I turned to listen to the Baronet, who was holding forth to my uncle.
"You see now, Leslie," said he, "why he exercisedsuch secrecy over the production of this picture, and why he kept his studio-door locked while painting it. It was because the model that he painted from, the model for his fallen Cæsar, was, in point of fact, a dead man."
My uncle's reply was startling in its suggestiveness:
"That may have been the reason why he kept his studio-door locked then; but why does he keep it locked now?"
"Yes—over this new picture of the girl-martyr?" said I.
The Baronet had not considered this point.
"Why—does—he—keep—his—door—locked—now?" he repeated, pausing in a curiously deliberative manner between each word. "Ah, why?" He made a long pause. "Not for a similar reason, surely? And yet—" he made another long pause. "He said at breakfast, you know, that he might finish his picture to-day. He was playing with his knife, very curiously at the time. What could he mean? Good God! what could he mean? Not that——"
He paused, afraid to give utterance to his suspicions. For a few moments we durst not speak, for a dim presentiment of some awful tragedy to come had stolen over us.
The Baronet was the first to break silence.
"That tower must be watched to-night," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Sir Hugh," said my uncle sternly, "if Angelo be the fiend you think him, he must be arrested at once."
"That will require a magistrate's warrant," I said.
"Right; and we will procure it without delay," observed the Baronet, rising. "Colonel Montague is the nearest magistrate. He lives at the Manse—five milesfrom here. The carriage can take us there and back in an hour, and——"
His further words were checked by the sudden appearance of Fruin, who, without having waited to knock, entered the room, and, brimful of excitement, cried:
"I've found the picture, Sir Hugh!"
"The devil you have! Where on earth was it?"
"In the Nuns' Tower, to be sure!"
"The Nuns' Tower! How did you manage to get in there?"
Fruin's manner changed at once from excitement to soberness.
"Well, Sir Hugh," he began with the air of a penitent, "it was wrong, I admit, to play the spy on a gentleman, but—but— It's this way, you see. I have always been suspicious of Mr. Vasari and his doings, so—so that's how it was, you know. I haven't been doing exactly what's right, but—but—you see——"
He hesitated and stammered so much that the impatient Baronet, with a deprecatory wave of his hand, cried:
"There, there, go on. I forgive beforehand everything you've done in consideration of your having found the picture."
Highly gratified by this plenary indulgence, the butler began again in a more confident tone:
"Well, Sir Hugh, you remember that Mr. Vasari hadn't been here a week before I said to you, 'That Italian gentleman has come here for no good?'"
"I remember it, Fruin; and I told you not to pass remarks on my visitors."
"So you did, Sir Hugh, so you did," replied the butler, nodding, as if the reprimand were a decidedcompliment; "and I went off in a huff, determined to keep my own counsel for the future; determined, too, in spite of your rebuff, Sir Hugh, to keep a watchful eye on the foreign gentleman. Foreigners are always suspicious characters," he added digressively. "What first made me suspicious of Mr. V.," he continued, "was your telling me that he had chosen the Nuns' Tower as a studio. Why couldn't he take a nice cheerful room in the Abbey, and not that cold stone cell? 'You've got a motive for living in that place,' I thought to myself. 'You're up to something queer, and you want to get as far away from us as you can, so that we shall not be able to overhear anything.' Then, when I learned that, with the exception of Adams, who lights the fire in the morning, no one must enter his studio, not even you, Sir Hugh, I grew more suspicious still. 'What's your little game?' I thought. Why, do you know, I've looked out of my bedroom window at one, two, and three in the morning, and I've seen a light burning in the tower! What's he doing there at that unearthly hour? He can't be painting. No one paints by lamplight. I've long had a desire to have a peep in at that tower, to learn what goes on there; and so the other day, when Mr. Vasari had gone to London, I got the blacksmith to examine the lock of the door for the purpose of making a key to fit it. Here it is," he continued, holding it aloft on his forefinger. "I received it only a quarter of an hour ago, but as soon as I got it I went at once to the tower to have a look at the place before Mr. Vasari should return. Brown and Tompkins were with me, carrying dark lanterns. We tried the key, and the door opened easily. Brown and Tompkins didn't like to enter—they were afraid—so they stood at the head of the steps and turned the light of theirbull's-eye into the place, for of course it was quite dark, while I went in. I looked round—there was no one there—and while looking round, my eye was caught by something peeping out from under the fringe of tapestry. I lifted the curtain, and there was the picture behind the tapestry, reared up against the wall."
He paused, out of breath, for he had been talking very fast.
"It was well for you that Angelo was not there," remarked the Baronet gravely, and speaking with a knowledge of the artist's character gained only within the past few minutes. "He might have resented your intrusion with a pistol-shot. He's quite capable of it."
"Ah! that he is," cried the old servant, surprised and delighted to find his master coming round to his way of thinking—"that he is! Angelo may be his name, but Devilo would suit him better, and so would you say, Sir Hugh, if you had seen his face this morning when you were accusing us servants—us!" protested Fruin, emphasizing the word with some dignity, "of stealing the picture. I was watching him, and if you could have seen his wicked looks and the sparkle of his eyes you wouldn't have wondered at that girl's fright. Others of us noticed his manner, but we didn't like to speak out. I am certain he was laughing in his sleeve at you, Sir Hugh, and saying to himself, 'Don't you wish you may find the picture again!' It struck me at the time that it was he who had removed it."
I interposed with a question which I was burning to put:
"What did you see in the studio besides the picture?"
"I was so delighted at finding the picture that I didn't stop to examine the place, but hurried here at once to tell Sir Hugh of my discovery."
"But you couldn't enter the place without seeing something of it," I persisted. "Tell us anything you did see. What's the place like?"
"Well, sir, there was the usual furniture—the table and the chairs of carved oak. The walls and floor are of stone, you know. There's tapestry round the walls, and the floor is covered with yellow sand—why, I don't know. It's a whim of his, I suppose. There was an easel with a picture on it, which I didn't look at, brushes, paints, palettes, and things of that sort on the table, and—and that's all I can remember," he added.
