description given of him—who had paid the fee for admission, was proceeding leisurely along the gallery, and had arrived at the room containing the masterpiece, when his further progress was barred by Vasari, who would not allow him to enter, but in an authoritative voice ordered him to withdraw, without, however, assigning any reason for this behaviour. The officer declined to withdraw, and an altercation ensued between him and the artist. When at Vasari's order the attendants prepared to remove the officer the latter drew his sword, but the timely intervention of thegendarmesprevented serious consequences. The gentleman, whose name we are unable to give, was ejected and his money returned. It is said that he intends to take legal proceedings against the artist. A curious point of law will thus be raised: Whether the proprietor of a gallery open to the public has a right, on purely personal grounds, to refuse admissionto whomsoever he will? In an interview with a reporter, Vasari stated that the officer in question was drunk, that he was hostilely disposed towards the artist, and that he had sworn to destroy the famous picture with his sword. On the other hand, it is alleged that the officer was quiet and sober, and that he contemplated no such act of vandalism."
That was all concerning the Anglo-Indian officer, and what Angelo's real reason was for withholding the picture from the eyes of this man, and why he had been desirous of concealing this part of the critique from me, were insoluble questions adding fresh elements to the atmosphere of mystery in which it seemed his delight to walk.
I determined to have an interview with the Italian for the purpose of obtaining a little light on the matter. I was anxious, also, to question him on another point—namely, the whereabouts of my brother. George had evidently been living in seclusion at Rivoli, and Angelo must have been aware of the fact, otherwise his words to Daphne on parting from her—"You are nearer to him now than you have been for months"—would have had no meaning. So I called at the artist's London residence, but was told by his servant that he was in some distant part of the country, engaged in the production of a picture which it was confidently affirmed would be superior even to "The Fall of Cæsar."
Then I took a hasty trip to Paris, to the Rue de Sévres, to find, as I had expected, that the Vasari Gallery no longer existed. I visited the offices of theTemps, theGaulois, and other newspapers, and studied whole files of journals in order to learn the details of the law-suit between Vasari and the officer, but coulddiscover no mention of it. I found on enquiry at the law courts that the case had never been brought.
Next I tried to discover the destination of the famous picture, and learned that it had not been disposed of at public auction, but that the sale had been effected privately between the artist and the purchaser. No one could give me the name of the latter, and so, completely baffled, I returned to England, to find that Vasari was still away from town in some distant place, of which his servant either could not or would not tell me the name.
December came, and on the day before Christmas Eve Daphne, her father and myself were established at Silverdale Abbey, a fine castellated building mantled all over with ivy, and embosomed within a spacious and well wooded park. There was already a goodly company of guests present, which was expected to double its number on the morrow.
In the temporary absence of the Baronet we were received by his niece, Florrie Wyville, and spent a delightful time as she led us through the many tapestried rooms full of curious old furniture, down carved oak staircases lighted by ecclesiastical-looking casements of stained glass, along broad halls adorned with stags' antlers and suits of armour, out on to stone terraces grey with age and dark with ivy.
"Isn't it a dear old place?" she exclaimed enthusiastically when our first tour of exploration was over. "I have been here only a week, and yet I believe I know more about it even than Uncle Hugh knows. It is more than six hundred years old, and was originally a nunnery."
"And why is it called Silverdale?" I asked.
"There was a silver mine here at one time. Ibelieve part of the Abbey stands over an air shaft belonging to it; and in olden days nuns who broke their vows were thrown down it."
"How horrible," said Daphne with a shudder.
"Not so horrible as walling them up alive like that poor thing inMarmion," Florrie replied, jealous for the good repute of her beloved Abbey.
"Does the shaft still exist?" I asked.
"I think so, but the passage leading to it was bricked up years ago. I lay awake last night thinking of those old days, and fancying I could hear a ghostly procession of nuns rustling along the hall and chanting—— Why, what is the matter, Miss Leslie? you look quite scared."
I diverted the conversation to more cheerful topics, and soon the girls were discussing what characters they should assume in the fancy dress ball to be held at Silverdale on Twelfth-night.
The Baronet was justly proud of his beautiful home, and when, late that night, after the retiring of the guests, we were smoking in the library, he listened with evident pleasure to my congratulations on its perfect preservation unspoiled from the middle ages.
