THE DENOUEMENT!
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 the dark
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 at the 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 come
with 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 of another 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 the _beau-ideal_ for 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 have been 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 your _forte_."
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 passage
connecting 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 I intend 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.
[Illustration]
ANGELO WAS MAD!
Mad! Why had I not guessed this before? A thousand
circumstances--curious facial expressions, odd sayings, tricks of
gesture--came welling up from the depths of the past. Trivial,
considered apart, in the aggregate they were significant, and tended to
confirm my terrible discovery.
This revelation of Angelo's character imparted a fresh element of
horror to my situation, and reduced to a minimum my chances of escape.
Angelo sane might perhaps be diverted from his deadly purpose by the
thought that discovery would be certain to attend the commission of
his crime. But no such reason could prevail with a madman.
Flinging back his dark locks with a defiant gesture, the maniac fixed
his glittering eye on me, and commenced to chant some Italian refrain
composed in a very mournful key, keeping time to the air with the
motions of his hand. I recognised the refrain. I had heard it once at
Rivoli. It was a funeral hymn.
The foreign words imperfectly comprehended by me, the plaintive
character of the refrain, united to the melancholy voice of the
maniac, made this singing the most awful and unearthly thing I had
ever heard, thrilling me to the very centre with the most eerie
sensations. Every now and then he would pause to take a drink from a
spirit-flask, resuming his wild song immediately afterwards. Usually a
foe to intoxicants, he was now taking draughts of brandy in a reckless
fashion, and I knew that he was working himself up for his fiendish
task. The cold grey cell, the dim light, the gibbering thing at the
table chanting my death song, formed a picture that has lived in my
memory ever since, and often have I started from sleep with a cry of
terror, shivering at the recollection of this night.
The cell had been gradually growing brighter, and at last on one side
of the casement, through the tangles of ivy, appeared the silver arc
of the moon whose arrowy beams slanted to the floor, adding a still
greater sense of weirdness to the scene. The moon seemed to have a
disturbing effect upon the artist's disordered mind, for he turned
uneasily to the casement.
"Too much light. Too much light. I hate this silvery glare," and
raising his arms he exclaimed tragically, "Oh, Endymion, why sleepest
thou? Rise with thy white arms and draw Cynthia down to thy embrace."
As he spoke the moon actually was veiled by a passing cloud.
"I knew he would obey me," he exclaimed triumphantly. "Am not I lord of
the night and of its shadows?"
Had there remained in my mind any doubt as to his sanity this absurd
effusion would have effectually removed it. The sound of the church
clock chiming the half hour now smote on my ears. If the maniac adhered
to his threat I had but thirty minutes left to live, and I concentrated
all my faculties upon the difficulties of my position. My uncle must by
this time have returned with Sir Hugh, and on finding myself as well
as the keys of the Nuns' Tower and the gallery missing, would guess
where I was and they might even now be on their way to seek me and
to arrest the artist. If they were listening outside they would hear
Angelo's voice and would understand the peril I was in. They could not
easily force the door, nor, if they had any suspicion of the artist's
insanity, would they be so rash as to try, but one blow would shatter
the window and give them instant admission into the tower.
Buoyed up with the hope that help might arrive at any moment, I
resolved, if possible, to soothe and flatter the maniac, with a view
of gaining time and of getting him to postpone his self-imposed task
beyond the midnight hour. I would persuade him to talk of his last
picture, of his brother artists, of his early days at Rivoli--of
anything, that would divert his attention from me, and delay the fatal
stroke.
"Angelo, listen to me," I said, forcing my voice to adopt the slow
deliberate tones I have heard hospital nurses employ in order that they
may the more readily find lodgment in the disordered brain--"I am
quite willing to die."
Even while saying this, the incongruity of telling a falsehood when so
near the point of death occurred to me, but I repeated the falsehood:
"I am quite willing to die."
"It is sweet to die for art," cried the artist gravely, as if the
remark were an indisputable axiom.
"I will not struggle with you."
This at least was true, for the silken bands would not let me.
"Daphne wished you not to struggle," remarked the madman.
"But before I go, tell me--tell me--" I hesitated, not knowing what to
say next. "Tell me--what has become of my brother George?" I cried, on
the spur of the moment. "You must know," I added.
"Your brother?" cried the artist, his eyes lighting up, as if some new
chord in his memory were touched. "Your brother?"