"Did you see nothing more?" I asked. "Where was the artist's model that Angelo spoke of at breakfast this morning—the lay figure that he paints from?"
"I saw nothing resembling a lay figure. But then I wasn't in the place above a few seconds, and it was in half-darkness all the time."
"Is 'The Fall of Cæsar' damaged in any way?" asked the Baronet.
"Not in the least, Sir Hugh."
"What have you done with it?"
"I told Brown and Tompkins to carry it to the gallery."
"Quite right. Place it somewhere in the gallery—anywhere will do for the present. See that it's done, Fruin, and then lock the place up and bring the keys here. Give me the key of the Nuns' Tower. I will examine that place to-night myself."
Fruin, laying the key down on the table, departed on his errand.
"I'm off to the gallery," said I, preparing to follow the butler; "I must see that picture."
"No, no, not now," said the Baronet authoritatively, and laying a restraining hand upon my arm. "Time flies, and every moment is of value. Never mind the gallery for the present, unless you wish Angelo to escape us. I want you to take up your station at the entrance-hall of the Abbey, so as to be ready to 'shadow' Angelo the moment he returns. Keep a watchful eye on him, for should he overhear that the picture is found—and I daresay the servants are talking of nothing else at this present moment—he will be sure to seek safety in flight, knowing well that his crime is discovered. Detain him at the Abbey by every means in your power till we return with a constable and the warrant for his arrest. Should he show a disposition to bolt, give the servants orders to seize him. Don't hesitate; I will take the responsibility."
"Supposing the guests should return without him, what then?" I asked.
"Then you may depend upon it that he has fled. In that case, off to the railway-station at once; make use of my name; telegraph a description of him to the Chief Constable of Penzance: say that a warrant is out for his arrest; and you may be in time to check his flight. Come, Leslie."
"Stay a minute!" I cried, as both moved towards the door. "What will the warrant charge Angelo with?"
"With murder, of course."
"Stop! How can a warrant for murder be issued against a man unless you know the name of the victim?"
"But I do know the name of the victim."
"What!" I cried in amazement. "You do? How have you found out? Who was it?"
"You yourself have told me."
And with these words—a complete enigma to me—the Baronet darted off, accompanied by my uncle, who looked every whit as bewildered as myself.
I was on the point of going to the hall, there to await Angelo, when Fruin came into the room.
"Has Sir Hugh gone out?" he asked.
"Yes, but only for a little while," I answered. "Do you want him particularly?"
"Only to give him these keys," the butler replied, laying them on a table.
"Have you put the picture back in the gallery?"
"Yes, sir; stood it on a table in the middle of the hall. Mr. Vasari must be very strong to have been able to carry it off by himself. It takes two of us to lift it."
"Ah! Have the company returned yet?"
"No, sir, they will not be back for a long time."
"Why, how's that?"
"We've just had a boy from the vicarage to say so. Miss Wyville has persuaded them all to accompany the church choir in a round of carol singing."
I found the news particularly agreeable. Sir Hugh could now procure the warrant without Angelo's having any idea of what was in store for him, and I should have ample time to study the weird picture and to examine the interior of the Nuns' Tower, two occupations in which I resolved to have no companion. A vague feeling of peril gave a charm to the idea. I did not know what form the peril might take, but determined to be prepared for it in any shape, I took the liberty of borrowing a brace of loaded pistols which Sir Hugh kept in a drawer of his writing-table.
"One for the ghost in the gallery," I said cheerfully to myself as I slipped it into my hip pocket, "and one for the artist in the studio," and I slipped the second into the other hip pocket. "And now for the masterpiece."
Taking up a lighted candle and the keys both of the tower and of the picture gallery, I directed my steps towards the latter place. It was situated at some distance from the library, and, the house being new to me, I had some difficulty in finding it.
In the distance the sound of jovial carols told me that in the servants' quarters due homage was being paid to the spirit of the season. Floating faintly along the corridors came the snatches of a refrain—
"Come, bring with a noise,My merry, merry boys,The Christmas log to the firing;While my old dame sheBids you all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring."
"Come, bring with a noise,My merry, merry boys,The Christmas log to the firing;While my old dame sheBids you all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring."
"Come, bring with a noise,My merry, merry boys,The Christmas log to the firing;While my old dame sheBids you all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring."
"Come, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing;
While my old dame she
Bids you all be free,
And drink to your hearts' desiring."
I hummed over a few bars myself as I made my way along.
At last, after losing my way several times, I stood in front of the thick oaken door that I knew to be the entrance of the picture-gallery. Half-a-dozen keys inserted into the lock one after another failed to open the door. The seventh caused the steel tongue to spring back with a sharp click. I was on the point of turning the handle when a sound on the other side arrested my act. A moment's reflection induced me to believe that it was merely the night breeze sighingthrough the elms and yews outside, but in my first start I had likened it to human footsteps stealing softly away from the door. So strongly had I been impressed with this fancy that I had at once turned the key in the lock again, so as to keep two inches of solid oak, at least, between me and the something on the other side.
Up to this time I had always considered myself fairly brave, but I now began to question my right to the title. Should I return whence I came, safe in limb, sane in mind, but baffled in my quest by my own fears, or should I invite one of the servants to accompany me? No! I determined to venture by myself. What a fine thing it would be, if, alone and unaided, I should succeed in solving the mystery that gave this chamber the reputation of being haunted! I should be the hero of the hour, eclipsing all the male guests of Silverdale and receiving the smiles and praises of the women. While the men were singing carols at a safe distance, I should have been keeping a solitary vigil in a moonlit hall surrounded by ghostly perils. Vanity rather than courage inspired me to proceed.