"You must see the picture-gallery to-morrow," he said. "That is the real gem of the place. But as you take such an interest in the Abbey and its antiquities, this book may interest you." He found a key and unlocked a bookcase. "It is a complete history of the Abbey from its foundation to the present time. It has never been published. My brother had it drawn up by a first-rate antiquary. I haven't had time to read it properly yet. Why, how's this? The book is gone."
"Some other guest who takes the same interest in the Abbey that I do," I suggested, "has borrowed the book and forgotten to return it."
"Impossible," Sir Hugh replied. "This bookcase is kept locked, and I always carry the key."
"Was that the only copy of the book?" my uncle asked.
"The only copy. It was in manuscript, but the leaves were bound like an ordinary book. If the book be gone the loss is irreparable."
"When did you see it last?"
"About a month ago, I should say. Its usual place is there, third from the end on the top shelf. Whoever took it away did not wish its removal to be noticed, for he——"
"Or she," I murmured, thinking of Florrie's enthusiasm over the Abbey.
"Or she has filled up the gap with a book identical in colour and binding, so that I thought at first it was the very book.Athanasii Opera," he muttered contemptuously, scanning the title of the substituted volume. "Confound Athanasius."
"With all my heart, and his creed too," said my uncle cheerfully. "But I have no doubt the other, more valuable, book will turn up all right soon."
"I sincerely hope it will," Sir Hugh replied, scrutinising every part of the bookcase as if he thought the volume were deliberately hiding from him. "At any rate, it isn't here now," and giving up the search in disgust he walked to the fireplace and flung himself into a chair, looking exceedingly annoyed. "It looks like a case of theft, but I can't for the life of me see why a thief should choose that particular book. He would only give himself away if he tried to make money by selling it. No one in the Abbey would have taken it; people don't pick locks to get what they have only to ask for, and every one here knows I have no objection to lending my books." And for some timehe smoked in moody silence, uninterrupted by any remark from us.
"By the way," he said presently, "I shall shortly have the pleasure of introducing you to a genius. I'm waiting up for him now. He is coming by the last train."
"Who is the genius?" my uncle inquired with a smile.
"That Italian artist whose picture 'The Fall of Cæsar' made such a sensation in Paris last spring."
I was so surprised that I knocked over a branched candlestick by my side and nearly set the tablecloth on fire.
"You must have heard of him," said Sir Hugh, carefully replacing the candlestick.
"Oh, yes, we have heard of him," said my uncle, looking at me.
Sir Hugh did not appear to notice the meaning way in which my uncle spoke.
"He is spending Christmas here," said Sir Hugh. "In fact he has been living at the Abbey for the last two months. He went to London this week to get some artistic material. He is painting a picture for me.
"What is the subject?" my uncle asked.
"I left that to him," Sir Hugh answered. "Artists naturally prefer not to be fettered in matters of that sort, and they always do best what they like best. But he calls this new picture——"
"'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,'" I interrupted.
"Yes," said Sir Hugh surprised. "How on earth did you know? I was not aware that he had told any one but me."
"He told me himself," I explained. "We are friends of his. At least we met him at Rivoli lastsummer, and he told us he had a commission for a picture with leave to choose his own subject. You must be the man who gave him the commission he was referring to."
"So you know him?" said the Baronet regretfully. "I am disappointed. I thought I had a pleasure in store for you, and I am forestalled. Yes; that's it. 'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,' is to bethepicture of the year. He stipulated that he should exhibit it before finally handing it over to me, and of course I was quite agreeable."
"It was politic too," my uncle remarked. "A man will take more pains over a picture that all the critics will see than over one that will go straight into a private collection."
"I suppose that is true," said Sir Hugh, "though Vasari is not the man to scamp his work. I have fitted up a studio for him in the Nuns' Tower, that grey tower connected with the east wing of the Abbey by a cloister. It's a lonely sort of place, but he seems to prefer it to any other room in the Abbey, and he certainly is free from interruption there."
"Well, I hope for your sake the picture will be a success," said my uncle, suggesting that he did not care at all how it might affect the artist's career. "Do you think it will equal his last?"
"I can't say. I haven't seen it." Then, noticing our surprise, Sir Hugh explained. "You see his studio is a sort of holy shrine into which only the high priest of art is allowed to enter. The door is closed to every one—even tome." The pomposity with which the good Baronet emphasised the last word was immense.
"Well it is contrary to his usual practice," my uncle said drily. "We haven't found him backward in talking about his work, have we, Frank?"
