Lord and Lady Montbarry were received by the housekeeper; the manager
being absent for a day or two on business connected with the affairs of
the hotel.
The rooms reserved for the travellers on the first floor were three in
number; consisting of two bedrooms opening into each other, and
communicating on the left with a drawing-room. Complete so far, the
arrangements proved to be less satisfactory in reference to the third
bedroom required for Agnes and for the eldest daughter of Lord
Montbarry, who usually slept with her on their travels. The bed-chamber
on the right of the drawing-room was already occupied by an English
widow lady. Other bedchambers at the other end of the corridor were
also let in every case. There was accordingly no alternative but to
place at the disposal of Agnes a comfortable room on the second floor.
Lady Montbarry vainly complained of this separation of one of the
members of her travelling party from the rest. The housekeeper politely
hinted that it was impossible for her to ask other travellers to give
up their rooms. She could only express her regret, and assure Miss
Lockwood that her bed-chamber on the second floor was one of the best
rooms in that part of the hotel.
On the retirement of the housekeeper, Lady Montbarry noticed that Agnes
had seated herself apart, feeling apparently no interest in the
question of the bedrooms. Was she ill? No; she felt a little unnerved
by the railway journey, and that was all. Hearing this, Lord Montbarry
proposed that she should go out with him, and try the experiment of
half an hour’s walk in the cool evening air. Agnes gladly accepted the
suggestion. They directed their steps towards the square of St. Mark,
so as to enjoy the breeze blowing over the lagoon. It was the first
visit of Agnes to Venice. The fascination of the wonderful city of the
waters exerted its full influence over her sensitive nature. The
proposed half-hour of the walk had passed away, and was fast expanding
to half an hour more, before Lord Montbarry could persuade his
companion to remember that dinner was waiting for them. As they
returned, passing under the colonnade, neither of them noticed a lady
in deep mourning, loitering in the open space of the square. She
started as she recognised Agnes walking with the new Lord
Montbarry—hesitated for a moment—and then followed them, at a discreet
distance, back to the hotel.
Lady Montbarry received Agnes in high spirits—with news of an event
which had happened in her absence.
She had not left the hotel more than ten minutes, before a little note
in pencil was brought to Lady Montbarry by the housekeeper. The writer
proved to be no less a person than the widow lady who occupied the room
on the other side of the drawing-room, which her ladyship had vainly
hoped to secure for Agnes. Writing under the name of Mrs. James, the
polite widow explained that she had heard from the housekeeper of the
disappointment experienced by Lady Montbarry in the matter of the
rooms. Mrs. James was quite alone; and as long as her bed-chamber was
airy and comfortable, it mattered nothing to her whether she slept on
the first or the second floor of the house. She had accordingly much
pleasure in proposing to change rooms with Miss Lockwood. Her luggage
had already been removed, and Miss Lockwood had only to take possession
of the room (Number 13 A), which was now entirely at her disposal.
“I immediately proposed to see Mrs. James,” Lady Montbarry continued,
“and to thank her personally for her extreme kindness. But I was
informed that she had gone out, without leaving word at what hour she
might be expected to return. I have written a little note of thanks,
saying that we hope to have the pleasure of personally expressing our
sense of Mrs. James’s courtesy to-morrow. In the mean time, Agnes, I
have ordered your boxes to be removed downstairs. Go!—and judge for
yourself, my dear, if that good lady has not given up to you the
prettiest room in the house!”
With those words, Lady Montbarry left Miss Lockwood to make a hasty
toilet for dinner.
The new room at once produced a favourable impression on Agnes. The
large window, opening into a balcony, commanded an admirable view of
the canal. The decorations on the walls and ceiling were skilfully
copied from the exquisitely graceful designs of Raphael in the Vatican.
The massive wardrobe possessed compartments of unusual size, in which
double the number of dresses that Agnes possessed might have been
conveniently hung at full length. In the inner corner of the room, near
the head of the bedstead, there was a recess which had been turned into
a little dressing-room, and which opened by a second door on the
interior staircase of the hotel, commonly used by the servants.
