How Mr. Pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation
from Italian. Who was the Old Devil? Who was the
Duchessa? Of the narrator's incarceration. Of his
incredible escape. Whose horse was that in the Avenue?
How Mr. Pelly read faster. Was Uguccio killed? Sir
Stopleigh scandalised. But then it was the Middle
Ages--one of them, anyhow! How only Duchesses know if Dukes
are asleep. Of the bone Mr. Polly picked with Madeline.
But what becomes of Unconscious Cerebration? Ambrose
Paré. Marta's little knife. Love was not unknown in the
Middle Ages. The end of the manuscript. But Sir Stopleigh
went out to see a visitor, in the middle. How Madeline
turned white, and went suddenly to bed. What was it all
about? Seventy-seven could wait.
Of course you recollect that Mr. Pelly, when he
came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at
Cowcester, was to read the manuscript Professor
Schrudengesser had sent him from Florence, which
had been the probable cause of all that fantastic
dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory?
Dear Uncle Christopher!--how lucky he should
recollect it all like that! Especially now that it had
all turned out real, because where was the use of
denying it after Mrs. Aiken had heard the
photograph speak, too? If a mere photograph could
make itself audible, of course a picture could--the
original!
Mr. Pelly's reading of Professor Schrudengesser's
translation of the Florentine manuscript was fixed
for the evening after Madeline's return to Surley
Stakes. Uncle Christopher dined alone with his
adopted niece and her parents, after which he was
to read the manuscript aloud in the library where
the picture was hanging. This was a _sine qua non_
to Madeline. The picture simply _must_ hear that
story. But of course she said nothing of the reasons
of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone,
not even to Mr. Pelly himself.
Behold, therefore, the family and the old
gentleman settling down to enjoy the manuscript before
the picture and the log-fire beneath it. The reader
preliminarises, of course; wavering, to do justice to
his impending start.
"Now, Uncle Christopher dear, don't talk, but
begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." So
spoke Miss Madeline when she thought Mr. Pelly
had hesitated long enough.
But this did not accelerate matters, for the old
gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his
dream-narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion
that the picture and the manuscript must be
connected, felt bound to enter his protest against any
such rash assumption. "We must bear in mind," he
said, "that there is absolutely nothing to connect this
manuscript with that picture over the chimneypiece
except the name Raimondi. And although the picture
was certainly purchased from a castle owned by
a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to
suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family.
And the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of--as
we shall see directly--in this manuscript, no
more connects the story with this picture than with
any other picture. My friend Professor Schrudengesser,
although it would be difficult to do justice
to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most
of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree,
and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue.
In this case, however, he admits that it is the merest
surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful
ground."
Mr. Pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory
peroration, and was going to dive straight into the
manuscript, which he had really folded to his liking,
this time. But the Baronet, to claim a share in
erudition for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty
with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say,
"Very doubtful--very doubtful--ve-ry doubtful!" And
this, of course, provoked his daughter to a
renewed attitude of _parti pris_, merely from
contradiction, for really she knew no more about the
matter than this story has shown, so far.
"Don't go on shaking your head backwards and
forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disrespectful
girl. "You'll shake it off. Besides, as to
her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't
it logical to assume that everybody is a member of
any family till the contrary is proved? At least,
_you'd_ say it on your side, you know, if you wanted
it, and I should be frightened to contradict you."
This provoked incredulity and even derision.
After which, a remark about the clock caused
Mr. Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of
apology about the probable imperfection of the
translation. Even then he stopped to say that he
hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's
opinion that the date of the manuscript would be
about 1559, as it speaks to the "Duchessa Isabella,"
to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." He
added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei
Medici, daughter of Cosmo, the second of the name,
who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano.
"Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting,
"unless he poisoned her or there was something
exciting and mediæval."
"Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically,
"he certainly _did_ poison her, strictly speaking.
That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona
is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to
poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge
that your wife makes a point of kissing them every
night before she goes to bed...."
"That's the sort of thing _I_ like. Go on!"
"Why ... of course you place yourself in a very
equivocal position."
"Yes," said Madeline, "and what's more, it
shows what pictures can do if they try. Of course
he murdered her. What are you looking so
sagacious for, Pupsey?" For the Bart's head was
shaking slowly. He showed some symptoms of a
wish to circumscribe the Middle Ages--to stint
them of colour and romance.
"It might be a case to go to a Jury," said he
grudgingly. Whereupon Mr. Pelly began to read
in earnest.
"'To the most illustrious Duchessa Isabella,
most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of
her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless
among musicians, mistress of many languages, to
whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the
stars of heaven stop to listen....' This goes on
for some time," said Mr. Pelly.
"Skip it, Uncle Christopher. I dare say she was
a stupid little dowdy."
"Very likely! H'm--h'm--h'm! Yes--suppose
I go on here: 'In obedience to your highness's
august commands I have set down here the full
story of my marvellous escape from prison in the
Castello of Montestrapazzo, where I passed a
_semestre sottoterraneo_'--six months underground--the
Professor seems to have left some characteristic
phrases in Italian. I won't stop to translate them
unless you ask--shouldn't like to appear patronising!--'over
twenty-five years since, being then quite
a young man--in truth, younger than my son
Gherardo, who is the bearer of this, whom you may
well recognise at once by his marvellous likeness to
his mother, whose affectionate greetings he will
convey to you more readily than I can write them.
For when I look upon his face it seems to me I
almost see again the face as I painted it years ago,
the _sognovegliante_ look'--the Professor fancies the
writer invented this word--_dream-waking_, that sort
of thing--'the _sognovegliante_ look of the eyes, the
happy laughter of the mouth. And, indeed, as you
know her now, she is not unlike the boy, and she
changes but little with the years. For even the
beautiful golden hair keeps its colour of those
days....'"
At this point Madeline interrupted: "But that's
the picture-girl down to the ground. How can
anybody doubt it? Why, look at her!"
Mr. Pelly was dubious. "I don't know. I
couldn't say. There's hardly enough to go upon."
"That's exactly like a scholarly old gentleman!
But, Uncle Christopher dear, do just get up a
minute and come here and _look_!" Mr. Pelly complied.
Generally speaking, we thought it might be rash
to allow ourselves to be influenced by a description;
it was always safest to suspend judgment until
after something else, or something still later than
something else. We had very little to go upon,
independently of the fact that the name Raimondi
connected itself with both the portrait and the
manuscript.
"Then go independently! However, let's come
back and get on with the story." The speaker went
back to her place at her mother's feet, and Mr. Pelly
resumed.
"Where were we? Oh--'colour of those days'--oh
yes!--'and the curvature of the line of his
nostril that is all his mother's....'"
Madeline inserted a _sotto voce_: "Of course, it's the
picture-girl!" The reader took no notice.