"I don't think modesty is a disease with him," I admitted. "Do you know whether he was as secretive about his 'Fall of Cæsar' before he sprung it on an admiring world?"
"I believe he was. Permitted none to enter his studio till the work was finished. He claims to have rediscovered a secret known to the great artists of classical times, and does not want to reveal it to contemporary rivals. Between ourselves, I don't believe there is any mystery about it, but it suits his purpose to pretend there is. Our friend knows something about human nature, and to throw a veil of secrecy round your work while you are doing it is quite good business, provided, of course, the work is good when finished. Let me see, you were in Paris last spring. Of course you saw the great picture?"
"No, we haven't seen it," my uncle replied. "Have you?"
"Have I?" said the Baronet, looking as much astonished as if he had been asked whether he knew the alphabet. "My dear fellow, what are you talking about? Don't you know the picture is here?"
"Here?" was the simultaneous ejaculation of my uncle and myself.
"Here. In this house. In my gallery."
That which eludes the most painstaking search is often revealed by mere accident. Without any design on our part, we were at length within measurable distance of seeing that which we had been vainly trying to see—to wit, Angelo's famous picture.
"Did you buy it from the Baron?" I asked.
"The Baron? What Baron? I don't understand you. I saw the picture last summer in Paris, was struck with it like everybody else, and offered Angelo £4,000 for it."
"Which offer he accepted?" said my uncle.
"Which offer he accepted—after a delay of a day or two."
"You purchased it direct from Angelo?" said I.
"Direct."
"Strange!"
"What is there so strange in the transaction?"
"Do you know," I said, "that when we saw Angelo at Rivoli, and expressed a desire—or, to be more correct, when Daphne expressed a desire to see his picture, he told her it was impossible—he had sold it to some Spanish hidalgo."
"He must have been dreaming, then," returned Sir Hugh. "I was the first purchaser and the last."
"What could have induced him to tell such a falsehood?" I said.
"Do not say falsehood," replied the Baronet; "say error of memory, rather. He was thinking of some other picture, perhaps?"
"No, 'The Death of Cæsar;' that was the work he referred to, I am certain."
"Perhaps he confounded me with some intending purchaser. Why he should wish to conceal the destination of his picture from you I cannot tell. But there, he's a curious fellow," muttered the Baronet thoughtfully. "Genius always is eccentric, I suppose. He will stand for hours, I am told, on the cliffs, solitary and melancholy, watching the Atlantic breakers and soliloquising like a second Manfred. If I didn't know that art was his only mistress, I should fancy he was in love."
"Your fancy is not far removed from the truth," I murmured to myself. "When you were at Paris," I asked, "did you hear anything of a fracas betweenAngelo and a military officer in connection with this picture?"
"Yes, I remember the affair very well."
"Can you tell me the name of the officer?"
"No; he was never heard of again. I think he received an order that very day to rejoin his regiment. It was that fracas, I believe, that led to my becoming the possessor of the picture."
"How was that?"
"I had offered Angelo £4,000 for it, which he refused. He could gain more by exhibiting it, he said. However, after this affair with the officer, he came of his own accord to me and tendered it at the price I had named. He explained his change of mind by what seemed to me an absurd statement. A clique of artists, jealous of his success, had vowed to destroy his picture. He resolved to exhibit it no more publicly. He thought it would be safer in some private collection and he stipulated that I must allow him to have a sight now and again of his beloved masterpiece. I put all this down to morbid vanity, but, of course, I professed to believe him and sympathised with him, very glad to obtain the picture on any terms."
The Baronet's butler, who had entered a few minutes previously to ask whether we wanted any more wine, and was lingering about under pretence of smoothing the cloth and of arranging the decanters, now joined in the conversation with the freedom of an old and faithful servant.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Hugh, but are you talking of Mr. Vasari's picture?"
"That is exactly what we are doing, Fruin."
The white-haired old man shook his head.
"Why, what haveyougot to say about it Fruin?" asked his master with considerable surprise.
The old servant shook his head once more.
"You hate ghost stories, Sir Hugh. That's why I've never spoken to you about these goings on."
"These goings on! Heavens! what's the man talking about? Let's have your ghost story, Fruin, and I'll suspend my criticism and laughter till—you are out of the room," he added aside.
"There's something very queer about that picture."
This was my opinion too, and I listened with breathless interest to the butler's words.
