THE PICTURES--AGNES AND THE UNKNOWN--MYSTERY.
When Agnes awoke from the state of stupor in which she had been conveyed
from the church, she found herself lying upon an ottoman, in a large and
elegantly furnished apartment.
The room was lighted by two silver lamps suspended to the ceiling, and
which, being fed with aromatic oil of the purest quality, imparted a
delicious perfume to the atmosphere.
The walls were hung with paintings representing scenes of strange
variety and interest, and connected with lands far--far away. Thus, one
depicted a council of red men assembled around a blazing fire, on the
border of one of the great forests of North America; another showed the
interior of an Esquimaux hut amidst the eternal ice of the Pole;--a
third delineated, with fearfully graphic truth, the writhing of a human
victim in the folds of the terrific anaconda in the island of Ceylon; a
fourth exhibited a pleasing contrast to the one previously cited, by
having for its subject a family meeting of Chinese on the terraced roof
of a high functionary's palace at Perkin; a fifth represented the
splendid court of King Henry the Eighth in London; a sixth showed the
interior of the harem of the Ottoman Sultan.
But there were two portraits amongst this beautiful and varied
collection of pictures, all of which, we should observe, appeared to
have been very recently executed--two portraits which we must pause to
describe. One represented a tall man of about forty years of age, with
magnificent light hair--fine blue eyes, but terrible in expression--a
countenance indisputably handsome, though every lineament denoted horror
and alarm--and a symmetrical form, bowed by the weight of sorrow.
Beneath this portrait was the following inscription:--"F., _Count of_
A., _terminated his career on the 1st of August, 1517_."
The other portrait alluded to was that of an old--old man, who had
apparently numbered ninety winters. He was represented as cowering over
a few embers in a miserable hovel, while the most profound sorrow was
depicted on his countenance. Beneath this picture was the ensuing
inscription:--"F. W., _January 7th, 1516. His last day thus._"
There was another feature in that apartment to which we must likewise
direct our reader's attention, ere we pursue the thread of our
narrative. This was an object hanging against the wall, next to the
second portrait just now described. It also had the appearance of being
a picture--or at all events a frame of the same dimensions as the
others; but whether that frame contained a painting, or whether it were
empty, it was impossible to say, so long as it remained concealed by the
large black cloth which covered it, and which was carefully fastened by
small silver nails at each corner.
This strange object gave a lugubrious and sinister appearance to a room
in other respects cheerful, gay, and elegant.
But to resume our tale.
When Agnes awoke from her stupor, she found herself reclining on a soft
ottoman of purple velvet, fringed with gold; and the handsome stranger,
who had borne her from the church, was bathing her brow with water which
he took from a crystal vase on a marble table.
As she slowly and languidly opened her large hazel eyes, her thoughts
collected themselves in the gradient manner; and when her glance
encountered that of her unknown friend, who was bending over her with an
expression of deep interest on his features, there flashed upon her mind
a recollection of all that had so recently taken place.
"Where am I?" she demanded, starting up, and casting her eyes wildly
around her.
"In the abode of one who will not injure you," answered the stranger, in
a kind and melodious tone.
"But who are you? and wherefore have you brought me hither?" exclaimed
Agnes. "Oh! remember--you spoke of that old man--my grandfather--the
shepherd of the Black Forest----"
"You shall see him--you shall be restored to him," answered the
stranger.
"But will he receive me--will he not spurn me from him?" asked Agnes, in
a wildly impassioned--almost hysterical tone.
"The voice of pity cannot refuse to heave a sigh for thy fall," was the
response. "If thou wast guilty in abandoning one who loved thee so
tenderly, and whose earthly reliance was on thee, he, whom you did so
abandon, has not the less need to ask pardon of thee. For he speedily
forgot his darling Agnes--he traveled the world over, yet sought her
not--her image was, as it were, effaced from his memory. But when
accident----"
"Oh! signor, you are mistaken--you know not the old man whom I deserted,
and who was a shepherd on the verge of the Black Forest!" interrupted
Agnes, in a tone expressive of bitter disappointment, "for he, who loved
me so well, was old--very old, and could not possibly accomplish those
long wanderings of which you speak. Indeed, if he be still alive--but
that is scarcely possible----"
And she burst into tears.
"Agnes," cried the stranger, "the venerable shepherd of whom you speak
accomplished those wanderings in spite of the ninety winters which
marked his age. He is alive, too----"
"He is alive!" ejaculated the lady, with reviving hopes.
"He is alive--and at this moment in Florence!" was the emphatic answer.
"Did I not ere now tell thee as much in the church?"
"Yes--I remember--but my brain is confused!" murmured Agnes, pressing
her beautiful white hands upon her polished brow. "Oh, if he be indeed
alive--and so near me as you say--delay not in conducting me to him; for
he is now the only being on earth to whom I dare look for solace and
sympathy."
"You are even now beneath the roof of your grandfather's dwelling," said
the stranger, speaking slowly and anxiously watching the effect which
this announcement was calculated to produce upon her to whom he
addressed himself.
