MORE OF THE PICTURE
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 is
_the_ great 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 the understanding 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 the
_Standard_ of 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 the
_gendarmes_ prevented 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
admission to 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 the _Temps_, the _Gaulois_, 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 could discover 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. I believe 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 in
_Marmion_," 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 time he 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 last summer, 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 be _the_ picture
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 to _me_." 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
between Angelo 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 have _you_ got 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 they _do_ come 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 the Baronet, "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 the sole 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 the
representative 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--it looked 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
of _Pickwick_, 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 down
_Pickwick_ and 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.
Coming to the room which I knew to be hers, I dashed open the door, and
saw Daphne sitting erect in bed, her eyes staring wildly around, her
face and manner expressive of the extremity of terror. I at once ran to
the bedside.
"Oh, Frank, don't leave me, don't leave me till some one comes!"
She followed up this appeal by a flood of tears, and clung tightly to
my arm with both her hands, while staring about her on all sides.
"Why, Daphne, what is the matter?"
"There's something in the room." She paused, and looked fearfully
around her. "I don't know what. A black shape--a shadow. It was bending
over me."
I cast a glance over the room, but nothing unusual met my eye, and I
concluded she had been dreaming.
"You are dreaming, Daphne. Do not cry so. There is no one here but you
and me."
"Yes, yes, there is!"
All the guests, roused by the screams, had risen from their slumbers,
and in various stages of dressing were thronging around the open door,
becoming round-eyed as they took in the character of the scene.
"Heyday! what's the matter here?" exclaimed my uncle, entering at this
juncture; and all the rest, imitating his example, entered too.
"I came because I heard Daphne calling for help," I replied.
"Oh, papa," said Daphne, withdrawing her arms from me and placing both
hands in his. "I have been frightened, and could not help screaming
out, and Frank came."
"Frightened? What was it that frightened you?"
"I--I don't know what it was," she stammered. "I opened my eyes, and
there was a black thing bending over me. I could see a pair of gleaming
eyes staring straight into mine. I screamed out, but the thing remained
bending over me, and didn't move till Frank's step sounded outside."
[Illustration]
"What?" I cried in amazement. "Didn't this shape, whatever it was, take
its flight through the door?"
"No; there was no opening of the door till you came. It's here now
in the room somewhere. As you opened the door it darted off on this
side," motioning to the left with her hand.
There was a sensation among the ladies, and they drew closer to one
another. The gentlemen, with a valour born of numbers, peered into
wardrobes and cupboards, and looked beneath the bed and behind hangings.
I could see my uncle and the Baronet exchanging curious glances, and I
knew that both were connecting the cause of Daphne's fright with the
apparition supposed to haunt the picture-gallery. It was the opinion of
every one else that she had been dreaming.
"Oh, you silly girl!" cried Florrie, coming to the bedside. "To fancy
you saw a ghost, and frighten us all out of our beds!"
Daphne shivered visibly. The search into every corner of the apartment
had done very little to remove her terror.
"Oh, Florrie," she cried, "do stay with me for the rest of the night! I
dare not sleep alone. I shall die of fright if it comes again. If you
could but have seen those gleaming eyes!"
The Baronet's niece expressed her perfect willingness to share her
sleep with Daphne.
"Leave me that sword," she said to me. "I only hope that ghost _will_
return: if it is one of flesh and blood it had better not venture too
near me!"
And Florrie waved the blade above her head with the serio-comic air
of the pretty lady-hero in the Christmas pantomine when she bids the
wicked demon come on and do his worst.
"Florrie is an Amazon," smiled the Baronet, "and doesn't fear man,
ghost, or devil. I think, Miss Leslie, you will be quite safe in her
keeping."
We made no longer tarrying, but, bidding the two girls "good-night,"
withdrew--the ladies to their rooms, the gentlemen to the broad
landing, at the end of the corridor, there to discuss the affair for a
few minutes.
"This is a very mysterious house," said my uncle to the Baronet.
"Egad! I'm beginning to think so myself."
Among those who had stood silent spectators in Daphne's room was a
doctor of great renown.
"Did you not detect," he said to my uncle, "a peculiar odour hanging
around the dressing-table?"
"I did. Perfumes for handkerchiefs, I suppose."
"Perfumes for handkerchiefs--Oh?" replied the doctor in a curious tone
of voice, and sniffing as if the odour still remained in his nostrils.
"Hum! I shouldn't advise the young lady to sprinkle her handkerchief
too freely with that sort of essence, unless she wishes to be a member
of 'kingdom come!'"