"... That he will prove himself of service to
his Excellency the Duke I cannot doubt, for the
boy is ready with his pen as with his sword, though,
indeed, as I myself was in old days, a thought too
quick with the latter, and hot-headed on occasion
shown. But him you will come to know. I, for
my part, will now comply as best I may with your
wish, and tell you the story of my imprisonment
and escape.
"I was then in my twenty-first year; but,
young as I was, I already had some renown as a
painter. And I think, had God willed that I should
continue in the practice of the art that I loved, my
name might still be spoken with praise among the
best. Yet I will not repine at the fate that has
made of me little better than a _poderista_, a farmer,
for see now how great has been the happiness of my
lot! Figure it to yourself in contrast with that of
a man--such a one have I seen, of whom I shall tell
you--full of life and health, all energy and purpose,
cast into a prison for the crime of another, and
unable to die for the little poisonous hopes that
would come, day by day, of a release that never
was to come itself. His lot might have been mine
too, but for the courage and decision of the woman
who has been my good throughout--who has been
the one great treasure and happiness of my life.
Yet one thing I do take ill in my heart--that the
picture I painted of her, the last I ever touched,
should have been so cruelly destroyed.'" Mr. Pelly
paused in his reading.
"The Herr Professor and myself," said he, "are
divided in opinion about some points in connexion
with this--but perhaps I had better read on, and
we can talk about it after."
"'For it was surely the best work I had ever
painted. And none other can paint her now as I
did then. But I must not indulge this useless
regret. Let me get to my story.
"'Know, then, that, being in my twenty-first
year, and in love with no woman, in part, as I
think, owing to a memory of my boyhood I treasured
in my heart--a memory I did not know as Love,
but one that had a strange power of swaying my
life--that I, being thus famous enough to be sought
out by those who loved the art, whether for its own
sake, or to add to their fame, was sent for to paint
the young bride of a great noble, the Duke Raimondi,
at his villa that stands out in the plain of the Arno,
nearer to Pistoia than to Firenze. Thither, then, I
go with all speed, for the Raimondi was a noble of
great weight, and not to be lightly gainsaid. But
of this young bride of his I knew nothing, neither of
her parentage, nor even of her nationality; indeed,
I had been told, by some mistake of my informant,
that she was by birth a _Francese_. You may well
believe, then, that I was utterly astounded when I
found she was...'"
Here Mr. Pelly paused in his reading, and wiped
his spectacles. "I am sorry to say," said he, "that
we come to a gap in the manuscript here--a _hiatus
valde deflendus_--and we cannot tell how much is
missing. There is, of course, no numbering of the
pages to guide us. Italians, it seems, are in the
habit of remaining stupefied--a phrase I have just
translated was '_Son rimasto stupefatto_'--on the
smallest provocation, and the expression might only
mean that this bride of the Raimondi was an _Inglese_,
and plain."
"We are plain, sometimes," Madeline admitted.
"But what geese antiquarians are! You should
always have a girl at your elbow, to tell things.
Why, of course, this young person was the Memory
he had treasured in his heart!"
"I should think it very likely," said Mr. Pelly,
"from what follows later. Only, nothing proves it,
so far. I should like the arrangement you suggest,
my dear Madeline; however, we must get along
now, if that clock's right." He nodded at one on
the chimneypiece, with Time, made in gold, as a
mower of hay; then continued reading:
"'Oh, with what joy my fingers closed on that
accursed throat! One moment more, and I had
sent my old monster whither go the accursed, who
shall trouble us no further, yet shall bear for ever
the burden of their sins, a debt whereof the capital
shall never be repaid, even to the end of all eternity,
Amen! But alas!--that one moment was not for
me, for the knave who bore the mace, though he
missed my head, struck me well and full, half-way
betwixt the shoulder and the ear; and though it
was a blow that might not easily kill a young man
such as I, yet was I stunned by the shock of it, and
knew no more till I found myself...'"
"What on earth is all this about?" said Madeline.
"Surely the wrong page, Uncle Christopher."
"Very wrong indeed! But it can't be helped.
We must lump it. It may be one folded page
missing or it may be half a dozen; we have no clue.
We must accept the text as it is." And Mr. Pelly
went on reading:
"'... Found myself on the back of a horse, going
at an easy amble up a hilly road in mountains. I
was bound fast behind a strong rider, of whom I
could see nothing at first but his steel cap or
morion--and I thought I knew him by it, the basnet
thereof being dinted, as the man whose sword my
beloved had shed her blood to stop, that else had
ended my days for me then and there. For in those
days, _Eccellenza_, I had such eyes to note all things
about me as even youth has rarely. On either side
of us rode another man-at-arms, one of whom I
could recognise as him who had struck at me with
his mace, also missing of slaying me, by the great
mercy of God.
"'I had little heart to speak to either of them,
as you may think, and, indeed, was a mere wreck
of myself of two hours ago; for I judged of how
time had gone by the last smouldering red of the
sundown above the dark, flat, purple of the hills.
My thirst was hard to bear, and the great pain of
my head and shoulder, shaken as both were by the
movement of the horse. But I knew I might ask
in vain, though I saw where a wine-flask swung on
the saddle-bow of him of the mace. It is wondrous,
_Eccellenza_, what youth, and great strength, and pride
can endure, rather than ask a _gentilezza_ of an enemy!
"'Thus, then, we travelled on together, my
guards taking little heed of each other, and none of
me in my agony; seeming, indeed, to have no care
if I lived or died. They rode as fellows on a journey
so often do when they have said their most on
such matters as they have in common, and are
thinking rather of the good dinner and the bed that
awaits them at their journey's end than of what
they pass on the road, or of what they have left
behind. One of them, the knave that had struck
me down, who seemed the most light-hearted of the
three, would at such odd times as pleased him break
into a short length of song, which might for all I
know have been of his own making, so far as the
words went; while as for the tune, it was a cadence
such as the vine-setter sings at his work in Tuscany,
having neither end nor beginning, and suited to
any words the singer may choose to fit to it. Taking
note that he did this the more as the third man,
whom I had not recognised, rode on a short distance
ahead as he did at intervals, I judged this last one
to be his superior in command; and that, if I could
find voice for speech at all, my best chance of an
answer would be from himself and not from this
superior, who would most likely only bid me be
silent at the best, even if he gave no worse response.
So I caught at the moment when he had ended a
rather longer cadence than usual, judging therefrom
that my speech would reach at most him and the
man behind whom I myself was riding. Where was
I being taken so fast, I asked, and for what? And
he answers me thus:
"'"To a good meal and a long rest, _mio figlio_.
To the Castello del bel Riposo. They sleep a long
night at that _albergo_--those who ride there as you
ride. I have ridden more than once with a guest
of his Excellency. But there has always been a
good meal for each, _pasta_, and meat, and a flask of
_vino buono puro_, before he went to rest." Whereon
he laughed, but there was no joy for me in that
laugh of his. I speak again.
"'"I see what you mean, accursed one! That
flask of wine will be my last on this earth."