I could still hear the carolling of the servants, and the sound, remote though it was, gave me a sense of safety. Once more I turned the key, and then flung wide the door. Before entering, I gazed down the gallery, but no sound came from it now, and nothing moving was to be seen.
It was a superb night. The moon was at the full, and its bright rays, falling upon the tall casements, flung parallelograms of light across the polished oak flooring, causing the gallery to present a chequered appearance, silver alternating with ebony in regular perspective. A more weird place to spend a night incould hardly be imagined, and I quite forgave the servants for believing it to be haunted. Mailed warriors and mounted knights shimmered in the moonlight apparently on the point of starting into life and action; the eyes of the portraits on the walls seemed to stare at me with a marvellous resemblance to those of human beings; mysterious shapes seemed to be lurking in the alcoves, whispering and pointing at me as I advanced with beating heart.
I had not taken more than ten steps when the great door swung to on its hinges with a clang that gave me a sudden start and called forth strange echoes from the gallery.
There is nothing remarkable in the clanging of a door, if it be due merely to a current of air or to automatic action; but when neither of these causes is in operation it is apt to create an uneasy sensation, especially when, as in the present instance, it is accompanied by what sounds very like a laugh, coming it is impossible to say whence.
I felt afraid almost to turn round to discover the author of the laugh, but when I had turned and could perceive nothing to justify my belief that it was a laugh, I was equally afraid to turn the other way, and so stood rooted to the spot for a few moments, not wishing to retire, nor yet overbold to go forward.
At length, despite the frowning faces of the portraits on the walls and the threatening lances of the knights, I advanced, with one hand on the pistol in my pocket. I could have wished myself for the time being one of those students of the black art who, successfully passing through the fabled hall in Padua, are said never afterwards to have cast a shadow; for, as I moved before the moonlit casements, a black shapemoved with me along the floor of the hall, and when I had passed out of the moonlight, the candle I carried in my trembling hand caused the shadow to start up on the adjacent wall as though it were some sable familiar attendant on my movements.
In the middle of the gallery, upon a small table and reared up against the wall, I could perceive in a massive frame a large picture, which I took to be the thing I was in quest of, but before I had got near enough to obtain a glimpse of it an unfortunate accident occurred. I dropped my candle, and the moon at this moment being obscured by clouds, I was left in darkness.
The superstitious fancies of my overwrought mind were for the moment overcome by the annoyance I felt at being thus baffled on the edge of discovery. Here was I at last standing before Angelo's great picture, the picture that had lifted him to fame, the picture that some critics had assigned to a hand other than his, the picture he had been so anxious to conceal from my view, the picture whose principal figure the Baronet averred was copied from the murdered dead, the picture whose figure, so the servants whispered, had the power of descending from the canvas, and yet beyond the fact of its size I was precluded by the darkness from learning anything about it.
It stood glimmering faintly through the gloom, and eluding my power to penetrate its secret. I strained my eyes to the utmost, and after a time they became accustomed to the darkness; but all I could discern on the canvas were two figures, one erect, the other prostrate, both which seemed to be returning my stare like faces in a mirror. Faint whisperings seemed to be trembling on the air around, and more than once I thought I heard a subdued laugh.
I passed my hand over the canvas, not without the weird fancy that it might be seized in a cold clasp. It is needless to say that my sense of touch did not add anything to my knowledge.
Just as I was preparing to return for another candle the moon emerged triumphantly from an array of defiant clouds, and its light, increasing almost to the brightness of day, enabled me to obtain a clear view of the picture.
My first feeling was one of disappointment.
What I had expected to see I do not quite know: something alarming, probably.
There was, however, nothing alarming on the canvas before me. It was a painting that Gérôme himself might have been proud to own, so classic and finished was its character. Indeed, I cannot give a better idea of it than by saying that in the pose of the two figures, and in the arrangement of the details, it bore a considerable resemblance to the work of that great master on the same subject, save that in Angelo's composition the figures of the conspirators were wanting.
The principal features of the picture (to quote the language of theStandardcorrespondent) were: "The fallen Cæsar with his toga wrapped partly round him, the statue of Pompey rising above, a tesselated pavement stained with blood, here and there a discarded dagger, columnar architecture in the back-ground: such were the simple elements presented by thischef-d'œuvre."
I fell back a pace or two to contemplate the picture as a whole, and, despite my dislike of the artist, I could not repress a feeling of admiration for the man who had produced such a masterpiece.
Desirous of verifying the Baronet's suspicion that the picture might reveal to me something that wouldbe entirely passed over by others, I proceeded to examine it in detail.
I first directed my attention to the statue of Pompey, and saw that Angelo had given his own regular and haughty features to this figure, which was represented as being crowned with a laurel-wreath, and armed with spear and shield. The centre of this shield was set with the helmeted head of Minerva—a gem of minute painting—and it required no second glance to tell me that the face of the goddess was simply a miniature portrait of Daphne. The Baronet had never made any reference to this fact. How the likeness could have escaped his notice was a marvel to me. Perhaps a lover's eyes were more discerning than his.
From the statue of Pompey I turned my attention to the figure at the base of the pedestal. Angelo had not strictly adhered to the minutiæ of history in this portion of his picture, for he had given a full view of Cæsar's face instead of veiling it in the folds of the toga.
From the space between two lofty columns there slanted a flood of sunshine, painted with a technique so marvellous that the beams seemed actually to quiver on the canvas. In fact, so beautifully was this sunlight managed that I was impelled to touch it with my hand, almost expecting to see it tinged with a golden hue. These rays formed the principal beauty of the picture, suffusing the dead body of Cæsar with a transparent veil of light.
The bald and beardless head of the fallen Dictator became next the object of my study.
Standing close to the canvas, my eyes could detect nothing but a confused daub, but on receding gradually from it the effect was curious, not to say startling.The features of Cæsar, which appeared but dim and vague at first, became gradually clearer and more distinct, till at length each curve and every line of the painted countenance stood out in relief through the cascade of yellow beams. I could quite forgive the little servant-girl for supposing that the eyes of this figure moved, for more than once I was seized with the same impression.
