MYSTERIES IN MARBLE HOUSE
But there was one person who never came down to supper—at the right
time, anyway—and that was Rosalie. She had strolled off alone to the
picture-gallery, led to look again on that curious representation of the
former master of Marble House.
The silence as the last guest went down below made her heart beat a
little faster. She listened to the last echoing laugh, and he seemed
listening too. The slightly bending figure indeed betokened an attitude
of close attention—almost the hidden smile of one who, listening,
understands.
The long line of pictures ran either side of her, each in itself a work
of beauty. She remembered that day when Mariana had gone off to the east
wing from here.
To-night the east wing was closed. All this great glare of artificial
light never traversed there. A heavy crimson curtain hid the polished
door that led to it.
But Rosalie’s spirit wandered off in that direction. A great curiosity,
with a deeper feeling underneath to give the strength it needed, led her
out into the central hall—led her gliding towards that gloomy fatal
door.
She drew the curtain back with one white hand, white as snow against
this deeper shade, and turned the handle. The door opened. Blackness,
dampness, and the smell of decay and mildew met her, like a blast of
foul despair.
She threw up her head, passed through, and the door slipped to behind
her. And for one moment it seemed as if the parting kiss of freedom
glowed on her forehead once again. And yet again the darkness was
dispersed, for both the frog and jewel, and her own shining dress, that
shone apparently without the aid of outer light, gave all the light it
needed.
And here, within this gloomy place, at last came life and beauty, and
the soft, tender light that lived in its own strength and was
unborrowed.
No. 13! How well Rosalie remembered it! Mariana’s workroom, a worse
place than many a prisoner’s cell. Yet it had about it an air of
indefinable grandeur, the place of no petty criminal, or one sunk in
moral disease. The rusty latch uplifted and disclosed the low-built room
beyond, and the dim burner, the oaken chests, the damp, peeled walls,
the shadowy corners, the tragedy of silence.
But what of these? They served but as backgrounds to a picture, and
fitting backgrounds. For there, beside the long, low table, hid by the
sheet, as white to-day as ever it had been three years ago, sat Mariana.
But nothing there equalled the marble whiteness of her face. Her
graceful figure bent forward, her hands were clasped on the table, and
on her lips was that curious smile of pain, quite frozen there, as, wide
open, her eyes stared at this hidden treasure on the table.
Some spider, mistaking the silent figure for a thing inanimate, had
weaved a web of finest threads from head to foot, covering her silken
hair and rough-spun dress. But respecting the icy chill that hung about
those cold-cut features and hands, it had left them free and bare.
All about the cell fluttered the silent moths, settling and rising from
the table. Yet they were powerless to canker anything. The bitter iron
of living sorrow had too hard a crust.
The light that Rosalie brought with her lit up the room. She stood upon
the threshold, gazing spellbound with horror on the central form. Could
this be Mariana—this frozen statue, this figure nipped to the spirit
with unavailing pain? Oh, never, never! For there this beautiful
machine, working so fine a marvel of creation, had come upon a horrid
pause, a fearful counterfeit of death, a fearful mockery of life!
Then the spell broke. With outstretched arms she hurried forward.
“Mariana!”
No sound or movement came in reply. She placed her hand upon the
stiffened shoulder. The cobweb broke; the spider saw, and ran away. She
threw her arms around the other’s neck, and kissed her stony cheek. No
sound or movement in reply.
Burning tears fell from her eyes. They had no power to melt that which
had been congealed so long, frozen from ice to marble.
Nothing availed—even when she fell upon her knees, and pressed her warm
lips a hundred times upon the death-chilled fingers.