He was silent for a moment as if reflecting; and then looking all
around, as if to ascertain that we were alone, he whispered:
"You will never reveal to any one what I am going to tell you?"
"It will not be within my power to reveal anything after you have
finished with me," I replied with a smile that was the essence of
ghastliness.
"True, true; I am forgetting that."
Taking up the stained poniard, he bent forward in his chair and
whispered between his white teeth:
"You see this red stain? _His!_ It is a twelvemonth old--a twelvemonth
this very night."
Making a stab at an imaginary figure, he looked at me, and said:
"Wait. I'll show you how I did it presently."
"I am quite willing to wait." My trembling lips could scarcely frame
the words. "Let me have the whole story--every word. I shall not mind
if you take hours over it."
"You shall have the whole story. Oh, you shall not lose a syllable of
it! Ho! ho! it was a master-stroke of craft. Was Borgia or Macchiavelli
ever more cunning? I glory in the deed. I love to dwell on it. I act
it every night. In the secrecy of my chamber, in the quietness of the
picture-gallery, I rehearse the whole tableau of that glorious time.
They would not permit me to do this in the day-time, you know," he
said, exchanging his excited manner for one that was quite grave and
confidential. "They would call me mad: they would take me away--far
away from my studio and my easel, and they would put me in a padded
room, and I should paint no more. But I am too cunning for them,"
he cried, his eyes lighting up once more with the fire of madness.
"I baffled them. They know not that in the still hours, while they
sleep, I am occupied in the work of killing Captain Willard. He takes
a deal of killing, too!" he added, resuming as if by magic his quiet
air again. "Each night I slay him; yet each night he returns again,
clamouring for the death-stroke. I would not believe it if I did not
see it for myself. Strange, is it not?" he concluded, turning to me.
"It's extraordinary!" my white lips gasped. Which, if it were true, it
most certainly was.
The maniac stared at me a few seconds with a most bewildered air,
looking as if he had forgotten something, or as if he did not quite
understand how I came to be in my present position, and then went on:
"Yes, this red stain is his. I slew him. Why? Let me think," resting
his elbow on the table and pressing his forefinger to his brow for all
the world like a sane man. "Let me think; I had a motive for it. What
was it? Love of my art? Yes, that was it--art."
He paused again, as if he found it difficult to collect his shattered
memories.
"From the first hour of my calling as an artist it became an object
with me to woo and win a woman whose face should be all that a painter
could desire. No vulgar model who displays her charms for hire would
do for me; my inspiration must come from a pure and beautiful maiden
who, fired with the spirit of my enthusiasm, would be devoted to all
that was high and noble in art for its own sake. Her lovely shape,
delineated in various attitudes on the canvas, should be the making of
my pictures. In short," he added, "I was a second Zeuxis in quest of
beauty."
He made another stop, and then resumed:
"At last, after long years of waiting, I found what I had sought.
Imagination could not picture a form more lovely than that of Daphne
Leslie, and I resolved to make her the handmaid of art. But there was
an obstacle in the way. That obstacle was Captain Willard. No matter.
He must die; art demanded it, and I took an oath that the eve of his
wedding should be the last day of his life. But how was I to set about
it? I knew what suspicions would arise--what a hue and cry would be
raised by society--if a distinguished officer, who had come all the way
from India to wed a rich and lovely bride, should vanish mysteriously
on the very eve of his intended marriage. All the machinery of the law
would be set in motion to discover the author of the deed. Suspicion
would be sure to fall on the artist who was known to entertain feelings
of love towards the bride. 'It was Vasari that did it,' men would
say, 'and jealousy was the cause.' I must act with caution. Ah! I
would forge a letter in Captain Willard's handwriting--easy task this
for an artist!--purporting that he had fled of his own accord to the
Continent. Ho! ho! it was bravely done--bravely. No one ever dreamt
that he was dead, and that Angelo had killed him."
He put on an air of savage pride which plainly implied, "Now what do
you think of that?"
Like a trembling child flinging a cherished eatable to a dog of which
he is afraid, I flung the maniac a propitiatory falsehood, despising
myself for it the minute afterwards:
"I always thought you were a clever fellow."
He accepted this tribute of admiration with the air of one who quite
deserved it, and continued:
"Yes; I would so arrange the affair that none should ever discover
what had really happened. I would kill him and travel in his dress
to Dover, making it appear as if Captain Willard had really departed
for the Continent. I was not unlike him in build and features, and by
painting and disguising my face I could transform myself into his very
image. I tried the experiment beforehand. The mirror showed me what an
actor the stage has lost. Even you were deceived when landing from the
steam-packet last Christmas morning. It was I whom you saw on the pier
amid the falling snow."