The thought, suggested by the epitaph in the artist's portfolio, that a murdered man might have contributed to the deathlike realism displayed by this face invested it with a weird interest; and I continued to gaze at it as though it were the embalmed head of Orpheus, celebrated in classic legend, whose dead tongue could whisper things past and to come. The filmy, glazed eyes fascinated me with their dreadful stare. The face had a mournful, surprised expression—the very expression, so far as I could imagine (for happily I am no judge of such matters), of a man who, without warning, had been cut off out of the land of the living. It was not, however, the face that meets us in the coins and busts of art-galleries: it seemed to have a much more familiar look. It seemed a face well known to me—one, too, that I had seen but recently.
Minute after minute passed, and still I stood there contemplating the dead face, with the secret consciousness that ere long I should recognise it. A sudden movement on my part to the left, seemingly, as it were, to set the face in a new point of view, caused the light of knowledge to flash into my mind.
A loud cry broke from me, and I reeled back into the middle of the hall.
For my brother's face was staring at me from the canvas in lineaments not to be mistaken—inlineaments so startling in their fidelity to the original that I marvelled how I could have failed at the first to detect the resemblance. The beard and hair were wanting to complete the likeness: it was this omission that had delayed my recognition of it, just as it had prevented my recognition of the portrait sketch that Angelo had exhibited to me.
Overwhelmed with amazement I stood staring at the picture, rooted to the spot, without power to move from it. Whence had Angelo derived the marvellous art that had enabled him to limn my brother's face so faithfully, and yet to transform it so as to make it seem like the very image of death?
I lifted my eyes to the figure of Pompey mounted on his lofty pedestal, and as I gazed at the proud face, over which the changing moonbeams seemed to impart a smile of mockery, the picture assumed a new and terrible significance. An ordinary spectator might regard it simply as a splendid work of art, and see in it nothing more than was implied in its title—"The Fall of Cæsar;" but to me, familiar with the artist's aspiration, it was full of a latent symbolism expressive of his hopes at the time of painting it. It was no longer the conqueror of the East triumphing over the conqueror of the West, but Angelo in his own person exulting over the rival whom he had slain. The laurel-wreath on his brows represented the crown of fame which the exhibition of this very picture was to bring him; and the setting of Daphne's head in the shield that was braced tight to his arm expressed the confident conviction that she was destined one day to be linked to him. The artist's secret was revealed: he had killed my brother! In his morbid desire of fame, and in a spirit of hideous realism sometimes, though rarely, exemplified in the history of art,Angelo had murdered a fellow-mortal for the purpose of having by his side a dead man to serve as a model for the fallen Cæsar, even proceeding so far as to retain in his picture the very features of his victim.
The commission of this terrible deed, and the thought that now that his rival was dead Daphne would be his, had imparted to the mind of the artist a sort of diabolic inspiration—a tone of fiendish exaltation that had enabled him for the time being to rise superior to his ordinary mediocre powers, and to surprise the art-critics by producing a work far surpassing all his previous efforts.
He could expose this painting to public view with little fear that its exhibition would be attended with the discovery of his crime, owing to the fact that his victim (to represent faithfully the person of Cæsar) must be delineated as both bald and beardless, a fact that had imparted a very different look to the painted face; and moreover, since George had spent the years subsequent to his twentieth birthday in India, he was not known in Europe except to his own small circle of kinsfolk.
The only persons, then, whom the artist had cause to fear were the relatives of his victim, and returned Anglo-Indians.
I now understood his motive in calling my attention to the pen-and-ink sketch of George's face. It was to ascertain whether, in the event of seeing his picture, I should detect any resemblance to my brother in the bald and beardless head of Cæsar: hence his satisfaction at my want of perception, for he felt pretty certain that if I failed to recognise the likeness, other persons would be equally or more obtuse.
Yet, despite the apparent safety which my mental blindness had promised him, he had feared after all lestthe picture should betray him, and thefracasthat had occurred in the Vasari Gallery at Paris was a result of this fear.
The Indian officer, whom Angelo had ordered to be expelled from the gallery, was doubtless a friend of George's, belonging, perhaps, to the same regiment, and who, if permitted to see the work of art, might have discovered in the same more than was intended by its author.
Hence Angelo's reason for withdrawing the picture from the public view. Too fond of his handiwork to destroy it, he thought that by consigning it to the private collection of the Cornish Baronet his safety would be assured.
Vain hope! Avenging Nemesis was pursuing him, bringing to the chosen asylum of his masterpiece the very bride of the man he had slain—the one person above all others who would be swift to detect in the face of the painted Cæsar the features of her lost lover; and so, in order to avert the penalty which such a recognition would bring, the artist had been compelled to resort to the desperate expedient of carrying off the picture during the night.
Such were the thoughts that went whirling through my mind!
Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, I laughed at these wild ideas, and at the fright they had given me.
"No, no. It can't be. I'm out of it altogether," I muttered. "This picture was exhibited last spring: theStandardnewspaper's a proof of that. But George was seen at Rivoli by Daphne in the autumn: clearly, then, he can't have been killed last Christmas in order to minister to the success of Angelo's art."
It was a relief to believe that George might still beliving and that Angelo was not his murderer. But the affair was still as great a mystery as ever—nay, rather, it was enhanced. The question still remained: Why had the artist employed George's features in painting his Cæsar?
The human mind is not content with simply accepting facts: it must endeavour to account for them. Men will theorise, as confident to-day as ever that they can solve every problem presented to them, whether it relates to things in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth.
Flinging myself on a seat within an embrasured casement, I tried to devise some new theory to account for the admission of my brother's face into Angelo's picture.