"'"You speak truly, _caro mio figlio_. It will be
your last flask of wine. You will enjoy it all the
more."
"'"You are a good swordsman----?"
"'"I am accounted so. But this good Taddeo,
whom you are permitting to ride in front of
you--ho! ho!--he also is a good swordsman. But we
may neither of us grant what I know well you were
going to ask. You will never hold a sword-hilt
again, my son, nor rejoice in face of an enemy. I
could have wished otherwise, for you are a brave
boy; and I would gladly have been the butcher to
so fine a young calf."
"'"You are quick to grip my meaning. But I
could have outmatched you both on fair ground.
Now listen! You have a good-will towards me--so
I judge from your words. Tell me, then, this:--how
will they kill me?"
"'"I have never said they would kill you, my
son. I have said only this--that you will have a
rare good supper of _pasta_ and meat, and a rare good
flask of red wine, before you go to rest. And let
me give you this word of advice. Before you go
to rest at the Castello del bel Riposo, take a good
look at the sunlight if it be day, at the stars of
heaven if it be night, for you will never see them
again, for all your eyes will remain in your head,
even as now."
"'Sometimes, _O Illustrissima_, when I wake in
the night, it comes back to me, that moment. And
there below me is the musical tramp of the horses'
feet on the bare road, and I hear the voice of my
friend sing again a little phrase of song--_che ognuno
tirasse l' acqua al suo mulino_--and I heed him very
little, though I can read in his words a wicked belief
about my most guiltless and beloved treasure. I
see the sweet light where the sun was, through the
leaves of the olive-trees that make a _reticella_
(network) against the sky; and the great still star they
never hide for long, rustle how they may! But I
can but half enjoy the light that is dying, and the
star that burns the more the more it dies; for the
pain is great in my shoulder where the blow struck,
and in my head and eyes, and my body is sore at
its bonds and stiff from being held in one position.
And yet I may never see that star again--the star
we called our own, my Maddalena and I, and made
believe God made for us, saying "this star I make
for Giacinto _e la sua sorellaccia_"--neither that star,
nor its bath of light, nor the sun that will make all
Heaven glad to-morrow, unseen by me. For I can
guess the meaning of what my friend has said....'"
Here a little was quite illegible. But no conversation
ensued on that account, both reader and listeners
wanting to hear what followed. Mr. Pelly
read on:--
"'Now I call this man my friend, and, _Eccellenza_,
you will see, as I tell my tale, that this is no derisive
speech. I think that what showed me he was not
all hostility to me in his heart was that he would--I
felt sure--if left to himself, have granted the boon
I would have asked of him, and fought fairly with
me to the death of one or other. So there was love
between us of a soldierly sort. And I, too, could
see how it had grown. For I had half suspected
him of not showing all the alacrity he might have
done with his mace when I had my grip on the Old
Devil's throat....'"
Madeline interrupted: "It's perfectly maddening!
What wouldn't I give to know what it's all about?"
"I'll tell you presently the Herr Professor's
conjectural history," said Mr. Pelly. But this did not
satisfy the young lady.
"Tell us now! I'm the sort that can't wait,"
said she.
The benignity of Mr. Pelly's face as he replied to
her was a sight to be seen.
"The Herr Professor thinks it is quite clear that
this young man, on his arrival at the Palace of the
great noble whose wife he was to paint, fell in love
with some girl of her retinue, possibly having
recognised some friend of early childhood; and that the
Duchess fell in love with _him_. Naturally--because
we must bear in mind this was in the Middle Ages,
or nearly--jealousy would prompt assassination of
one or both of the young lovers...."
"But who was the Old Devil? That's what I
want to know."
"Evidently the wicked Duchess herself."
"What did she want to have her portrait painted
for if she was old?"
"The Herr Professor conjectures that the reason
our young painter remained stupefied when he first
saw the Duchess was that she turned out not to be
young at all, but old and repulsive." Madeline
looked doubtful. "Then the idea was that the
Duchess personally conducted the examination of
the girl--caught the two young people spooneying,
and had her murdered on the spot. And that the
young man thereon went straight for her throat.
After which she naturally felt that it would be
difficult to get on a tender footing with him, as she
had wished to do, and had him consigned to a
dungeon for life."
Madeline disagreed. "No," said she, "I don't
think the Professor's at all a good theory. Mine's
better. Go on reading. I'll tell you mine presently."
Mr. Pelly refound his place and went on reading.
"'... Had my grip on the Old Devil's throat.
And also I had felt his approval in his hands as he
helped to bear me away from the _Stanza delle
Quattro Corone_, though my senses failed too fast
for me to understand what he said to his comrade.
Yet I thought, too, it sounded like "_Un bel giovane
per Bacco!_" So when at last I was unbound, and
stood in the forecourt of a great castle in the middle
of a group of men, some of whom had torches--for
it was then well on into the night--and dogs that I
had heard barking through the last short half-hour
of our approach up the steep and stony ascent to
the great gates that had now clanged to, as I judged
then, for my last passage through them either
way--I, though stiff and in pain, and in a kind of dumb
stupor as I stood there, could still resolve a little in
my mind what might even now be done to help me
in my plight.
"'I caught the words of the third horseman--he
who had ridden on in front--to a huge bloated
man who seemed to be the seneschal or steward in
charge of the place, who went hobbling on a stick,
seeming dropsical and short of breath.
"'We have brought another guest, _Sir Ferretti_,
for your hospitality. _Sua Eccellenza_ hopes you have
room; good accommodation--a clean straw bed or
some fresh-gathered heather. _Sua Eccellenza_ would
not have needless discomfort for your guests at the
Castello. A long life to them is the _brindisi_ of _sua
Eccellenza--sempre sempre_." That is to say, for
all time.
"'And then the fat man answered wheezily, "It
shall be done, _Ser Capitano_. And he shall sup well
and choose his company; it is an old usage and shall
be observed." He then turned to me and said,
with a mock reverence, "Whom does the Signore
choose to sup with before he retires to rest?"
"'I turned to the man I had spoken with as we
rode, and laid my hand on his shoulder. "_Sicuro_,"
I said, "with none other than _Messer Nanerottolo_
here." This was my pleasantry, for he was a
monstrous big man, but not ill-favoured. I went
on, "I owe you a supper, my friend, for that _piccolo
vezzeggiamento_ you have given me----"
"What does that mean?" Thus his hearers, in concert.
"A little caress. I don't know why the Professor
has left some of the Italian words. _Nanerottolo_
means a very little dwarf indeed, and he could
hardly have translated. But he might have said
caress just as well." He resumed reading:
"'"I can feel it in my shoulder still." At this he
laughed, but said again I was a _bel giovane_, and
_molto bravo_. "And it is to you," I said, "that I
owe my supper here to-night." But his _Capitano_
gave a laugh, and said, "_Piuttosto a quel piccolo
vezzeggiamento che tu desti alia Duchessa_----"
Here the reader paused to interpret the Italian
again, which was hardly needed; then said, "There
is another gap in the manuscript here, and it is a pity.