My amazement at this point was so great that it made me forget the
perilous situation I was in. Spellbound at the revelation, I stood like
a spectator gazing at some actor who enthralls him.
"His death furnished me with a noble idea in connection with the
picture I was then painting, 'The Fall of Cæsar.' Did not Parrhasius
when he wished to paint Prometheus chained to the rock and tortured by
the vulture, order one of his slaves to be fettered, and the bosom of
the shrieking captive to be laid open, that he might paint the agony
of Prometheus in all its glorious reality? Gods! what a picture that
must have been! Oh, that I, too, could have by me a man just slain,
with the red blood distilling from the wounds! What a glorious model
it would be! Its image transferred to the canvas would be the making
of my picture. What realism it would exhibit! This work at least would
not be called mediocre by the cold critics. Ah! bright thought! Captain
Willard shall be my model. The very stroke that deprives a rival of
life shall be the means of elevating me to fame. Could vengeance take a
sweeter, a more subtle form?"
It seemed an age since Angelo had begun his recital, but as the
church-bells had not pealed the quarter, I knew he had not yet been
fifteen minutes over it. My ears were keenly alert for any sound that
might indicate that help was approaching, but everything was still and
quiet outside the tower.
"I met Captain Willard late on Christmas Eve returning from Daphne's
house. I asked him to come to my studio for a few minutes: 'I have a
surprise for you,' I said. So I had. As I spoke I had to turn my face
from him to hide the light of triumph in my eyes. He came willingly
enough, talking of the happy morrow. We were alone. I led him to a
picture on an easel. 'A present for your bride; do you like it?' I
said, standing behind him. Oh, what a thrill was going through me!
'Yes,' he replied--his last word! 'Well, how do you like _that_?' I
cried as my weapon descended. Hatred--love--fame nerved my arm with a
triple power, and I struck him down--down--down. This is how I did it."
At this point the maniac sprang to his feet with the rapidity of
lightning, and, lifting the dagger on high, made a swift downward stab
at an ideal figure. My heart gave a great leap, for I thought he was
going to strike me.
"With one loud cry he dropped--thud! Oh, that cry! It rings in my
ears still. It was the sweetest music to me. I stood over him with my
dripping weapon ready to deal him a second stroke, and a red drop fell
on his vest. I wanted him to cry, to move, to rise, that I might have
the pleasure of striking him down once more. But he never moved after
that one stroke, and I took him up in my arms and flung him down again
that I might enjoy the luxury of the sound."
Dropping the dagger, he illustrated his words by going through the
motion of flinging a body to the ground. Anything more devilish than
his manner I had never seen.
"And he fell thus, and lay in this manner--_so_."
And here the maniac flung himself backward with his arms aloft, and
dropped to the floor so swiftly and naturally that I marvelled he did
not hurt his head on the yellow-sanded stone. And there he lay in
silence for a few seconds, with his eyes closed and his limbs rigidly
extended in imitation of a dead body.
I thought of the figure in the grey cloak that Fruin had seen lying
on the floor of the picture-gallery. That figure had been none other
than the mad artist, whose diseased imagination gloried in the still
hours of night in rehearsing the terrible drama of last Christmas Eve.
His monomania, in fact, had taken the shape of a subjective reslaying
of the slain, united to an objective wearing of his victim's dress.
Instead of destroying that evidence of his guilt, he had retained
George's clothing, and, as his subsequent ravings showed, regarded it
as a memento of his own cleverness.
The artist rose to his feet, and flung himself back in his chair again,
apparently exhausted by his emotion.
"Cruel?" he gasped, staring at me, and striving to palliate the deed
by the example of others. "Cruel? If Giotto stabs his living model on
the cross that he may paint a crucified Christ, if Parrhasius damns his
slave to torture that he may produce the agony of Prometheus in all its
realism, may I, too, not have my victim? Cruel? It was a sacrifice to
art. Churchmen have burned each other for the glory of God. Art is my
god."
And the maniac lifted his clenched hand aloft as if defying Heaven.
"My rival was lying at my feet, dead. I wanted his clothing for my
purpose, so I stripped him. Gods! what a figure for an artist! But he
had received only one wound as yet--Cæsar had many--so I dealt him some
six strokes or more. How the red blood spouted up! Oh, those wounds!