"My bedroom—as you know, Sir Hugh—is over one end of the gallery, and ever since that picture of Mr. Vasari's was put into it I have heard at night sounds as if some one were walking to and fro there, and faint cries now and then. Before going to bed I always lock the doors at both ends of the gallery, and take the keys with me, so that how any one can get in at night is a puzzle. I have come down alone several times to see who was there." Fruin was not a timid character, if his own statement were to be received as evidence. "I always come with a lamp and a loaded pistol," he added, causing me to modify my opinion of his valour. "And on opening the door the sounds always cease and the place is always empty."
"A clear proof," replied Sir Hugh, "that no one had been in the gallery, and that the sounds, caused by the wind probably, must have proceeded from some other quarter."
Fruin's air implied that he was not going to be imposed upon by this explanation.
"You hear cries?" said I. "What sort of cries?"
"I can't tell you exactly, sir, for I am never near enough to hear. Faint die-away sounds they are, like a mother crooning her babe to sleep."
"Granting, what I don't for one moment admit,that the sounds come from the gallery, what have they got to do with Mr. Vasari's picture?" the Baronet asked.
"I have been butler in this house for twenty years, Sir Hugh," said the old fellow gravely and respectfully, "and there were never such sounds in the gallery until that picture came here."
"Do you hear them every night?" my uncle asked.
"Oh no, sir, only at intervals. They may occur for two or three nights running, and then perhaps they won't be heard for a week."
"Well," said Sir Hugh testily, "since you are sure the sounds are real and that theydocome from the gallery, give us your explanation of them, that is, if you have any to give."
"It isn't what you might call an explanation," said the butler, who maintained a quiet but firm manner throughout, "but I can tell you a little more. One evening last week I was passing along the gravel-path outside the gallery windows, when I chanced to look up, and there, staring at me through the panes, was a face. Though it was dusk at the time, there was light enough to see every feature of it, and I will swear that it was the same face as in the picture."
"What did you do when you saw it?"
"I went close up to the window."
"And then?"
"It wasn't there."
"And you heard no sound from within?"
"Not a sound. I came into the Abbey at once, taking Brown with me, and found both doors of the gallery locked. We searched the gallery, but found no one in it."
"Did you examine the picture, Fruin," said theBaronet, "to see whether Imperial Cæsar exhibited any traces of having lately walked out of the canvas?"
"I did examine the picture, Sir Hugh, and I am certain it had been disturbed, for I will swear that it was not hanging at the same angle as it had been in the morning."
"Cæsar didn't speak, I presume, and ask you how you were?"
But the butler, whose air of quiet and sober dignity almost atoned for the absurdity of the story, was not to be moved by his master's gibes.
"Don't you think it was fancy on your part, Fruin?" said I. "Just think how impossible it is for a figure painted on canvas to move from its frame and peer through a casement!"
"What I saw on the other side of the window was a real thing," replied the butler firmly. "It was the very face in the picture, and so would you say had you been there to see it."
"I wish to goodness we had!" said Sir Hugh. "Well, well! you may go, Fruin, unless Mr. Leslie or Mr. Willard wishes to ask you any more questions."
We had no more to put, and when the butler had withdrawn, I asked the Baronet his opinion of the story.
"Pooh, pooh, my dear boy! Outside the pale of serious discussion. I must have stronger evidence than the solitary testimony of a superstitious and dim-sighted old servant, who in the twilight mistakes some shadow across the stained panes for an apparition."
And he waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture, as if wishing to hear no more of the absurd business.
I was silent for a time, reflecting on the story I had just heard. If it had stood alone—had been thesole remarkable thing related of the picture—it would not have been entitled to consideration; but so many strange things had occurred in connexion with Angelo's masterpiece that I hesitated before pronouncing Fruin's narration to be a fable, destitute of any foundation whatever. Though at present the affair seemed coloured by the supernatural, it might have a groundwork of fact to rest upon.
"Well, Sir Hugh," remarked my uncle, "we must certainly view this mysterious picture in the morning."
"Why not now?" I said, jumping to my feet. "Let us see it to-night. I shall not be able to sleep if I go to bed without seeing it."
But the Baronet shrugged his shoulders with a good-humoured smile.
"No, thank you. We are warm and comfortable here. A walk in a cold picture-gallery by the pale light of the moon is an affront to these cigars and this port. Let us defer our visit till the morning."