The Professor thinks a few more words from what
followed would have made his theory a certainty."
"Why?" asked Madeline.
"Because 'the caress you gave the Duchess'
could only mean that he owed his supper to having
half strangled the old _Duchessa_. They couldn't
mean anything else in the context."
"Couldn't they? Never mind, Uncle Christopher!
Go on now. I'll tell you presently." Uncle
Christopher obeyed, recommencing as before
after the gap in the middle of a sentence:
"'... Prison for life accords ill with life and
hope and youth and the blood that courses in its
veins. Whereas despair in an exhausted frame,
and pain and hunger, breed a longing for the worst,
and if it may be, for an early death. Hence,
_Illustrissima_, my good supper, which was given
ungrudgingly, while it made me another man, and
better able to endure the pain left from the blow of
my friend who sat at meat with me, gave me also
strength to revolt against the terrible doom that
awaited me. Also, hope and purpose revived in
my heart, and I knew my last word with the world
of living men must be spoken before midnight; for
this was told me by the dropsical Castellan, with an
accursed smile. So I watch for the moment when
my friend, whose name was Attilio, is at his topmost
geniality with the good wine, and then I speak,
none being there to hear, but only he. I speak as
to a friend:
"'"You love the good red wine, Messer Attilio,
and you love the good red gold. Is it not true?
Which do you love the most?" And to this he
answered me, "Surely the good red gold, _Ser Pittore_.
For wine will not purchase _all_ one asks. There is
nothing gold will not purchase--enough of it!"
"'"Listen! Where are they going to hide me
away? Do you know the Castello?"
"'"I was born here. I can tell you all. There is
good accommodation in the _sotterraneo_. It is
extended, but it is not lofty. You will have company,
but the living is poor, meagre. I have said that you
would not see the sun again, but you may! For
in one place is a slot, cut slantwise in the stone, that
the guests of the Duke who come to stay may not
want air. Through the slot, one day in the year
only, and then but for a very little space, comes a ray
from the sun in heaven. In the old days of the
Warrior Duke, when there would be many prisoners
of war, they would count the days until the hour of
its coming, and then fight for a good place to see
the gleam when it came. But the few you will find
there will have little heart for that, or anything else."
"'"Is that the only outlet?"
"'"No! There is the door you go in by. One
stoops, as one stoops to enter the little prisons of
Venezia, deep below the water. And there is the
_Buco della Fame_...." "That is to say," interjected
Mr. Pelly, "The Hunger Hole, or Hunger Pit."
"'"What is that?" I then asked.
"'"What they were used to throw bones down,
when they had made merry and sucked them dry,
to the prisoners below. And there is a drain."
"'"How large is it?"
"'"Large enough for the rats to pass up--no
larger. I used to watch them run in at the outlet,
when I was a youngster. But the _Buco_--that is
large enough for a man to pass up and down--a
sort of well-hole. Not the _Ser Ferretti_ there; he
would stick in it. I have seen it all, for my father
was the gaoler in old days."
"'"Listen now, _Ser Attilio_! You want the good
red gold, in plenty. And you shall have it if you
do my bidding. When you leave this--are you
marking what I say?--go straight to _la Marta_, she
who attends always on the _Duchessa_, and say to
her simply this--that on the day I regain my
liberty, there will be five hundred crowns for her.
Tell her where I am. And for this service to me
you shall receive...."'"
Mr. Pelly stopped reading again. There was
another gap; a portion of the manuscript was
missing as before. He remarked upon the loss to the
reader, apparently, of the whole account of the
young man's first introduction to the dungeon, in
which he seemed to have passed a considerable time--the
best part of six months as far as could be made
out--before we are able to follow his narrative.
He then read on, without comment: "'Little
wonder we should find day and night alike for their
complete monotony, though, indeed, we could
distinguish between them by the light through the
air-slot, the only ventilation through all this extent of
vaulted crypt. But for incident and change, from
day's end to day's end, there was none beyond the
daily visit I have spoken of, of Uguccione the gaoler,
carrying always his little lamp of brass and a basket
of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. Is it
not strange, _Illustrissima_, that a man should live,
should go on living, even when the stupefaction of
despair comes to his aid, without light or movement
or the breath of Heaven on his face. None the less
these others that I told you of had done so, some
more, some less; and the very old man who was but
as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and
his past, had been there already many years when
Uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge.
He was a merry, chatty fellow, this Uguccione, and
talked freely with me at first, and told me many
things. But he said I should not talk for long, for
none did. See now, he said, he would speak to the
old Alberico, and never an answer would he get.
And thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's
face, and asked him some ribald question about _la
Giustina_. But the old man only shrank from the
light, and answered nothing. Who was _la Giustina_? I
asked. Nay, he knew not a whit! But he knew
that the former gaoler, old Attilio, from whom he
took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage
old Alberico, he had but to speak to him of _la
Giustina_. And thereon he flashed his light again
in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave
me black bread and water, and went his way.
"'But this man told me many things, before
I, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of
unvarying captivity. He told me that, even now,
the great Duke, after banqueting in the hall above,
would sometimes for his mere diversion have the
trap opened at the top of the _Buco della Fame_, and
throw down what might be left on table, except it
were such as might serve for the cook again, or to
be eaten at the lower table. And he warned me to
be ready and at hand if I should hear any sound
from above, as then I might get for myself the best
pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come
down in a shower. And I laid this to heart.
"'And now, as I must not weary your Excellency's
illustrious eyes to read needless details
of my sufferings in my imprisonment, I will leave
its horrors to your imagination, saying only this,
that whatever you may picture to yourself, there
may easily have been something still worse. I
will pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me.
"'Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but
which must have been midday, I hear a sound as
of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from
the _Buco della Fame_; and I can hear, too, but
dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in
the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on,
and move as best I may, for I am free to move about
only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to
my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness,
towards the opening of the hole in the low arch
above me. I can touch its edge with my hand.
I look up through the long round tube, and can see
its length now by the size of the opening at the top.
It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty _bracchie_
from the ground I stand on.
"'As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear
plainly the voices above me of those who are merry
with the banquet. And then a face looks down
and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is
only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by
the change from dark to light, so that I cannot
guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh
from above that I compare in my heart to the
laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks
down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices
in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I
myself am nowise better off than the sinners,
heretics and Jews that are consumed in fires
below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down
comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen
stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for
myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he
shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either.
Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar
off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so
dark was his corner. But I had heard him moan
and mutter. Only, before he comes with the others
I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess,
always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this
I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that
has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught
it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the
voices die above, and the darkness has come again,
and the silence.
"'Know, _Illustrissima_, that the eyesight that
lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that
not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he
holds before him may be seen by him, but even the
seams and lines thereon, by which may be known
the story of his life and the length of his days.