'Poor dumb mouths!' How eloquently they will speak from the canvas!
What a divine picture I shall produce! 'Il Divino' will deserve his
name at last. Already I hear the voice of the public saying, 'What a
genius this Vasari is!' Ah! that reminds me. You have not yet seen my
noble work of art. You shall. 'Tis behind that tapestry."
Evidently the maniac did not know that the picture had been removed. I
trembled lest he should rise and discover its absence.
To my mental agony was added physical suffering, due to the unnatural
position of my arms. For the sake of relief I had often moved them to
and fro and up and down at the back of the pillar. I was now moving
them farther round than they had been before, when my wrists came in
contact with something sharp. Feeling with my fingers as well as I
could, I discovered that a part of the column had crumbled away with
time and presented a rough, ragged edge. An idea darted into my mind.
An idea? Say an inspiration rather. My wrists were not in contact--the
breadth of the pillar prevented that--there was a distance of about a
foot between them. The silken band that secured me was drawn in a tight
slip-knot round one wrist, and, proceeding to the other, encircled it
in the same manner, and then hung downwards trailing on the floor.
Now if I could but bring the band connecting my two wrists across the
sharp edge of this stone, steady attrition would tear it into two
portions, and I should be free. With some difficulty I worked the
twisted silk into the requisite place, and then began as vigorous a
friction as my cramped position would allow, dreading every moment lest
the madman should perceive my motions and detect their cause.
Though bending all my energies to the task before me, I tried at the
same time to give a listening ear to the artist, but I am of opinion
that my further report of his utterances is far from being a faithful
one.
"I donned my rival's attire. I was no more Angelo: I was the Captain.
How well his dress became me! Observe my military cloak, my martial
stride! See my painted scar--my brown hair and beard! I had prepared
for all this weeks beforehand. Who that saw me now would take me for
poor 'Il Divino,' whose pictures are always a failure? But I had no
time to lose--the Dover train would be starting soon--and, leaving my
divine model locked up in the studio, I hurried off to the station,
posting on my way the forged letter that was to tell Daphne that
her bridegroom had fled to the Continent. Now for Dover to prove
the truth of the letter. The booking-clerk, the guard of the train,
the ticket-collector, could all swear that an officer in every way
resembling Captain Willard had travelled to Dover on that Christmas
morning. I stood on the pier-head expressly for you to see me! I knew
that you were coming in by that steamer, for Daphne had told me the
hour of your intended arrival. Ho, ho! his own brother thrown off the
scent, and ready to swear he had seen George at Dover, at the very time
that George was lying dead in my studio! It was rare glee afterwards
to listen with grave face to the various theories propounded in my
presence to account for Captain Willard's flight. And the world calls
me mad!"
I was not aware that the world did so; but if it did, it had ample
reason in his wild laugh, and demoniac glee. However, as his eyes were
off me, I worked away desperately at my silken manacles.
"I must not return to London in the same attire: that would be to
contradict the letter; and I must not return in my own: that might
involve _me_ in suspicion, and give rise to awkward questions if it
were known that I had been at Dover on the morning of Captain Willard's
flight. No! I would return disguised in a woman's dress. Ha! ha! how
often have I heard you discuss the identity of the veiled lady who
travelled with you from Dover to London! Learn now that the veiled lady
is before you. Now you know why she was dumb. I could not disguise my
voice so effectually but that you might recognise it next morning at
the wedding."
To say that I was amazed at this revelation is but a feeble way of
expressing it. Great as was my amazement, however, it did not check
for an instant my working for freedom.
"There was living then at Dover an old friend of mine from
Rivoli--Matteo Carito by name. He was caretaker to an Italian family
who were spending their winter abroad. I had paid him a chance visit
the previous week, and he had casually told me that he meant to spend
his Christmas with some Italian friends in London; he thought he might
safely leave the house for a day or two. It would be empty, then, on
Christmas morning. Good! Unknown to him, I procured a key that would
open the front door; in the secrecy of this house I would assume my
female disguise. Do you remember finding me outside old Matteo's house?
You came on me as swiftly and silently as a ghost. I was startled, for
I knew you were his brother--Daphne had many a time pointed out your
portrait to me--and I thought all was discovered. But I baffled you--I
eluded you--how adroitly you know. Matteo's house was my asylum. But
Matteo had not gone to London after all, and discovered me in the very
act of changing my attire. He wanted to know how I had gained access
to the house, and why I was masquerading in two different disguises.