"Angelo had George before him in his studio while painting this picture: of that I am certain. But how came George to be there? He would never of his own free will consent to pose as an artist's model—of that, too, I am certain. Besides, if it were so, Angelo would have nothing to fear from our discovering the fact; but that he does fear our discovering it is manifest by his behaviour. It's quite clear that something suspicious has attended the production of this picture. There's only one conclusion left as far as I can see. George, on account of his fine athletic figure, was inveigled into Angelo's studio; and, in order to produce a state requisite for the artist's conception, he was compelled to drink some drug which subdued his natural powers, and gave him every appearance of death. And since Angelo could never by his own strength overpower George, it is clear he must have had others to help him in this plot. That silver-haired old man, Matteo Carito, may have been one; and perhaps that mysterious veiled lady was another.
"But what happened after the picture was finished? George would never permit himself to be quietly and contemptuously dismissed from the studio without making the affair public, or seeking redress. Nor would Angelo be such a fool as to permit George to go forth to the world, proclaiming the ignominious treatment he had received. Ah, I have it! That drug must have so disordered his senses as to leave him without intellect and without memory of the past. Angelo would have no difficulty in removing him in that state to Rivoli, and detaining him there—a harmless lunatic—in his old nurse's cottage. What cared he so long as his rival in love was out of the way, and his fame as an artist established? Yes, yes; I see it all now.
"'In some secluded part of Europe I shall live out my days a lonely recluse.' That letter was a forgery of Angelo's. The damnable villain! I now understand his words to Daphne when parting from her at Rivoli: 'You are nearer to him now than you have been for months.' Of course she was. George was living, a sort of prisoner, at Rivoli. He must have contrived to escape from his place of captivity that very day; and, perhaps with some faint glimmering of reason left, he determined to have vengeance on all who had taken part in the plot against him. That is why he hurled the old man over the cliff. He was mad, quite mad, there can be no doubt, and that is why he took no notice of Daphne when he saw her by the haunted spring."
As I thought of the old man's awful death I muttered, "It will not be well for Angelo if George should find him out."
Scarcely had this idea occurred to me when I recalled the butler's stories of the wild face he had seen staring through the casement in the dusk ofevening, a face like that in the picture; of the figure in the grey cloak, and of the terrible cry of the previous night—a "death-cry" the butler had called it.
Now the butler knew absolutely nothing of my brother's history; how came he, then, to connect this picture with a figure in a grey cloak, unless, indeed, he had seen such a figure lying on the floor of the gallery?
Could it be that George, having secretly gained access to the Abbey with intent to kill the artist, had been himself killed by the very man whose life he sought—struck down in the dead of night in front of the picture that had been the cause of all the mystery?
Was it possible that only a few hours ago this gallery had rung with my brother's death-cry as Angelo struck him down? Oppressed by this new idea I turned quite faint, becoming alternately cold and hot.
"If so, what can Angelo have done with the body?" I thought. "Is it in the tower?" From the casement where I sat a view could be obtained of the Nuns' Tower. I turned, and to my surprise beheld a light shining from the window of the artist's studio.
Too impatient to await the return of the Baronet with the constable and the warrant, I determined to make my way to the tower, and force from the artist an explanation of the mystery that overhung George's fate.
With a final glance at the painted image of my brother's face, whose mournful eyes and mute lips seemed appealing to me for justice, I left the gallery, and hurrying over the lawn reached the tower, bareheaded, breathless, and excited.
"Angelo," I cried, hammering at the door, "I want you. Something really important. I know you areinside. Open the door. I won't go away until I've seen you. Angelo, do you hear?"
It was not my fault if he didn't, for I delivered at the door a succession of kicks which not only hurt me frightfully but made a most tremendous noise. Then remembering that I had the key of the tower with me, I thrust it into the keyhole and turned the lock. I hesitated before actually opening the door, thinking that the artist might be ready on the other side to offer armed resistance to me or to anyone who should invade his sanctum by force. But I thought of the pistols, and taking one from my pocket, I softly and slowly pushed the door ajar, standing a little on one side as I did so in order that I might escape the full force of a frontal attack if one were made.
But no voice or sound of any kind greeted me, and venturing to peep inside I found to my surprise that the room was unoccupied. As soon as I was satisfied that this was really so, I slipped in and locked the door behind me in order to secure myself against the return of the artist.
The chamber, like the tower which contained it, was octagonal. The roof was beautifully vaulted. From the eight angles of the octagon eight pointed arches sprang towards a common centre, meeting in the capital of the solitary pillar that supported the roof. The walls were hidden by tapestry, and the floor was strewn with yellow sand.
A mediæval monk of the most ascetic tastes could not have found fault with the appointments of this cell. A carved oak table littered with an artist's paraphernalia, a carved oak chair, and an iron lamp affixed to the central pillar constituted all the furniture of the place. The only other conspicuous object was the easel with its canvas. No fire had been lighted thatday, though materials for one were laid in the grate, and the chilling atmosphere of the room sent a shiver through me.
It was evident that the artist had been in the studio since our afternoon visit. For the lamp was alight, and the purple curtain had been taken down from the casement and now hung over the back of one of the chairs. All this I noticed at a glance, and then I eagerly approached the easel, and throwing off the sheet that covered it, I turned it so that the light from above fell full upon the canvas.
The picture was a representation of the Flavian Amphitheatre in the days of its wicked old glory, when the balconies gleamed with mosaic-work of precious stones, and clouds of purple incense rose in the air. The galleries were crowded with spectators, and in the expression of the various countenances ample scope was given for the display of the artist's skill. Every character typical of the times was represented, from Imperial Cæsar viewing with cold disdain the death of the enemy of the gods, down to the secret Christian slave shuddering at the fate of his co-religionist. A purple velarium was drawn above the amphitheatre as a shield against the sun's rays, and the painter had displayed with artistic effect every object tinged with a faint violet hue.