Noticing these aspects of the room at a glance, Agnes made the
necessary change in her dress, as quickly as possible. On her way back
to the drawing-room she was addressed by a chambermaid in the corridor
who asked for her key. “I will put your room tidy for the night, Miss,”
the woman said, “and I will then bring the key back to you in the
drawing-room.”
While the chambermaid was at her work, a solitary lady, loitering about
the corridor of the second storey, was watching her over the
bannisters. After a while, the maid appeared, with her pail in her
hand, leaving the room by way of the dressing-room and the back stairs.
As she passed out of sight, the lady on the second floor (no other, it
is needless to add, than the Countess herself) ran swiftly down the
stairs, entered the bed-chamber by the principal door, and hid herself
in the empty side compartment of the wardrobe. The chambermaid
returned, completed her work, locked the door of the dressing-room on
the inner side, locked the principal entrance-door on leaving the room,
and returned the key to Agnes in the drawing-room.
The travellers were just sitting down to their late dinner, when one of
the children noticed that Agnes was not wearing her watch. Had she left
it in her bed-chamber in the hurry of changing her dress? She rose from
the table at once in search of her watch; Lady Montbarry advising her,
as she went out, to see to the security of her bed-chamber, in the
event of there being thieves in the house. Agnes found her watch,
forgotten on the toilet table, as she had anticipated. Before leaving
the room again she acted on Lady Montbarry’s advice, and tried the key
in the lock of the dressing-room door. It was properly secured. She
left the bed-chamber, locking the main door behind her.
Immediately on her departure, the Countess, oppressed by the confined
air in the wardrobe, ventured on stepping out of her hiding place into
the empty room.
Entering the dressing-room, she listened at the door, until the silence
outside informed her that the corridor was empty. Upon this, she
unlocked the door, and, passing out, closed it again softly; leaving it
to all appearance (when viewed on the inner side) as carefully secured
as Agnes had seen it when she tried the key in the lock with her own
hand.
While the Montbarrys were still at dinner, Henry Westwick joined them,
arriving from Milan.
When he entered the room, and again when he advanced to shake hands
with her, Agnes was conscious of a latent feeling which secretly
reciprocated Henry’s unconcealed pleasure on meeting her again. For a
moment only, she returned his look; and in that moment her own
observation told her that she had silently encouraged him to hope. She
saw it in the sudden glow of happiness which overspread his face; and
she confusedly took refuge in the usual conventional inquiries relating
to the relatives whom he had left at Milan.
Taking his place at the table, Henry gave a most amusing account of the
position of his brother Francis between the mercenary opera-dancer on
one side, and the unscrupulous manager of the French theatre on the
other. Matters had proceeded to such extremities, that the law had been
called on to interfere, and had decided the dispute in favour of
Francis. On winning the victory the English manager had at once left
Milan, recalled to London by the affairs of his theatre. He was
accompanied on the journey back, as he had been accompanied on the
journey out, by his sister. Resolved, after passing two nights of
terror in the Venetian hotel, never to enter it again, Mrs. Norbury
asked to be excused from appearing at the family festival, on the
ground of ill-health. At her age, travelling fatigued her, and she was
glad to take advantage of her brother’s escort to return to England.
While the talk at the dinner-table flowed easily onward, the
evening-time advanced to night—and it became necessary to think of
sending the children to bed.
As Agnes rose to leave the room, accompanied by the eldest girl, she
observed with surprise that Henry’s manner suddenly changed. He looked
serious and pre-occupied; and when his niece wished him good night, he
abruptly said to her, “Marian, I want to know what part of the hotel
you sleep in?” Marian, puzzled by the question, answered that she was
going to sleep, as usual, with “Aunt Agnes.” Not satisfied with that
reply, Henry next inquired whether the bedroom was near the rooms
occupied by the other members of the travelling party. Answering for
the child, and wondering what Henry’s object could possibly be, Agnes
mentioned the polite sacrifice made to her convenience by Mrs. James.