For a minute I hesitated; I thought of braining him on the spot. It
would have been rare sport. But I pitied him--he had known me from
childhood--and I concocted some story that seemed to satisfy him at
the time. Would now that I had slain him there and then! It would have
saved me a world of trouble. He discovered it all!"
I was still tearing away fiercely at my bonds, confident that if the
artist continued his ravings for a few more minutes my hands would
be free. The friction of the silk on the jagged edge of the pillar
produced a sharp rustling noise, but the artist noticed neither the
sound nor my motions, so taken was he with the story of his own
cleverness. He seemed to be orating more for his own satisfaction than
for my information.
"Yes, he discovered it all," continued he. "I had thought myself
safe, for had I not effectually disposed of the body? Steeping it in
chemicals and wrapping it in asbestos, I had in the dead of night,
in the secrecy of my cellar, committed it to the flames. Ho! ho! A
true classical funeral that, as became the subject, for was he not
the pagan Cæsar of my picture? 'Vulcan, arise! Vasari claims thine
aid.' Ah! what a glorious night that was as I moved round the funeral
pyre, pouring on oil and chanting an ode from Horace! What a splendid
picture it would have made--'A Pagan Funeral!' How I regretted that I
had not prepared my canvas for the event! But it was too late to think
of that. Then, one dark night, on some lonely common, I scattered the
ashes to the four winds. Not a trace of my victim left! And yet, after
all my care and caution, that old dotard of a Matteo had discovered
my secret--discovered it by accident. I was at Paris, exhibiting my
picture to admiring thousands. Among those who thronged to gaze at my
'Cæsar' was a Colonel Langworthy, but just returned from India. 'That
face is very like my friend Willard, who disappeared so strangely
last Christmas!' he cried. I turned to the speaker, and whom should I
see at his elbow but old Matteo, with his great eyes staring at me.
He had heard this chance remark: he at once divined my secret. I was
so infuriated that next day, when the Colonel was coming to take a
second view of my picture, I ordered him to be thrust out--a mad act,
for it got into the newspapers, and confirmed Matteo's suspicions.
Thenceforward I had no peace, for no bribe would stop his mouth. He
was forever reproaching me. I had made him an accessory to a crime,
he said. His conscience troubled him for having in a manner aided me
to escape on that Christmas morning. He could not sleep at night.
Poor fool! He could go no more to Mass with such a sin on his soul.
He followed me to Rivoli. He must--he must confess all to the priest.
Damn him! he did! That was why Father Ignatius refused me the Mass that
morning, and Daphne present, too, to witness my humiliation! It was
that that caused her to look with a different face on me, and to turn
from my love with scorn. I marvel now that she is still living when I
recall my fury at her refusal. She was nearer to death then--nearer to
her lost George--than she had been since her bridal morning. My old
nurse said I was mad that day; perhaps I was. No matter. Let Daphne
refuse me, hate me as she will, she cannot recall her dead hero to
life. There was consolation in that thought. That night, as I was
making preparations to depart from Rivoli, I came across his grey
cloak. I always carried it with me. It was a joy to gaze on it, to
think how I had won it. It was a sign of my triumph--it was a proof
that he would trouble me no more with his rivalry. I put it on, for I
loved to act the scene over again, and sallied out in it. I remember
now with what glee I climbed crags and cliffs, singing and dancing
along. Aha! who is this in monkish garb that rises up before me in the
moonlight? Old Matteo, as I live! Matteo! Matteo the betrayer! He sees
me, he turns, he flees. Ha! ha! what feeble steps! I hear him. How he
pants for breath! With one fierce leap I am on him. Ho! ho! my hand is
on his old throat. How he struggles as I force him to the edge of the
cliff! How he clings to me! 'Mercy! mercy!' he screams. Mercy? To him
who had robbed me of my fair model? He could not tell any more tales
after I had finished with him. From the cliff----"
The artist stopped abruptly, and assumed a listening air. Along the
gravel path outside came the tread of many feet approaching the place
of my captivity. My heart throbbed wildly with hope, for I made certain
that it was the Baronet and my uncle coming to my rescue. It was not
so, however. Sounds of laughter, the rough voices of men mingling with
the sweeter tones of women, floated upward to our ears, and I knew then
that it was the party returning from the vicarage. They passed quickly
beneath the window of my prison--so quickly that I had scarcely time
to realise the situation--and by and by were standing, so I judged, on
the lawn at the rear of the Abbey. Then came a silence, followed by the
twanging of strings, the faint puffings of wind instruments, and such
sounds as are usually the prelude to music, and I knew that they were
going to sing some carols for the edification of the Baronet and the
other tenants of the Abbey.