But the spectator of the picture felt at once that all these details were mere accessories. The arena—dotted here and there with helmet, shield, and spear, or the gilded net of the retairius—was intended to bethefeature of the picture. A magnificent Libyan lion, lashing his tail on the sands, was standing proudly erect, his flaming eyes fixed on something beneath his forepaws. That something was nothing; or, to be less paradoxical, what was to be there was not yet painted.The picture was in an unfinished state, and the dying martyr was not yet outlined upon the canvas.
It was disappointing to contemplate the picture with what was evidently intended to be the central figure absent. I did not doubt that were it completed and exposed to public view it would create as great a furore as his last masterpiece.
I was puzzled to find the work in so unfinished a state, for Angelo himself had said that most of the details I now beheld had been painted before he came to the Abbey. It was clear that he was a dilatory worker, and the picture gave the lie to his assertion that since his arrival he had been engaged upon the figure of the girl-martyr, for not a trace of her was visible upon the canvas. He may, of course, have been dissatisfied with his work and have effaced it, but if that were the case there seemed no justification for his saying so late as this morning that he expected to complete the picture in a few hours. Some characters at the foot of the canvas in one corner attracted my notice, and bending low I saw that they gave the title of the picture and the name of the artist. Prompted by the appearance of the letters, I drew my forefinger heavily over them, and, as I had expected, they were immediately converted into a long smear.
The paint was wet, a proof that it had been but recently laid on. My action had completely effaced the title of the picture, but not before I had read it. That title was "Modestus, the Christian Martyr."
"Modestus!" This was singular. It was only this very morning that the artist had called it "Modesta." Why this sudden change of title? Was he going to represent a man, and not a maiden, as the martyr? Why had he abandoned his original project—abandoned it, so it would seem, within the past few hours?Was it because he had failed to delineate to his own satisfaction his ideal of beauty?
I was unable to answer this question, and turned from the easel to the table, on which lay a medley of articles. First, there was a white woollen tunic such as the antique Roman was wont to wear, a girdle, a pair of sandals, a short Roman sword, and a buckler of oblong shape. In my dulness I at first thought that these were to form Angelo's costume for the fancy-dress ball to be held at Silverdale on Twelfth Night, but they were of course the "properties" in which the model for his picture was to pose. Perhaps, on the principle of killing two birds with one stone, this costume was to unite both purposes. At any rate it furnished an additional proof that the artist had abandoned the title of "Modesta," since these articles, though suitable enough, perhaps, for an Amazon, would have been out of place as the equipment of a Christian maiden.
But who or what was to be the model? I looked around for the lay-figure of which the artist had spoken. I lifted different portions of the tapestry, thinking that the model might perhaps be in some recess behind it, but failed to discover anything suitable for the artist's purpose. Was he going to employ the human form once more? and if so, whose? Had last night's tragedy in the gallery furnished him with a ready means of completing his picture without delay? Was this the real reason of the change of title, and of this sudden preparation of artistic material? I say sudden, because it had evidently been introduced into the cell since Fruin's visit to it, otherwise the gleam of the sword and buckler would surely have attracted his attention, and have been mentioned by him. If we delayed the arrest of Angelo for a few hours inorder to peer through the casement of the studio with the first gleam of daylight, should we catch him at work upon his canvas with a dead form before him, completing his picture, by a singular coincidence of dates, on the very anniversary of the day on which he had finished his last masterpiece?
A short dagger was the next object that engaged my attention, a double-edged and pointed weapon. Taking it up for closer inspection, I saw a red stain on it. Was it paint or—something else? The dagger seemed familiar to me, and I now remembered to have seen its painted image in "The Fall of Cæsar." The artist had evidently copied its antique shape in his picture; the stain on it was probably some colouring matter, and not blood, as I had supposed in my first start of surprise.
By the side of this poniard was a curious article representing a lion's paw with claws projecting out. The paw was of ivory, exquisitely carved; the claws were of bright steel. I could not help connecting this curious object with the lion in the picture on the easel, yet utterly failed to perceive the links of the connexion. The artist had not employed it in delineating the paw of the lion—such a supposition was absurd; and, besides, on glancing at the painting of the animal, I saw that its claws were curved in a manner very different from those of the model before me. As I could not conjecture what its use was, I began to examine the next object to it, a small cut-glass phial containing some dark liquid.
Removing the stopper, I applied my nostrils to the orifice. An extremely fragrant odour arose—so pungent, however, that it caused my eyes to water, and set me coughing for several seconds.
Of course it was impossible for my nostrils to detectoff-hand the nature and composition of the contents of the phial; and, though not gifted, perhaps, with any large amount of wisdom, I was not quite so foolish as to attempt to gain any knowledge of the liquid by tasting it. Replacing the stopper, I put the phial in my pocket with a view to subjecting its contents to an analysis at the first convenient opportunity.
At this point I sank into a chair, for a strange drowsiness was stealing over me. I could not account for it at the time, but I know now that it was due to the volatility of the liquid, which was operating on my mind with a stupefying effect.
Scarcely knowing what I was doing, I lifted up a purple-bound volume from the table, and turning mechanically to the first page, found a fresh surprise in the title of the work,Silverdale Abbey: Its History and Antiquities.
Why, here was the very book that had disappeared from the library, the book whose loss had so much fretted the Baronet! The contents of the book were not printed, but written with a pen, in a hand beautifully clear and flowing. This manuscript, according to Sir Hugh, had been compiled by an eminent archæologist; but there was at the end an addendum of a few pages which were evidently not by the hand that had penned the body of the work. I recognised the crabbed characters to be those of Sir Hugh's predecessor, whose autograph I had seen.
This addendum contained matter that the last Baronet for obvious reasons would not wish to be generally known. It gave an account of certain secret panels, hidden corridors, and subterranean chambers, made in the days of the Commonwealth, when loyalty to the House of Stuart meant confiscation and death.
The present Baronet had never read the book,and was ignorant of the existence of these secret rooms, in which his Royalist ancestors had been wont to take refuge from the search of the Puritan soldiery.