Powerless and weak! O God! for strength, strength, strength of some
sort, to give life to the dying or the dead! What blasphemy! what
heresy! what presumption!—the ignorant tumult of a still untutored
heart. Then she drew back and looked at Mariana, fighting down every
emotion to make way for thought. Her eyes fired with indignant protest,
and she said:
“I’d rather be a murderer out and out and hanged for it! And to think of
this night, when in this very house there is no sound of anything but
gaiety and laughter; and people feasting! And here there sits a prisoner
and worse, and one man conscious of it. Oh, Brightcoat! How can you
think well of such as he! I cannot bear to look at him again.” And then
she stooped and took the slippers off she wore. “I wore them happily at
first, but now they’re all so tight they pinch my feet I wonder what
sweating or freezing system it was brought them into shape? And I so
selfish as never to insist before on seeing whether she were free or
no.”
The slippers off, she looked at them, then at the silent figure sitting
there, and turned away, half-shivering. She placed the slippers upon the
table on the sheet.
The moths descending, fluttered round them, yet did not touch; for,
taught by instinct, they had learnt what could and what could not return
to dust.
Then with one parting call of “Mariana!” one loving kiss, one shivering
glance around the dismal place, she went away, closing the door behind
her, into the outer passage.
Curiosity bade her try some of those other low and numbered doors; but
all were locked. This tragic wing was surely haunted. The air was
condensed of sighs—an essence which hung heavy on the heart.
But before opening that crystal door, all rusted iron and cobwebs from
this inner side, Rosalie stood still to think. Then she pushed it open,
and emerged into the brilliant hall, still silent. From here she passed
toward the staircase leading down to the supper-room, where all the
guests were now assembled.
But to return to them.
There was no lack of merriment throughout the length of tables. But as
the supper progressed, and people became accustomed to their
surroundings, general comments were made upon a long and double-folded
curtain of heavy material that hung from floor to ceiling at the lower
end of the vast chamber beside the staircase.
There was present at that supper a young girl just out that season—as
giddy, as merry, and full of happy spirits as one unknown to care or
saddened thoughts can ever be.
And to close a spirited discussion with some as young and thoughtless as
herself, just as the feast was ending, she left her place amidst a
laughing silence, and ran to the farther upper end of the table, where
Mr. Barringcourt sat beside the Princess. With the happy assurance of
youth never rebuffed, she accosted him.
“I come,” said she, still laughing, “to plead on the side of our
religion. They say that dismal curtain bears a resemblance, and a very
striking one, to the crimson one within the temple. Will you not
contradict them?”
He looked across the room toward it “One’s black and the other’s red,”
he said, and smiled.
“Yes; but we were discussing what might be beyond,” and her face was
demure, though her eyes were sparkling with merriment.
“With what result?” said he.
“We all grew curious. Princess, will you be curious, too?”
“Oh, instantly. What is beyond that curtain, Mr. Barringcourt? Tell us,
or show us, pray.”
The silence of expectation had settled on the guests. Barringcourt
leaned forward toward the table, playing with the half-filled glass of
wine beside him. And when he spoke his voice was low, yet perfectly
distinct.
“You know,” said he, “it was a foible of Mr. Todbrook’s to collect as
many heathen gods and false ones as lay in his power. This house was
built on a system—I might say systems—of idolatry; its furniture
collected from disused temples sought for all over the face of Lucifram.
“Behind that curtain stands a god, more hideous than any I have ever
seen, and I’ve seen plenty in my time, as maybe most of you have done.
The curtain came along with it from the temple where it stood, and in a
state of wonderful preservation. Over one thousand years in age.”
“What is beyond?” was the general question throughout the chamber.
“A death’s-head of unusual size, worshipped and feared of all in the
parts from where it came.”
“Let us see it.” A general murmur of anticipation ran round the room.
“These poor heathens!” said one lady, and her tone was patronising. “How
ignorant they must have been.”
“And are still in some parts, madam,” said he.
“We do our best with the missionaries,” she replied.
“Let us see it, please.”
This was the voice of the charming youthful pioneer from the back.
“It’s a death’s-head,” said he, and he smiled very kindly as he spoke.
“They are not beautiful.”