“Thanks to that lady’s kindness,” she said, “Marian and I are only on
the other side of the drawing-room.” Henry made no remark; he looked
incomprehensibly discontented as he opened the door for Agnes and her
companion to pass out. After wishing them good night, he waited in the
corridor until he saw them enter the fatal corner-room—and then he
called abruptly to his brother, “Come out, Stephen, and let us smoke!”
As soon as the two brothers were at liberty to speak together
privately, Henry explained the motive which had led to his strange
inquiries about the bedrooms. Francis had informed him of the meeting
with the Countess at Venice, and of all that had followed it; and Henry
now carefully repeated the narrative to his brother in all its details.
“I am not satisfied,” he added, “about that woman’s purpose in giving
up her room. Without alarming the ladies by telling them what I have
just told you, can you not warn Agnes to be careful in securing her
door?”
Lord Montbarry replied, that the warning had been already given by his
wife, and that Agnes might be trusted to take good care of herself and
her little bed-fellow. For the rest, he looked upon the story of the
Countess and her superstitions as a piece of theatrical exaggeration,
amusing enough in itself, but unworthy of a moment’s serious attention.
While the gentlemen were absent from the hotel, the room which had been
already associated with so many startling circumstances, became the
scene of another strange event in which Lady Montbarry’s eldest child
was concerned.
Little Marian had been got ready for bed as usual, and had (so far)
taken hardly any notice of the new room. As she knelt down to say her
prayers, she happened to look up at that part of the ceiling above her
which was just over the head of the bed. The next instant she alarmed
Agnes, by starting to her feet with a cry of terror, and pointing to a
small brown spot on one of the white panelled spaces of the carved
ceiling. “It’s a spot of blood!” the child exclaimed. “Take me away! I
won’t sleep here!”
Seeing plainly that it would be useless to reason with her while she
was in the room, Agnes hurriedly wrapped Marian in a dressing-gown, and
carried her back to her mother in the drawing-room. Here, the ladies
did their best to soothe and reassure the trembling girl. The effort
proved to be useless; the impression that had been produced on the
young and sensitive mind was not to be removed by persuasion. Marian
could give no explanation of the panic of terror that had seized her.
She was quite unable to say why the spot on the ceiling looked like the
colour of a spot of blood. She only knew that she should die of terror
if she saw it again. Under these circumstances, but one alternative was
left. It was arranged that the child should pass the night in the room
occupied by her two younger sisters and the nurse.
In half an hour more, Marian was peacefully asleep with her arm around
her sister’s neck. Lady Montbarry went back with Agnes to her room to
see the spot on the ceiling which had so strangely frightened the
child. It was so small as to be only just perceptible, and it had in
all probability been caused by the carelessness of a workman, or by a
dripping from water accidentally spilt on the floor of the room above.
“I really cannot understand why Marian should place such a shocking
interpretation on such a trifling thing,” Lady Montbarry remarked.
“I suspect the nurse is in some way answerable for what has happened,”
Agnes suggested. “She may quite possibly have been telling Marian some
tragic nursery story which has left its mischievous impression behind
it. Persons in her position are sadly ignorant of the danger of
exciting a child’s imagination. You had better caution the nurse
to-morrow.”
Lady Montbarry looked round the room with admiration. “Is it not
prettily decorated?” she said. “I suppose, Agnes, you don’t mind
sleeping here by yourself.?”
Agnes laughed. “I feel so tired,” she replied, “that I was thinking of
bidding you good-night, instead of going back to the drawing-room.”
Lady Montbarry turned towards the door. “I see your jewel-case on the
table,” she resumed. “Don’t forget to lock the other door there, in the
dressing-room.”
“I have already seen to it, and tried the key myself,” said Agnes. “Can
I be of any use to you before I go to bed?”
“No, my dear, thank you; I feel sleepy enough to follow your example.
Good night, Agnes—and pleasant dreams on your first night in Venice.”