But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision,
and could read nought of the paper in my own place;
for all that the crypt was then at its brightest,
it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot
at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the
face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the
turkey and the capon. But he would none of either,
and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze.
So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to
read what I may.
"'It is all like a strange dream now. But,
_Illustrissima_, as I look back to that moment, what
I remember is a huge beating of a heart that will
not be still. It is there, and a gleam of light
through a narrow wall-slot in the masonry is there;
but should you ask me how I read, until I knew by
rote, what was written on that paper, I could not
tell you. Yet I can repeat every word now:
"'"This is to be destroyed, should it reach you,
before the next round of l'Uguccione.
"'"I can get speech of you through the slot.
Watch there always in the early night. It must be
when the old wretch, my master, is in his deepest
sleep.
"'"Your word came to me through la Marta,
months ago, from l'Attilio. They are keen for
their reward. Take heart, oh my dearest one, and
watch for me.
"'"I have sat at the board of my tyrant, and each
day he has taunted me, and pointed down to the
cruel prison of my darling. Oh, if, after all, it is
a lie that you still live! Pray God Attilio is right,
and that this may reach you!
"'"Oh, my beloved, if no better may be, at least
I may compass that you shall receive a tiny flask
of poison; whereof I too may take a fatal draught,
and each may know of the other that trouble is at
an end."
"'She had signed no name, but none was needed.
Hope waked in my heart, for I knew that
Attilio...'"
Here Mr. Pelly stopped reading. Another hiatus!
"The loss of this passage," said he, "is especially
irritating, as it might have supplied a clue to the
identity of the writer of this letter. The remainder
of the story, as I recollect it, leaves us quite in the
dark as to who she was, though I am inclined to
surmise, from the use of the expression 'my master,'
that she was a young person attached to the household
of the Duchess." But for all that, Mr. Pelly's
dream about the picture disturbed his memory.
How could his inner consciousness have concocted
it, consistently with this interpretation of the
manuscript? Still, he was bound to "dismiss it
from his mind," and give his support, provisionally,
to the theory of the Herr Professor. How could
he cite a mere dream in refutation of it? So he
"dismissed it from his mind," and when Madeline
said, "Never mind that now, Uncle Christopher!
Do go on and see if it doesn't all come right in the
end. We'll talk about who she was, after," he was
rather glad to resume, without further comment:
"'... I am hanging in mid-air. Below me is an
awful precipice. If Attilio were to fail me, or the
rope break, what should I do? But I care not; I
care only to succour my darling love, in his dungeon
underground. Do not speak again, dear love, lest
you be overheard within. Attilio says that if I
whisper to you through the little opening no other
prisoner need hear.... I will tell you all. Attilio
knew from his boyhood that the _sfiatatoio_...'"
The reader stopped to explain that this appeared
to be a word equivalent to "blow-hole" in English,
used by founders for the opening left for escape of
air when the metal is poured in.
"'... The _sfiatatoio_ opened under the South
Tower in the wall that is flush with the precipice,
that one may see the sun blaze on all day summer
and winter. None can approach it from below; but
Ser Attilio is strong--oh, the strength of his
arms!--and he can let me down from the great high tower
like a child, and then I hang some little space from
the window-ledge. But I swing a little, and then I
hold by the stonework, and I am safe and can speak.
It is bright in the moonlight and still, and I am
speaking to my darling. Stretch out your hand,
my love, without speech, and seek not I charge
you to hold my living hand, however great the joy
thereof, but take from it the file I have made shift
to steal from the armourer's boy, who will be
beaten for its loss, but whom I will kiss once and
more for his reward. _Pazienza, carissimo mio_....'"
Mr. Pelly put the manuscript on his knee, and
opened his hands out with a deprecating action.
"I'm _very_ sorry, Madeline. I really _am_! But I
can't help it. It is, as you say, most aggravating.
Just as we were getting to the interesting bit! But
you understand what happened?"
"Oh yes! I see it all as plain as a pikestaff.
And, what's more, I saw the very place itself--the
great precipice and the Castle wall that shoots
straight up from it. An _awful_ place! But _what_
a plucky little Duchess!"
"Duchess? I don't quite follow----"
"That's because you are so _stupid_, Uncle Christopher."
"My dear Mad! Really----!" This was the
Bart, and her Ladyship. Because Mr. Pelly wasn't
offended.
"Well, it's true I said I would tell Mr. Pelly all
about it, and then I didn't." She went across to
Mr. Pelly, and leant over him, which he liked, to
get at the manuscript. "Look here! Where is it?
Oh--the old Devil! Yes--that wasn't the Duchess
at all! That was her horrible old husband, the
Duke. And she was the Memory of his boyhood,
don't you see? Oh, it's all quite plain. And my
picture-girl's her. And it's no use your talking
about evidence, because I know I'm right, and
evidence is nonsense."
"It certainly is true," Sir Stopleigh said, "that
the Castle wall is exactly as Madeline describes it,
for I have seen it myself, and can confirm her
statement." He seemed to consider that almost
anything would be confirmed by so very old a Baronet
seeing such a very large wall.
"Suppose we accept Madeline's theory as a working
hypothesis, and see how we get on. If we quite
understand the last bit, and I think we do, what
follows is not unintelligible." And Mr. Pelly
continued reading:
"'... Working thus patiently in long and dreary
hours, and keeping the link of my manacle well in
the straw to drown the grating noise, I come to
know, on the third day of my labour, that but a very
little more is wanted and the ring will be cut through;
and then I know the chance is it will spring asunder
and leave the two links free. But I do not seek to
complete the cut until near the day appointed, for
does not Uguccione now and again examine all those
fetters, sometimes striking them with a small
hammer to make sure they have not been tampered with?
So I keep the ring hidden as best I may, and the
cut I have made I fill in with kneaded bread. And
one time Uguccione does come and strike the irons,
and I tremble. But by great good luck he strikes
so that they ring, and I am at my ease again.
"'Then comes what was my hardest task: the
making of footholes in the shaft that I might climb
and reach the underside of the trap. But first I
must tell you why I need do this. For you will say,
Why could not Attilio let down a cord and pull
me up through the trap? So he could, in truth,
were it possible to open the trap from overhead.
But it was closed with a key from above that came
through a great length to the lock below. Only I
could well understand from the description that this
lock would be no such great matter to prize back
from underneath could I once make shift to reach
it. Therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as I
was, although the links should be parted, to climb
up this long shaft and work at the opening of this
lock, standing on what poor foothold I could
contrive in total darkness.
"'Nevertheless, _Illustrissima_, be assured that I
go to my work with a good-will, though with little
hope. And on the first night I succeed in loosing
three bricks from their place in the wall, at such
intervals that each gives a foothold I may reach to
from the one below it on the other side. And the
next night again three more. And so on for six
nights, working patiently. And now I can touch
the lock that is above me. But understand that I
did not remove these bricks, else had I been at a
great loss where to hide them from Uguccione. I
left them loose in their places, so that I could twist
them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step.