I glanced at the artist. Should I give one loud shout for aid? I
hesitated, lest the cry should cause him to sheath his dagger in my
breast. I resolved first to make one more attempt to burst my bonds,
and, exerting all my strength, I strained desperately at the twisted
silk, plunging forward as far as its limited length would allow,
careless almost as to whether the eyes of the artist were on me or not.
And now uprose an outburst of instrumental melody which lasted for a
minute or so, and then, as the harmony subsided into fainter keys, the
carol began. It was a solo.
Whose tones were those that now rose so clear and silvery on the still,
frosty air? Was I doomed to die with Daphne's voice ringing in my ears?
She thought, perhaps, that I was in the library listening to her
voice, and she was singing with more than ordinary power and sweetness.
How quickly her joy would have turned to terror had she but known my
real situation!
"Aha!" screamed the maniac, so loudly that it could scarcely fail to
attract the attention of those without. "Aha! The spirits! the spirits!
I knew they would be here. They visit me every night. They know the
work that is going on here. Listen--listen--listen to their voices!
They are singing your requiem. How bravely they chanted at the foot of
the grey old cliff the night I flung old Matteo over! What rare music!
Ah! here they come, sliding down the moonbeams! God! what a throng!" he
exclaimed, springing up excitedly and striking at the empty air, which
his delirium was peopling with phantoms. "Off! off! Do you not see
them? One cannot move--breathe in this atmosphere!"
My confused mind heard as in some weird dream fragments of his mad
ravings mingling fantastically with the words of the carol:
Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,
_Christus natus hodie_.
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary,
He is born to set us free--
_Laus Deo!_ the band that connected my two wrists gave way. I was free!
And at the same moment the first stroke of midnight chimed from the
village steeple.
At that sound the artist snatched up the dagger from the table, and
turned towards me.
"The hour is come! Art demands her victim."
"Stand off, you devil, or I'll brain you!" I cried, springing forward
with the ends of the purple silk trailing from my wrists.
The pistols I had brought with me lay on the table beyond my reach,
for the artist stood between them and me, and in default of any other
means of defence I snatched up the massive oaken chair, and balanced it
aloft--a feat I could not perhaps have performed in ordinary moments,
but now excitement imparted a magical strength to every fibre of my
body.
"Come on! I am free now!" I cried, brandishing the chair. "Do you see
me? Free--_free_--_free!_"
In the sudden joy of my recovered liberty I was ten times madder than
my opponent.
The artist might have stood for an image of amazement. Silent and
immovable he stood, staring at me with a vacuous look, evidently unable
to comprehend how I had gained my freedom.
Then suddenly Daphne's voice was drowned in a loud tumult, and in the
quick trampling of numerous feet. This was immediately followed by a
succession of strokes on the massive panels of the door, dealt by some
heavy implements, accompanied at the same time by the sounds as of
persons scrambling up the ivy outside towards the casement. Rescue was
at hand!
And now across the oblong patch of moonlight that lay on the stone
floor between me and the maniac appeared some dark shadows, and,
turning towards the casement to ascertain the cause, the artist beheld
human faces peering in through the diamond-shaped panes. A moment more
and there came a great shivering and shattering of glass. The cold
night air swept with a rush through the broken panes, bringing with it
the wild crash of the Christmas bells, a tumult of voices, and Daphne's
thrilling scream.
Peril makes some men mad. It made Angelo sane. He realised the
situation--realised that his hated rival was slipping from his power;
but the knowledge of this fact only made him more desperate.
"Damn you! you shall not escape!" he cried fiercely. "I'll have your
life, though I die the next moment for it!"
With the dagger gleaming aloft, he darted on me. Measuring him with my
eye, I swung the chair round, and tried to bring it down on his head,
but he eluded the blow by springing deftly to one side.
The robe of tragedy is often sewn with the threads of comedy. The chair
intended for the artist lighted instead on his unfinished picture, and
went sheer through the canvas, overturning the easel, and inflicting
more damage to the painted Colosseum in two seconds than old Time has
been able to inflict on the solid original in well-nigh two millenniums.