Not so Angelo. The book had fallen in his way, and by its perusal he had become master of secrets unknown to the household of Silverdale—unknown even to the white-headed old butler, who had passed all his days at the Abbey. It was this knowledge that had enabled the artist to remove his picture with such secrecy during the night, for, as I read on I came to the following:
"The Nuns' Tower is connected with the picture gallery by a subterranean passage, which——"
I could get no farther. The letters were dancing wildly on the page, and all efforts on my part to persuade them to behave like quiet, respectable members of the alphabet were useless.
I found myself mechanically repeating this fragment of a sentence, and then, with the sudden consciousness that I was falling asleep in a very dangerous place, I staggered to my feet, but the soporific drug had done its work, and I sank back again into the chair in a state of coma.
I believe it is not an uncommon thing for a sentinel to slumber at his post, and wake to find himself still in a standing posture. To the ordinary mortal, however, this would certainly be a novel experience.
Judge, then, of my surprise, on returning to a state of consciousness, to discover that I was on my feet in an erect position with my back against what seemed to be a stone pillar. It is not quite correct to define my attitude as "erect:" leaning forward would more aptly describe it. My balance was maintained by a contrivance of somewhat sinister significance. My hands were extended almost horizontally behind me, one on each side of the pillar, my wrists being firmly secured to each other by something which, judging by the sense of touch was a silken sash so twined and twisted as to serve the same purpose as a strong cord. My arms ached with the pain arising from the unnatural position in which they were sustained; and my head throbbed acutely, probably from the effects of the drug exhaled by the phial.
In what place I stood it was impossible to tell, for there lay a darkness all around as black and oppressive as though a pall had been flung over me. Fear imparts the wildest fancies to the human mind. My first impression was that I had awoke on the other side of thedark river that parts this world from the next, and that my eyes, so soon as they were able to pierce the gloom, would discover scenes more terrible than those imagined by the genius of Dante.
Reverting, however, to the train of events that had brought me to the state of unconsciousness, I came to the more rational conclusion that I was still in the Nuns' Tower. The stone column to which I was attached was without doubt the pillar that upheld the arched roof of the studio-cell; and the silken fabric that bound my hands, I felt intuitively, was the purple curtain that, earlier in the day, had been hung over the casement.
My eyes, becoming by slow degrees accustomed to the darkness, discerned through the penumbra around me a grey oblong object elevated in air and crowned with a triangular apex, which finally resolved itself into the shape of a Gothic casement; and then little by little the whole perspective of the studio-cell became dimly outlined on my vision; and there, by the side of the table, within the oaken chair, sat a figure.
My first impulse was to shout for help, but I checked myself lest such cry should be the signal for my mysterious captor to despatch me. How he had gained access to the cell was evident.
At a point equidistant from the window and the door a slab of stone that formed a part of the flooring was raised, and reclined obliquely against the wall. Beneath the place where it had lain an opening yawned, and the faint outline of steps going downwards proved the truth of the statement contained in the addendum to the antiquary's book that there was another mode of communicating with the tower besides the ordinary way of the door.
I turned my staring eyeballs towards the shape atthe table. It was too dark at first for me to distinguish his features, but the contour of the figure seemed to suggest the personality of Angelo. By and by the obscurity of the cell became faintly illumined by the withdrawal of some dark clouds from the face of the sky, and I saw that my captor was indeed the artist. Clad in a dark velvet jacket, he sat with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and one leg thrown carelessly over the other.
I had not expected my captor to be any one else than Angelo, and yet the recognition seemed to come upon me as a surprise.
I shall not pretend to be a hero, and say that the recognition brought with it no fear. It did indeed bring a very great pang of fear. I felt such a sensation then as I never before felt and never wish to feel again.
I was a captive in the power of a rival who hated me with all the hatred of a hatred-loving race. I had sneered at him and at his adored art. I had robbed him of Daphne, depriving him by that act of a figure whose beauty would be an acquisition to his studio. I had little to hope from his mercy.
Preserving with difficulty my presence of mind, I manipulated the silken bands on my wrists in the hope of releasing myself, but Angelo had performed his task too well to permit this. It was evident that my earthly salvation was not within my own power. It must come—if it should come at all—from without. With a terror that increased moment by moment, I recognised how hopeless was my situation.
True, the Baronet and my uncle would miss me on their return, and, conjecturing that I had gone to the Nuns' Tower, might come to seek me, but their aid would be of no avail, for, even if they should comewith a body of servants armed with axes, it would take them a minute at least to force open the strong oaken door—ample time for the artist to compass his work of vengeance and escape by the secret passage.
What men usually do when nothing else is left for them to do, I did. The first really fervent prayer that I ever breathed rose to my lips.
As I could see Angelo's eyes quite plainly, I concluded he could see mine, and hence he must have perceived that I had recovered from my state of lethargy. He did not speak, however, but continued to look at me, as if my captivity were a luxury too rich for words. Several minutes passed, and at last the silence became so oppressive that I could bear it no longer, and I said:
"Was it you who bound me like this?"
"It was."
A brief reply—delivered in a cool tone of voice, too, as if the seizure and binding of a gentleman to a Gothic pillar was an every-day event with him, and of too trifling a character to require any comment or apology.
"Confound your ill-timed jest! Cut these cords at once, before my cries bring assistance."
The artist took up from the table the poniard with the red stain on its blade, and proceeded to sharpen the edge on a square slab of marble that did duty occasionally as a palette. Silly that I was! I actually believed that my bold manner had frightened him, and that he was going to comply with my request. The noise produced by the sharpening process was not a pleasant one, and it set my teeth on edge.
"Oh, that'll do!" I cried impatiently—that is, impatiently for a captive, dependent on the pleasure ofanother for his release. "That'll do. It's sharp enough for the purpose."
"Pardon me, no," he replied, lifting his eyes from the dagger to contemplate me for a moment. "It's not sharp enough for the purpose."