For you know how strong our Tuscan bricks are.
Yet I had much ado to hide away the loose mortar
that came from between the joints. And had it
not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served
to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear
from the ends, and loosened above and below, I had
been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were
they in their places. And all this work, _Illustrissima_,
had to be done in black darkness, by guidance of
feeling only!
"'And now, please you, image to yourself that I
have made my topmost step, and only await a word
of signal through the _sfiatatoio_. And this was,
believe me, my worst time of all. For I knew that
the most precious thing to me in all this world, the
life of my Maddalena, must be risked again to give
me that signal! Nay! I did not know, could not
know, that she had not already tried to give it, and,
so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful
rocks below, where whoso fell might readily lie
unheeded, and not be found for years.
"'But I hold to my purpose in a silent despair.
I watch through hours of the still mornings. But
nothing moves again in front of the little stars that
come and go, for many days. I do not let myself
count the days nor the hours, and always strive to
think of them at their fewest. Then one night a
meteor shoots across the span of sky that I can see,
blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of
fire to die down as they may. And my heart lifts,
for I count it a harbinger of good. And so it
proves, for I next hear--because, understand me,
this meteor shot across Heaven's vault with a strong
hissing sound, like _fuochi artificiati_--the slack of
the rope that lets my darling down to me with her
message of...'"
Another hitch in the narrative. Mr. Pelly stopped
with a humble apologetic expression, having
reference rather to the young lady than to her parents.
"Really, my dear," said he, "I feel quite guilty--as
if I was to blame--when these abominable
blanks come."
"Yes! And you know I always think it's your
fault; and I do get so angry. Poor Uncle
Christopher! What a shame! What's that, Mumsey?"
"Nothing, dear. Only I thought I heard the step
of a horse in the Avenue."
"So did I. Only it can't be anything at this
time of night."
The knowledge that a guest was pending shortly--one
of the sort that comes and goes at will--caused
the Baronet to say: "It might be General
Fordyce--only he said he wouldn't come till
Tuesday." To whom his wife and daughter replied
conjointly:
"Oh no! The General!--not at midnight--well!--at
half-past eleven! Look at the clock.
Anyhow, his room's all ready," etc., etc. After
which Madeline spoke alone:
"Now, Mr. Pelly, go on again. I do so hope it's a
plummy bit." Then, illogically, "Besides, it wasn't
a carriage." She silenced a disposition of her parents
to interpose on Mr. Pelly's behalf by saying: "Oh
no, we shan't tire Uncle Christopher to death.
Shall we, Uncle Christopher?"
"God bless me, no! The idea! Besides, there's
really not so very much more to read. Unless I'm
keeping you up?"
"Pupsey and Mumsey can go to bed, and leave
us to finish."
"Oh no! We want to hear the end of it." Pupsey
and Mumsey were unanimous.
"Very well, then! I can fill up Uncle's glass
and Pupsey's, and we can go on and finish
comfortably. Now, fire away!" And Mr. Pelly read on:
"'... I can hear them in the room above me.
The voice of my darling herself. But oh--this
black darkness! One little gleam of light, and I
know I can manage this accursed lock. But I can
see nothing; and who knows but by trying and
trying stupidly, in the dark, I may not make matters
worse. But I will try, again and again, rather than
fail now.... Oh, she is so near me--so near, I can
hear her voice....
"'All suddenly, a gleam of light from below. A
miracle, but what care I? I can see the lock now,
plain! Ah, the stupidity of me! I was forcing it
the wrong way all the time. Now for a sharp, sharp
strain, with all the strength I have left! And back
goes the lock with a snap! I can hear its sound
welcomed above, and another strain on the trap,
and the first creak of its hinge. It will shriek; and
they stop, as I think, to make it silent with a little
oil.
"'Then my glance goes down the shaft to ask
what was my light, that came to save me in such
good time. It was surely the Holy Mary herself,
or a blessed Saint from Heaven, that took pity on
me....
"'No! It is Uguccione the gaoler, with his little
lamp of brass.
"'"Aha--ha--ha!--my friend. Come you down--come
you down! Or shall I get a little fire and
smoke, to tickle you and make you come? It is
useless, _caro mio_! The wise player gives up the
lost game. Come you down! It is not thus folk
say farewell to the _Castello del bel Riposo_. Come
you down, my friend! Or shall I wait a little? I
can wait! No hurry, look you!"
"'I am sad at heart to have to do it, but there
is no other way. Whether he lived or died I know
not, but I should grieve to think he died. For I
had no hatred for Uguccio, who, after all, did
but his duty. But there is no other way. I am
standing on two bricks that I have placed over
against each other, for firmer foothold and better
purchase on the lock. One of them I loosen out,
standing only on the other and leaning shoulder-wise
against the wall. And then I send it down the
shaft, with a blessing for Uguccio. I can see his
face, turning up to me in the light of his little
broken lamp.
"'The brick strikes him full on the temple, but
it also strikes out his light. I hear him fall. I hear
a groan or gasp. But I see only black darkness
below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that
grows less and less, and will die. Then only
darkness.
"'Then my last senses fail me. But I know the
trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips
my wrist from above. And then I find myself
lying on the floor of a great hall in a dim light.
And into my eyes, as I lie there, little better than a
corpse, if the truth be told, are looking the sweetest
eyes surely God ever made....'"
Here Madeline exclaimed, interrupting, "Oh,
how jolly! Now they're there! But do go on; I
mustn't interrupt. Go on, Uncle Kit." The reader
continued, "'... And her two hands stroke my face
and hold me by my own....'"
At this point Sir Stopleigh interposed respectably.
"A--really," said he, "we must hope that this
young lady, whoever she was, was not the Duke's
wife. You will excuse me, my dear Madeline, but
that is certainly what I understood you to suppose."
His daughter interjected disreputably. "Oh,
bother! Never mind Pupsey--go on."
Then Mr. Pelly said apologetically, "It _was_ the
Middle Ages, you know. Let's see, where were we?
Oh--'hold me by my own'"--and went on reading:
"'... And her dear voice is in my ears, and if I
die now, at least I shall have lived. So said I to
myself, as Attilio worked hard with a file to free
my limbs. And they moisten bread with wine, and
put it in my mouth. For, indeed, what I say is true,
and the last of my strength went in sending that
little _ambusciata_ to the poor Uguccio. Still, revival
is in me, though it comes slowly. But I can only
utter the one word "Love," and can only move to
kiss the hand I hold and the pale face that comes
to mine. Then I hear the beloved voice I had never
hoped to hear again:
"'"Can we trust that wicked old Marta, Attilio?
If she betrays us we are lost."
"'"_Che che_! She owes him an old grudge, and
will pay him--now or later! And a thousand
crowns, _per Bacco_! No, no--trust her!"
"'"But I hear a footstep coming down his stair;
if it is she, it is to say he is waked. If it is he, she
has betrayed us."