"My picture! Oh, my picture!" cried the artist. "You have destroyed it!"
Petrified with dismay, he gazed on the ruins of his work of art,
oblivious for the moment of everything else. Taking advantage of his
surprise, I sprang forward, and seized him by the throat with such
force and energy that he toppled backwards, and measured his length on
the floor of the cell. I fell with him.
"That's it! Bravo! Hold him down!" cried a voice, which I recognised as
the Baronet's. "We'll be with you in an instant."
Sir Hugh, my uncle, and some others were standing on the window-ledge,
striving to effect an entrance by forcing asunder the slender
cross-bars of the casement.
The artist lay extended on the floor of the cell. My knee was on his
chest, and with one hand I grasped him by the throat, and with the
other pinioned to the floor his hand that held the dagger. I tried to
keep him in this position till aid should come, but with a strength
almost superhuman he rose to his feet, dragging me with him, and,
grappling with each other, we swayed backwards and forwards in the
moonlit cell.
"I always hated you," he gasped. "But for you I might have won the love
of Daphne. You shall not escape me!"
He made frantic efforts to reach me with the dagger, but I clung
heavily to the arm that held it, impeding his power of action. At
length with a sudden effort of strength he flung me off, but as he did
so the cross-bars of the casement gave way, and three human bodies
were projected through it in a most ungraceful fashion, and fell on
all-fours to the floor.
For one second the artist stood irresolute, and then darting towards
the secret opening, he disappeared from view.
The cell seemed to swim around me, a mist passed before my eyes, and
then dimly as in a dream I became conscious that I was reclining in
an oaken chair, supported on one side by my uncle and on the other by
Daphne. The door of the tower was wide open, hanging obliquely on one
hinge. Someone was putting a lighted match to the wick in the antique
iron lamp, and its bright flame lit up a crowd of faces that were
bent upon me with wondering looks. At one end of the cell some men, a
helmeted police-officer among the number, were kneeling, fingering and
clawing at the stone slab which the artist had pulled down after him to
cover his retreat.
"It must be chained down," I heard the Baronet saying. "Pass the
crowbar. Damn it! the fellow will escape."
"His eyes are open," I heard Daphne saying. "Oh, Frank, you are not
hurt, are you?"
She was now kneeling beside me, her lovely eyes full of tenderness and
sympathy. It was worth all the agony I had endured to be the object of
her sweet pity. I tried to speak, but emotion checked my utterance, and
I could reply to her question only by an assuring smile.
"You are looking like the very dead," said the doctor. "Here, take a
drop of this. This will revive you."
"Is my hair grey?" I murmured, putting my hand to my head, as if it
were possible to ascertain by the sense of touch. "Do I look old? I
feel like a captive liberated from the Bastile. How long have I been in
this prison? Years upon years?"
In a few words I told my shuddering listeners of the artist's designs
on me. From regard to Daphne, I reserved the story of George's end for
another occasion.
"Ay, ay," remarked the doctor, gravely shaking his head. "I saw this
morning that he exhibited all the symptoms of insanity. Genius and
madness are often allied."
"Well, thank Heaven you are safe!" exclaimed my uncle fervently;
"though more by your own efforts than by ours," he added.
"Have you only just returned from the magistrate's?" I asked him.
There is a good deal of ingratitude in human nature, and even in the
first joy of my deliverance I felt a disposition to reproach my uncle
for what I considered a very tardy rescue, totally forgetful of the
fact that if my rescuers had appeared earlier on the scene there
would have been an end of me, for the artist at sight of them would
have effected his deadly purpose without my being able to offer any
resistance.
"Yes, we have only just returned," he answered, understanding the
motive of my question. "Everything that possibly could went wrong.
The carriage broke down half way from the Manse, and when we set off
to finish the journey on foot we missed our way on the moors and were
a long time in finding it again. When we did reach the Abbey and did
not see you about we guessed where you were and came at once to the
tower. We heard enough to assure us that something very serious was the
matter, and as we could not hope to make our way in empty handed we ran
back for--"
He was interrupted by a shout coming from outside of the cell, and
turning quickly I saw that the slab had been lifted up revealing a
stairway beneath.
"Turn your lantern down here, Wilson," cried the Baronet excitedly,
"and lead the way. Look sharp, or he'll escape after all."