I was loth to wait till then. The picture had eluded us so long that I thought it quite within the range of probability for it to walk off during the night.
"Did Angelo ever speak to you of his stay at Rivoli?" said I to the Baronet.
"Never knew he had been there till you mentioned it."
"He's a native of the place. He never told you, then, of a little incident that happened in the cathedral of Rivoli?"
"You are talking Greek to me—at least, that is," coughed the Baronet, reserving to himself the credit of a classical reputation, "er—Chinese, I should say. What is the little incident to which you refer?"
I satisfied Sir Hugh's curiosity by giving him an account of Angelo's expulsion from the Communion.
"Did you not ask him the cause of it?" inquired he.
"We have never seen him from that day to this," I replied.
"Humph!" remarked the Baronet gravely. "Expelled from the Sacrament, was he? I don't like that, you know: it looks bad. I wish I had known this before I asked him to spend his Christmas here. Of course, for aught we know to the contrary, he may only have been guilty of some little trifle which we men of the world"—he swept his arm towards me as he spoke, and I felt quite proud of the title conferred on me—"think nothing of; but still it looks suspicious. A shade rests on his character, and till it be cleared off I would prefer him at any other table than mine. I ought to be certain that he is a person of fair repute—that is a duty I owe my guests; but I don't see what I can do now that matters have gone so far. I cannot, in the circumstances, ask him point-blank to produce a certificate of good character, so I must display the hospitality of the Orientals, and entertain the guest without inquiring too closely into his character."
"'For thereby,'" quoted my uncle, "'some have entertained angels unawares.'"
"You are not very likely to do that," I said to the Baronet, "and—"
The sound of carriage-wheels rattling over the gravel-path beneath the library windows checked the rest of my remark.
"That must be Angelo," said the Baronet, referring to his watch.
"Talk of Lucifer," said I, rising, "and he rustles his wings. With your leave, Sir Hugh, I'll retire for the night. I've no wish to see Angelo till the morning." And with these words I departed, leaving therepresentative of the Wyvilles and the head of the house of Leslie to welcome, perhaps it would be more correct to write receive, the late comer.
The bedroom allotted to me was, like those of the other guests, in the eastern wing of the Abbey, the western wing being appropriated to the servants' quarters. The front and central portions of the building contained the principal apartments; and the picture-gallery was at the rear on the ground-floor, connecting the two wings.
My room was a large old-fashioned chamber, whose oaken panels were draped with figured tapestry. An oriel casement with lancet-shaped panes of stained-glass gave me a fine view of the moonlit park, with the Nuns' Tower—Angelo's studio—rising grey and solitary above a dark clump of cedars.
There was a fire in the grate and its dancing caused strange shadows to quiver upon the walls and ceiling, seeming to invest the grim figures on the tapestry with life and motion—an illusion heightened by their rustling with the draught from the open door.
The supernatural element introduced into my mind by the butler's story played the wildest tricks with my imagination, reducing me to so tense a state of nervousness that I almost hesitated to look around, lest some eerie shape should meet my gaze. The sight of my face in the glass mirror so startled me that I turned the mirror round to the wall, in order that I might not be compelled to contemplate my own reflection, to which I felt attracted, not from vanity, but from a weird fascination that made me think it was another person in the room mimicking my movements. The brass knob of the door, too, was a source of annoyance, till I hung my handkerchief over it—itlooked so like a gleaming eye. And when I had thus absurdly disposed of its glitter, I discovered many other eyes staring at me with maddening persistency from different parts of the room.
Anxious to chase away if possible the morbid fancies that were fast crowding into my mind and threatening to render my sleep the reverse of pleasant, I looked around for some book to divert my thoughts, and, suddenly remembering that at the bottom of my trunk was a volume ofPickwick, I drew it forth, and, having raked up the fire into a cheerful blaze, was soon laughing heartily over the drolleries of that immortal work.
How long I continued turning over page after page I cannot tell; my reading was brought to a sudden stop by a scream which rang long, loud, and piercing through the corridors of the Abbey. I flung downPickwickand darted to the door to listen. The scream was repeated, and I recognized Daphne's voice.
"Oh, Frank, Frank!"
Even in the excitement of that terrible moment a feeling of pleasure came over me. Why should Daphne, in her fear, call upon my name, unless I were the first person in her thoughts?
There was an ancient-looking sword hanging over the fireplace, and I took it down and rushed along the corridor in the direction of Daphne's voice.