"'"Neither the one nor the other, I wager. See,
the Signore is getting the blood in his face. He will
eat soon, and all will be well."
"'Then I feel in my neck a dog's nose, that
smells, and the touch of his tongue; that licks. But
what he would say we know not, though he tries
to speak, too, dog wise. I know him for the
_cagnoletto_ of la Marta, the old woman--for had I not seen
him in the days when I painted my Maddalena in
the _Stanza delle Quattro Corone_?...'"
Madeline interrupted again. "_Now_ I hope you're
convinced. He was sent for to paint the Duchess.
And he painted Maddalena. Of course, Maddalena
_was_ the Duchess!"
"The Herr Professor's theory is that he painted
two ladies, one of whom was Maddalena, some
beautiful attendant with whom he was in love, the
other the Duchess. He may have, you know!"
"He may have done anything, Uncle Christopher!
But he didn't. What's the use of being
so roundabout? Besides, if she wasn't the Duchess,
how did she know the Duke was asleep?"
Her parents may have been anxious to avoid
critical discussions, and suggested that perhaps the
reading had better go on. It is just possible, also,
that Mr. Pelly, who was a typical little old bachelor,
saw rocks ahead in a discussion of the Duke and
Duchess's domestic arrangements, for he introduced
a point of which the Baronet and his Lady did not
see the importance.
"Stop a bit, Miss Mad!" said the old gentleman,
laying down the manuscript. "I've a bone to pick
with you."
"Don't be too long. I want to know what that
old woman had been at. It's only some Scientific
nonsense, I expect. Go on."
"It's not Scientific this time. It's the other way
round." Miss Upwell pricked up her ears. "I
want to know, if there was a Duchess named Maddalena,
what becomes of the theory that I christened
the picture-ghost after you by subconscious cerebration?"
"I see. Of course. I didn't see that." It had
produced a visible impression. Madeline appeared to
cogitate over it in an animated way, and then to
mellow to a conclusion suddenly. "Well--but that
proves it wasn't a dream at all, but a genuine
phenomenon, and all sorts of things. I'm right, and
you're wrong, and the picture was telling the truth
all through. I knew she was." Her three hearers
smiled from within the entrenchments of their
maturity at the youthful enthusiasm of the speaker,
and then said very correct things about this
coincidence and that being really remarkable, and how
we must not allow our judgments to be swayed by
considerations, and must weigh everything deliberately,
and accept everything else with caution, and
hesitate about this, and pause before that, all with
a view to avoiding heterodox conclusions. After
which Mr. Pelly resumed:
"'Then, as Attilio holds his hand a moment from
filing, as one who awaits some issue before he may
begin his labours afresh; and as my darling, whom
alone I see--for I see nothing else--awaits it, too,
I hear a step that halts, and then a door is pushed
from without, and the step halts into the room, as
some clocks tick. And it is then I begin to know
of a great pain in my right hand.
"'And here I may say to you, _Illustrissima_, that
had this chanced but a few years later, this hand
of mine that was my joy to use, the source and very
life of all my skill, might even have been saved,
and I might many times again have painted the
dear face of my Maddalena. For what is there that
is not possible to the skill of the great Francese
Ambrogio?'"
"This would be Ambrose Paré," said the reader,
"who would have been about the same age as
Cosimo dei Medici, the father of the lady to whom
this is written..." But he resumed abruptly, in
obedience to a shade of impatience in Madeline:
"'Yet have I not been altogether disabled. For
do I not write this with my left hand? I am,
however, but an _egoista_--a selfish person--to dwell on
this; though I know your Excellency will pardon
this fault in an old man.
"'I hear, then, the halting step approach. And
both await the words that will follow it in silence.
It is the old Marta Zan.
"'_Sta tranquillo--sta tranquillo per bene_!' He is
quiet--he is quiet for good! Her voice has a little
laugh in it. It is not a sweet laugh to hear.
"'"Does he still sleep--will he sleep?" It is
my Maddalena who asks. And la Marta replies,
"_Non c'e pericolo_! No fear!" But I see across
the shoulder of my darling, as she stoops over me
again and tries to clear my brow of tangled hair--but,
you may well think, to little purpose--I see
that the old woman holds somewhat up, hanging
from betwixt her finger and old thumb, to show to
Attilio. And he laughs to see the little knife and
its sharp point, but below his breath, as guilt laughs
to guilt. But this my beloved heeds not; she is
busy with my hair.
"'I can tell but little now from what I saw with
my own eyes of what happened in the sequel, till I
found myself here again in the little old Castello in
the hills where I passed all the early years of my
boyhood, in the family of my wife's father, now
dead; though her mother still lived, and for many
years after that. What I do remember comes to
me as the speech of those about him reaches the
sleeper who half wakes, to sleep and dream again.
"'I can recollect riding, behind Attilio this time,
down the stony road I had come up in such pain
behind his comrade. I can just recollect the
barking of the great dogs in the Castle court when we
came away; whereon my Maddalena spoke earnestly
to one of them, Leone, and he went and carried her
speech to the others, and they were silent, though
some made protest under their full utterance. And
though I saw the janitors and porters at the great
gate in deep sleep, I did not then know of the cunning
work of the old Marta, who, indeed, was learned in
the use of drugs, and could as easily have poisoned
them all as made them sleep. Indeed, it was said
by many that the clever Duchess of Ferrara, the
sister of Cesare Borgia, had learned somewhat of the
art of poisoning in her youth from this same Marta
Zan. But of this I can say nothing with certainty.
"'But this I do know, that this Marta, who was
then near on eighty years of age, having received
the reward she had earned of five hundred crowns,
and another five hundred for a _buona mano_, did not
accompany us, on the score of her age, being unable
to mount a horse. But, as you may guess,
Eccellenza, it was she who had occasioned the old Duke's
death, and none of my doing, as was said by some,
though the certainty that the knife used was the
girdle-dagger of the fat Castellan Ferretti was held
a sure proof of his guilt, and led to his being
_giustiziato_ some months later. And she chose this way
of sending her old betrayer to Hell rather than that
of poison, seeing that her skill in this last was so
well known to all that there was none other in the
household on whom suspicion could have fallen. On
which account, as I have since understood, she
returned again to his bedside to see her work secure,
and replaced the knife in the wound, whereby the
guilt of his death was fixed on the fat Ferretti. I
can in nowise guess why la Marta so long deferred
her revenge against the Duke, except it was...'"
Mr. Pelly stopped despairingly. "Half a page
gone! We must remain unenlightened--as well as
on a good many other points. There is not very
much more. I may as well finish:--
"'How great my happiness has been with my
Maddalena you, _Illustrissima_, may know from your
most illustrious father, who has known of me
throughout. Life is made up of good and ill, and
what right has one so truly blessed as I have been
to complain of the cruelty of Fate in depriving him
of his right hand and its power of work? Think
of what his lot is to him to whom night and day
alike give the sun in heaven to his soul! Contrast
it with that of the sated blow-fly, of the
world-compelling tyrant, at whose pleasure are all the
contents, at choice, of all the world's treasure-houses,
except Love. That is the one thing wealth
cannot buy, that the behests of kings command in
vain! And that has been mine, in all its fulness;
a fruit whose sweetness has no compeer, a jewel
whose light mirrors back the glow that shines for
ever in the eyes of God....' The reader paused,
for there was an interruption from without.