"Here!--this my grandsire's abode!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands
together, and glancing upward, as if to express her gratitude to Heaven
for this welcome intelligence. "But how can that old man, whom I left so
poor, have become the owner of this lordly palace? Speak, signor!--all
you have told me seems to involve some strange mystery," she added with
breathless rapidity. "Those wanderings of which you ere now
spoke--wanderings over the world, performed by a man bent down by age;
and then this noble dwelling--the appearances of wealth which present
themselves around--the splendor--the magnificence----"
"All--all are the old man's," answered the stranger, "and may some day
become thine!"
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Agnes, sinking upon the ottoman from which she
had ere now risen, "I thank thee that thou hast bestowed these blessings
on my relative in his old age. And yet," she added, again overwhelmed by
doubts, "it is scarcely possible--no, it is too romantic to be true!
Signor, thou art of a surety mistaken in him whom thou supposes to be my
grandsire?"
"Give me thine hand, Agnes--and I will convince thee," said the
stranger.
The young lady complied mechanically; and her unknown friend led her
toward the portrait of the old man of ninety.
Agnes recognized the countenance at a single glance, and would have
fallen upon the floor had not her companion supported her in his arms.
Tears again came to her relief; but hastily wiping them away, she
extended her arms passionately toward the portrait, exclaiming, "Oh! now
I comprehend you, signor! my grandsire lives in this dwelling
indeed--beneath this roof; but lives only in that picture! Alas! alas!
It was thus, no doubt, that the poor old man seemed when he was
abandoned by me--the lost, the guilty Agnes! It was thus that he sat in
his lonely dwelling--crushed and overwhelmed by the black ingratitude of
his granddaughter! Oh! that I had never seen this portrait--this
perpetuation of so much loneliness and so much grief! Ah! too faithful
delineation of that sad scene which was wrought by me--vainly penitent
that I am!"
And covering her face with her hands she threw herself on her knees
before the portrait, and gave way to all the bitterness and all the
wildness of her grief.
The stranger interrupted her not for some minutes: he allowed the flood
of that anguish to have its full vent: but when it was partially
subsiding he approached the kneeling penitent, raised her gently, and
said, "Despair not! your grandsire lives."
"He lives!" she repeated, her countenance once more expressing radiant
hope, as the sudden gleam of sunshine bursts forth amidst the last drops
of the April shower.
But, almost at the same instant that she uttered those words, her eyes
caught sight of the inscription at the foot of the picture; and,
bounding forward she read it aloud.
"Holy Virgin! I am deceived--basely, vilely deceived!" she continued,
all the violence of her grief, which had begun to ebb so rapidly, now
flowing back upon her soul; then turning abruptly round upon the
stranger, she said in a hoarse hollow tone: "Signor, wherefore thus
ungenerously trifle with my feelings--my best feelings? Who art thou?
what would'st thou with me? and wherefore is that portrait here?"
"Agnes--Agnes!" exclaimed her companion, "compose yourself, I implore
you! I do not trifle with you--I do not deceive you! Your grandsire,
Fernand Wagner, is alive--and in this house. You shall see him
presently; but in the meantime, listen to what I am about to say."
Agnes placed her finger impatiently upon the inscription at the bottom
of the portrait, and exclaimed in a wild, hysterical tone, "Canst thou
explain this, signor? 'January 7th, 1516,'--that was about a week after
I abandoned him; and, oh! well indeed might those words be added--'His
last day thus!'"
"You comprehend not the meaning of that inscription!" ejaculated the
stranger, in an imploring tone, as if to beseech her to have patience to
listen to him. "There is a dreadful mystery connected with Fernand
Wagner--connected with me--connected with these two portraits--connected
also with----"
He checked himself suddenly, and his whole form seemed convulsed with
horror as he glanced toward the black cloth covering the neighboring
frame.
"A mystery?" repeated Agnes. "Yes--all is mystery: and vague and
undefinable terrors oppress my soul!"
"Thou shalt soon--too soon--be enlightened!" said the stranger, in a
voice of profound melancholy; "at least, to a certain extent," he added,
murmuringly. "But contemplate that other portrait for a few
moments--that you may make yourself acquainted with the countenance of a
wretch who, in conferring a fearful boon upon your grandsire, has
plunged him into an abyss of unredeemable horror!"
Agnes cast her looks toward the portrait of the tall man with the
magnificent hair, the flashing blue eyes, the wildly expressive
countenance, and the symmetrical form bowed with affliction; and, having
surveyed it for some time with repugnance strongly mingled with an
invincible interest and curiosity, she suddenly pointed toward the
inscription.
"Yes, yes; there is another terrible memorial!" cried the stranger. "But
art thou now prepared to listen to a wondrous--an astonishing tale--such
a tale as even nurses would scarcely dare narrate to lull children----"
"I _am_ prepared," answered Agnes. "I perceive there is a dreadful
mystery connected with my grandsire--with you, also--and perhaps with
me;--and better learn at once the truth, than remain in this state of
intolerable suspense."
Her unknown friend conducted her back to the ottoman, whereon she placed
herself.
He took a seat by her side, and, after a few moments' profound
meditation, addressed her in the following manner.