The constable obediently went down the opening, followed by Sir Hugh,
my uncle and two or three other men. Thinking that I had as good
a right as any to join the pursuit, I rose with the intention of
following them, but at Daphne's entreaty, I forbore, and, leaving the
cell, we both walked across the lawn to the Abbey, all unconscious of
the tragedy that was happening under our very feet.
For the steps down which the artist had fled opened into a stone
passage, the walls of which were dripping with moisture and stained
with horrid fungi. At the foot of the steps Sir Hugh came upon a
recess, where they found a grey cloak, and a gentleman's dress suit.
The Baronet, with a look of inquiry on his face, pointed out these
things to my uncle.
"Yes," said my uncle, "those are his clothes right enough. They
are what he wore the last time we saw him alive. It is clear that
Vasari murdered him that night, and he has kept these clothes by him
ever since. Look," he went on, "this is where he was stabbed," and
he pointed to a cut in the back of the coat. As he was handling the
garment something bright fell from the breast pocket, and stooping to
pick it up he recognised the ring which Daphne had thrown into the well
at Rivoli.
"We mustn't stop," the Baronet said. "Hold up the light, Wilson," and
the whole party again stumbled forward along the passage.
"Where does it lead to?" the constable asked, peering cautiously into
the darkness before him.
"I wish I could tell you," Sir Hugh replied. "I have never seen the
place before. It must be the nuns' corridor of ancient days. I always
understood it had been bricked up. By the way, we must go carefully.
If I'm right, there must be a deep chasm ahead--the Nuns' Shaft, and
if--hullo, what's that?"
Distant a few paces in front was a human figure crouching low against
the wall.
"There he is," several voices cried at once.
"Take care," said my uncle. "Remember, he is a madman!"
At this, the whole party came to a sudden halt.
"Yield in the King's name," shouted the constable. But whatever effect
the King's name may have upon the sane it cannot be expected to
exercise much influence upon a maniac. Rising to his feet, with a wild
laugh that sounded unearthly in the echoing passage, the madman ran on
into the darkness, with the pursuit hot behind him.
Suddenly he checked his headlong pace, and, turning swiftly, confronted
his pursuers. The light held aloft by the constable fell full on his
despairing face, and to their dying day those who saw Angelo Vasari at
that moment will never forget the sight.
With a gesture in which rage, defiance and hopelessness were all
mingled, he sprang into the air. For one moment he was visible, in the
next he had vanished. No sound broke from him. In absolute silence,
more terrible than any cry, he was swallowed by the blackness beneath
him.
"By God, he's gone!" the Baronet shouted, and there was fear in his
voice. "Stop, stop, for Heaven's sake, or you are all dead men."
"What is it?" shouted some, catching the infection of his fear.
"He has leaped down the shaft of the old silver mine."
Thus died Angelo Vasari, and perhaps it was better that he should
perish by suicide than be taken alive only to fall into the hangman's
hands or drag out a long life in some asylum for the insane. That the
story could be kept from the general public was, of course, impossible,
and the sensation caused at the inquest by the telling of the manner of
his death was enhanced by the account I had to repeat of how my brother
came by his. Vasari's studio in London was examined, and evidence was
discovered in the cellar corroborating his assertion that he had burnt
the body of the man whom he had sacrificed to his insane desire for
fame.
As for the picture itself, Sir Hugh at first thought of destroying it,
but finally decided to keep it on account of its marvellous merit as a
work of art. It was removed from the gallery, and hung by itself in a
room where it could be inspected by the privileged few. Daphne could
never bring herself to look at it. She did not want the idealised
image of her lover to be marred by the ghastly presentment of his dead
likeness.
Whose wife Daphne is now, it is hardly necessary to say. We were
married in the spring at Silverdale, and quiet though we wished the
wedding to be, the church was crowded with people from far and wide who
were eager to see the girl whose beauty had been the cause of such a
tragedy. To efface from her mind as far as possible the memory of that
tragedy is the chief object of my life and I am glad to think I do not
wholly fail. She wears in addition to her wedding ring a second golden
band, the ring that she threw into the well at Rivoli. It is to be
buried with her, she says. May that day be far distant, is my constant
prayer.
THE END
_By the Author of "The Weird Picture"_
THE SHADOW OF THE CZAR
By JOHN R. CARLING
Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50. _Fifth Edition_
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THE VIKING'S SKULL
By JOHN R. CARLING
Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. 350 pages. 12mo. $1.50
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THE MASTER MUMMER
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THE BREATH OF THE GODS
By SIDNEY McCALL
Author of "Truth Dexter"
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