"What on earth _can_ it be, at this time of night?
I'm sure it's a carriage this time! Do look out and
see--oh no! go on and let's have the rest. It can
only be the General--he changed his mind, and his
train was late. We shall see in a minute--let's
have the last page...." This was collective speech,
which ended when Mr. Pelly said, "There isn't very
much." He went on reading rapidly, subject to a
sense of advent elsewhere in the house:
"'One only thing, as I have said, is to me a
constant thorn of regret--the destruction of the
picture I painted in those early days, of my
Maddalena. It was all my heart and strength could do,
and would have served to tell of all I might have
done had God but spared me my right hand. But
_fiat voluntas tua, Domine_! None knows for certain
how it was destroyed, nor by whom. For the
statement of the Old Devil to my Maddalena, that it was
burned, for that it was judged worthless by men of
great knowledge in Art, and condemned as rubbish,
is of little weight. In those last days what could
have been the motive of such a statement but to
add to my darling's pain? It was averred by the
Ferretti, even to the day that he went to the gibbet,
that it was removed to a place of safety by order
of the Duke; but either he did not choose to say to
what place, or possibly did not know. And when
all the contents of the rooms the Duke had lived in
were removed, and the late Duke, his son, came
and took possession of the castle, so deep was his
hatred of his father's memory--as, indeed, he
believed his mother had been poisoned by his
orders--that he had all the furniture removed, and
all the pictures that might bring back the wicked
old man's memory to his mind. And there was no
such picture among them, as I saw myself; for by
invitation of Duke Giulio, with whom I have always
been on friendly terms, I inspected every picture
as it was removed from the Ducal apartments, the
walls of which, as you know, were so worthily
decorated afterwards by Francesco Primaticcio, to
whom I would so proudly have shown that one
little work by mine own hand. But, alas! there is,
I fear, no doubt that for once only the old Duke
spoke without lying, and that in truth he had had
it burned, for a _dispetto_ to me, and to give a little
more pain to my darling....'"
At this point Mr. Pelly, being close to the end,
read quicker and quicker, to make a finish before
the outcome of the carriage, whatever it was, should
be made manifest and break up the _séance_. But
the time was too short, as Mr. Stebbings the butler
appeared, charged, as it seemed, with some
communication, but hesitating about the choice of
language in which to make it.
"General Fordyce, your ladyship. The General
desired me to say, Sir Stopleigh, would you be so
good as speak to him a half a minute?" But Sir
S. was slow of apprehension, perhaps sleepy, and said
hay what! Both ladies spoke together. "It _is_ the
General! Don't you understand? He wants you
to go out and speak to him."
"Me go out and speak to him--what for?"
"You'll find that out by going. Look alive, Pupsey!"
"I'm coming, Stebbings! What on earth can
the General want to say to me?"
"Do go and see him, and find out." This was
in chorus, from both ladies, as before. Exit Pupsey.
"I wonder what it can be! However, we shall
hear directly. Is there any more to read, Uncle
Christopher?"
Mr. Pelly read in a slighting, conclusive sort of
way:--
"'So now I cannot show you, _Illustrissima_, as I
so gladly should have done, how little change has
come in the golden hair of my Maddalena, in all
these thirty years! Nor the painting of that one
well-remembered lock that fell all in ripples on the
sunflower brocade upon her bosom----'"
Madeline got suddenly up and stood again facing
the picture.
"Now," she said, "come here and see and be
convinced, Mr. Incredulous." And Mr. Pelly came,
and stood beside her.
"Well, my dear child," said he. "That certainly
_does_ look----"
"Very like indeed! Doesn't it? But you'll see
Pupsey will want to have his own way. He always
does!"
"Whatever can your father be talking--talking--talking
to the General about? Why can't they
come in? What on earth can it be?" This is
from her ladyship--a semi-aside. She is listening
to the talking at a distance. Then Madeline said,
"I hope you are convinced, Mr. Pelly," and after
one more long look at the picture turned and went
to the door, opened it, and listened through it. Her
mother said maternally, "Madeline--my dear!" But
for all that she stood and listened, as though
she heard something. And Mr. Pelly, following her
mother's eyes, turned and watched her as she stood.
It seemed to him that something like a gasp took
her, as though her breath caught with a sudden
thrill, visible in her shoulders as her dress was cut,
and that her white left arm, that was farthest from
the door, caught up tight, and as it were grasped
her heart. Her ladyship, looking at her over her
shoulder, began, "Why--child--!" and immediately
got up and crossed the room to her, saying,
"Is anything wrong?" Then, as the girl closed the
door and turned round. Mr. Pelly saw that she had
gone ashy white, near as white as the clean
art-paint on the door she stood by. But she only said,
"I shall be all right in a minute." Her mother said,
"Come and sit down, darling," which she did; but
sat quite still, looking white. "I wish Sir
Stopleigh would come," said her mother. Mr. Pelly
was frightened, but behaved well, for a little old
bachelor.
Presently her colour came again, and she said,
"It must have been my fancy"; and her mother
said, "_What_ must, dear? Do tell us!" But she
only said, "How on earth can I have been such a
fool?" Then her mother said again, "But what
was it, dear?" and she answered uneasily. "Nothing,
Mumsey." Her mother and Mr. Pelly looked at
one another, puzzled.
Sir Stopleigh put his head in at the door, saying
to his wife would she come out for a minute and
speak to him? On which Madeline said suddenly,
"I shall go to bed. Good-night, Uncle
Christopher!--Good-night, Pupsey and Mumsey!" and
lit a candle and went away quickly upstairs. "How
very funny of Mad," her mother said, as she
followed her husband from the room. "Not at all
like her! I'll say good-night, Uncle Christopher,
but you do as you like." The momentary vision
of Sir Stopleigh--who said he would come back
directly--left Mr. Pelly with an impression that he
was very full of something to tell. And certainly
there came a great sudden exclamation of glad
surprise from her ladyship almost as soon as the door
closed behind her.
"I shall hear all about it in good time," said
Mr. Pelly. "At least, I suppose so." He sat down
contentedly in the large armchair opposite the
picture, and looked at the fire. Seventy-seven can
wait.
The murmur of a distant colloquy, heard through
doors and passages, and quenched by carpets,
assorts itself into its elements as the silence in the
library gets under weigh, and sharpens Mr. Pelly's
hearing. He is clear about the woman's voice: his
hostess's, of course--no other. But is that George's,
or the General's, the unexplained outsider's? Surely
that was a third voice, just now? Never mind,
Mr. Pelly can wait!