Something in the intonation of his voice drove out the last traces of the drug, and restored me instantly to the full use of my faculties, as drunken men are said to become sobered by a sudden shock.
"What are you going to do?" I cried.
As if there could be any doubt in the matter!
"Immortalise you by my art."
If he had said that he was going to take vengeance on a rival whom he hated I should have understood him, but this speech of his was unintelligible.
"What are you going to do, I ask?"
"I have told you: make a sacrifice on the altar of art."
"What on earth do you mean?" I cried, tugging at my bonds.
"That picture," replied the artist, pausing in his occupation to point with his dagger at the canvas on the easel; "that picture is at a standstill for want of an appropriate model.I have found my model."
With parted lips and dilated eyes I gazed at the speaker, wondering whether he were in earnest. His easy air of unconcern inspired me with false hopes. He was only acting the part of a would-be assassin, I thought. It was a jest of his to frighten me. A trick to compel me perhaps to forswear all claim to Daphne.
"Do you hope to frighten me by these tricks?" I cried, assuming a courage I did not feel. "I have but to raise my voice——"
"Raise it, then."
There was a look in his eyes, a motion of the dagger that convinced me I had better not.
"You are wise. Your silence has added a few moments to your brief span of life."
If there had been a tremor in his voice, if his features had relaxed from their set expression, I could have hoped then that his humanity might yet triumph over the impulse of crime. But this cold, mechanical calmness—it was even a more frightful thing than the deed he was contemplating.
"Would you murder me for the sake of a picture?" I asked in as quiet a tone as I could assume.
"Killing in the interests of art is not murder, any more than the burning of a heretic in the interests of holy religion is murder."
It was evident that the Italian was in deadly earnest, and that his whole soul was absorbed by one passion—devotion to his art. In the interests of that fetish, crime even was excusable. This is the age of realism—of a realism that too often dispenses with morality. Angelo's æsthetics of death was but the logical outcome of the realistic school.
The artist had imparted the necessary edge to his weapon, and reclined once more in an easy attitude, fingering the blade with a delicate touch, and surveying my form with a critical eye.
"I cannot say that you are quite thebeau-idealfor an artist. A little more massiveness in your figure, a little more muscular development of the limbs, would be more in accordance with the canons of physical beauty. Still, these little imperfections can be rectified on the canvas."
The mockery of this remark was not accompanied by any relaxation of his features. He might havebeen wearing a stone mask, so little mobility did his face display.
"Nor can I say that your present expression is precisely that which a dying Christian ought to assume. There is an appreciable want of resignation in it. Still, it is within the power of my pencil to transfigure your face with the divine light of martyrdom, thus conferring upon you an immortality on canvas—an eternity of fame which assuredly you would never gain by the productions of your pen, though literature, we know, be yourforte."
This last was a mocking allusion to a boast of mine made at Rivoli.
A devilish motive prompting these remarks was obvious. He wanted to apply torture to the mind before applying it to the body. He felt that the captive was the true victor; for though he might slay me, yet the deed would never make Daphne his. I longed to taunt him with this, and to hurl back gibe for gibe. Prudence restrained me, however. A rash retort might precipitate matters, and cause him to execute his deadly work sooner than he intended; and delay was of value to me, for as the human mind abandons hope only with the last breath, so did I cling to the expectation that rescue might come in a shape I did not dream of. Therefore I listened to the artist without saying a word.
"Some weeks ago I learned that you and Daphne were to spend your Christmas at the Abbey. I prepared for the event. I had vowed that, living or dead, Daphne should minister to the success of my picture, and since I could not have the living woman, I resolved to have her dead form; it would suit my purpose equally well—perhaps better. I have learnt a little of the topography of the Abbey. A secret passageconnecting this tower with the bedchambers furnished me with the ready means for carrying her off to my studio in the darkness of the night. This phial here," holding up the bottle that he had evidently removed from my breast-pocket, where I had placed it—"you have had some experience of it yourself—applied to her pretty nostrils would be an instant balm for hysterics. However, my scheme of last night miscarried—through you. Therefore you take her place. You have prevented me from adequately realising my conception of the sweet and sad death-beauty of a girl-martyr. Art demands, then, that you atone for your intervention by becoming the substitute. Behold, martyr, your attire!" he added, turning to the table and lifting up the different articles composing the Roman costume.
Replacing them, he took up the ivory paw whose use had so much puzzled me.
"You see this? To lacerate your naked body with—to give to its quivering white the very wounds that a lion's claws would inflict. My own invention—exclusively my own."
He spoke of his projected task in as cool a tone as a scientist might use in speaking of the dissection of a dog.
"You see," he continued, laying down the claw, "this is the age of realism. Nothing is now accepted in literature, art, or the drama that does not bear on its front the stamp of reality. Art, if it is to hold the mirror up to Nature, must not shrink any more than medical science from experimenting on the living frame, and analysing with delicate eye its varying phases of agony."
He paused for a moment, and then, with the air of a man arriving at the end of a set oration, he said:
"You now have my secret. Know, then, how Iintend to produce on that canvas the dying agonies of Modestus the martyr—the picture destined to create an epoch in the history of modern art. So soon as the church-bells chime the hour of midnight you are dead. Such is Daphne's wish."
"Daphne's!" I ejaculated.
"Ay! She wishes for your death. She has promised to marry me to-night. Did you not know?"
He spoke in so natural a tone that I could but stare fixedly at him, wondering what his motive could be in fabricating so wild a statement. My look of perplexity was so great that the artist laughed aloud. This was the first time his facial muscles had relaxed. The transition from rigidity to mobility was not an agreeable one.
A terrible metamorphosis was coming over the artist. It seemed as if some part of his nature, that he had long kept hidden, was rising up to the surface. It did arise—fast. It revealed itself in his unearthly laugh, in the distortion of his mouth, in the wild light of his eyes, in the goblin attitude he had suddenly assumed with his head sunk forward on his breast and his crooked fingers clawing at the air.