“But I’ve enjoyed myself so much all evening, Mr. Barringcourt, that I
could not bear to be disappointed now. Besides, the Princess has
commanded you. Please show us the head.”
“It has never to be seen but in complete darkness. It’s a clause of the
will. It was the condition on which he bought it, I believe, from a few
crazy priests, who had no congregation.”
But they all wished to see it, light or no light. It was a little
novelty to wind up supper and take the place of toasts.
So suddenly the light switched out, and left the place in total
darkness. Those who were on terms familiar enough clasped one another’s
hands. They found the situation not unpleasant.
And then upon the instant the black curtain swung backwards and revealed
a space beyond, from which gleamed out, in ashen whiteness and dusky
hollows from the blackness, the skeleton head of death. It was the head
of some great giant of unusual size, with yellow teeth discoloured, but
all present. All looked at it with gloomy interest, and some began to
wish, as darkness continued, they’d been less eager to examine it.
But suddenly and swiftly in the silence two gleaming balls of light
glared red from the empty sockets, to turn their gaze at every
individual round the room, and with a gleam most sinister. This was
truly horrible. A room so black and dark that none could see each other.
The bleached skull and skeleton of a superhuman head. And above all the
terrible gleaming eyes, the only flash of light in the whole room, that
had the power of penetrating, and gave each the impression the evil eye
was fixed on him alone. A spell of silence had fallen. No woman cried;
the laughter of ten minutes since had died; even the very sound of
breathing was now quite hushed. This was the deadened, powerless load of
nightmare.
Suddenly a light appeared on the spiral staircase. The gleam of snowy
whiteness, the soft glow of an undying lamp, and the pure colours of a
splendid moonshine. And above all a face and figure of most simple
beauty, eyes pure and starlit in contrast to the red gleam. And a crown
of mermaid flaxen hair, and expression sweet and thoughtful! It was a
wonderful and sweet relief to the ghastly spectacle below.
And on a sudden the full lights flashed on again, and a sigh of relief
burst from every heart and many lips. The black curtain had fallen.
Rosalie alone remained of the weird scene, descending the spiral
staircase. A little thing will often bring about reaction, and from
being shunned by many, she from this opportune arrival gained a fair
share of popularity.
“Where have you been?” a dozen voices cried, glad to make sound again.
“Trying to find a partner,” cried she, and laughed; and others laughed
as well, the search had been so long and unsuccessful.
“Supper is finished.”
There was no lack of those to offer attention now, and along with this
came the general bustle of those leaving the supper-table.
But by the side of Mr. Barringcourt stood the girl who, from a mixture
of youthful spirits and curiosity, had asked the first the curtain might
be moved.
“I am glad I had finished my supper,” said she, with an attempt at
laughing still. “I’m sure I could never eat anything in here again.”
“It is fortunate refreshments are served upstairs,” he answered. “You
would not let so small a thing interfere with your evening’s pleasure?”
Reassured somewhat by his tone, she said:
“After all, it was only an idol, was it?”
“That’s all. They must be very brave folk to worship it, eh?”
“Yes. The Serpent is much less gruesome. Isn’t it?”
He laughed. “Well, an empty skull often looks much worse than it is.”
“But,” said she, “it wasn’t empty. I never saw such eyes. Never! Never!”
“You haven’t seen the Serpent yet?”
“No; but mother did, and she said nothing about its eyes. She said it
was plain to be seen we worshipped the true god, his scales were such a
lovely gold. I am going to ask Miss Crokerly to introduce me to her
friend. I’m sure if she had not come then I should have fainted right
away. And I always laughed at Blanche for fainting. She used to do it so
conveniently.”
So saying, she slipped away, and to the upper regions, where, so far as
she knew, there was nothing gruesome hidden away.
And soon the episode of the death’s-head was forgotten, and the
evening’s enjoyment began again with even greater zest.
Rosalie’s programme filled, but she never danced. Who could, when
wearing only stockings? But she did not go home, but waited for that
final dance, and no one noticed her slipperless feet.