THE MYSTERIES OF THE STUDIO
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 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 sighing through 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 in could 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 shape
moved 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 the
_Standard_ correspondent) 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 this _chef-d'oeuvre_."
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 would be 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--in lineaments 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 lest the picture should betray him, and
the _fracas_ that 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: the _Standard_ newspaper'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 be living 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 of evening, 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 are inside. 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 that day, 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
be _the_ feature 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 in order 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 detect off-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.