Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1847 page)

By the yellow candlelight she saw the head distinctly, hovering in mid-air above her. She looked at it steadfastly, spell-bound by the terror that held her.

The flesh of the face was gone. The shrivelled skin was darkened in hue, like the skin of an Egyptian mummy — except at the neck. There it was of a lighter colour; there it showed spots and splashes of the hue of that brown spot on the ceiling, which the child’s fanciful terror had distorted into the likeness of a spot of blood. Thin remains of a discoloured moustache and whiskers, hanging over the upper lip, and over the hollows where the cheeks had once been, made the head just recognisable as the head of a man. Over all the features death and time had done their obliterating work. The eyelids were closed. The hair on the skull, discoloured like the hair on the face, had been burnt away in places. The bluish lips, parted in a fixed grin, showed the double row of teeth. By slow degrees, the hovering head (perfectly still when she first saw it) began to descend towards Agnes as she lay beneath. By slow degrees, that strange doubly-blended odour, which the Commissioners had discovered in the vaults of the old palace — which had sickened Francis Westwick in the bed-chamber of the new hotel — spread its fetid exhalations over the room. Downward and downward the hideous apparition made its slow progress, until it stopped close over Agnes — stopped, and turned slowly, so that the face of it confronted the upturned face of the woman in the chair.

There was a pause. Then, a supernatural movement disturbed the rigid repose of the dead face.

The closed eyelids opened slowly. The eyes revealed themselves, bright with the glassy film of death — and fixed their dreadful look on the woman in the chair.

Agnes saw that look; saw the eyelids of the living woman open slowly like the eyelids of the dead; saw her rise, as if in obedience to some silent command — and saw no more.

Her next conscious impression was of the sunlight pouring in at the window; of the friendly presence of Lady Montbarry at the bedside; and of the children’s wondering faces peeping in at the door.

CHAPTER XXIII

‘...You have some influence over Agnes. Try what you can do, Henry, to make her take a sensible view of the matter. There is really nothing to make a fuss about. My wife’s maid knocked at her door early in the morning, with the customary cup of tea. Getting no answer, she went round to the dressing-room — found the door on that side unlocked — and discovered Agnes on the bed in a fainting fit. With my wife’s help, they brought her to herself again; and she told the extraordinary story which I have just repeated to you. You must have seen for yourself that she has been over-fatigued, poor thing, by our long railway journeys: her nerves are out of order — and she is just the person to be easily terrified by a dream. She obstinately refuses, however, to accept this rational view. Don’t suppose that I have been severe with her! All that a man can do to humour her I have done. I have written to the Countess (in her assumed name) offering to restore the room to her. She writes back, positively declining to return to it. I have accordingly arranged (so as not to have the thing known in the hotel) to occupy the room for one or two nights, and to leave Agnes to recover her spirits under my wife’s care. Is there anything more that I can do? Whatever questions Agnes has asked of me I have answered to the best of my ability; she knows all that you told me about Francis and the Countess last night. But try as I may I can’t quiet her mind. I have given up the attempt in despair, and left her in the drawing-room. Go, like a good fellow, and try what you can do to compose her.’

In those words, Lord Montbarry stated the case to his brother from the rational point of view. Henry made no remark, he went straight to the drawing-room.

He found Agnes walking rapidly backwards and forwards, flushed and excited. ‘If you come here to say what your brother has been saying to me,’ she broke out, before he could speak, ‘spare yourself the trouble. I don’t want common sense — I want a true friend who will believe in me.’

‘I am that friend, Agnes,’ Henry answered quietly, ‘and you know it.’

‘You really believe that I am not deluded by a dream?’

I know that you are not deluded — in one particular, at least.’

‘In what particular?’

‘In what you have said of the Countess. It is perfectly true — ’

Agnes stopped him there. ‘Why do I only hear this morning that the Countess and Mrs. James are one and the same person?’ she asked distrustfully. ‘Why was I not told of it last night?’

‘You forget that you had accepted the exchange of rooms before I reached Venice,’ Henry replied. ‘I felt strongly tempted to tell you, even then — but your sleeping arrangements for the night were all made; I should only have inconvenienced and alarmed you. I waited till the morning, after hearing from my brother that you had yourself seen to your security from any intrusion. How that intrusion was accomplished it is impossible to say. I can only declare that the Countess’s presence by your bedside last night was no dream of yours. On her own authority I can testify that it was a reality.’

‘On her own authority?’ Agnes repeated eagerly. ‘Have you seen her this morning?’

‘I have seen her not ten minutes since.’

‘What was she doing?’

She was busily engaged in writing. I could not even get her to look at me until I thought of mentioning your name.’

‘She remembered me, of course?’

‘She remembered you with some difficulty. Finding that she wouldn’t answer me on any other terms, I questioned her as if I had come direct from you. Then she spoke. She not only admitted that she had the same superstitious motive for placing you in that room which she had acknowledged to Francis — she even owned that she had been by your bedside, watching through the night, “to see what you saw,” as she expressed it. Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how she got into the room. Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye; she returned to her writing. “The Baron wants money,” she said; “I must get on with my play.” What she saw or dreamed while she was in your room last night, it is at present impossible to discover. But judging by my brother’s account of her, as well as by what I remember of her myself, some recent influence has been at work which has produced a marked change in this wretched woman for the worse. Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially deranged. One proof of it is that she spoke to me of the Baron as if he were still a living man. When Francis saw her, she declared that the Baron was dead, which is the truth. The United States Consul at Milan showed us the announcement of the death in an American newspaper. So far as I can see, such sense as she still possesses seems to be entirely absorbed in one absurd idea — the idea of writing a play for Francis to bring out at his theatre. He admits that he encouraged her to hope she might get money in this way. I think he did wrong. Don’t you agree with me?’

Without heeding the question, Agnes rose abruptly from her chair.

‘Do me one more kindness, Henry,’ she said. ‘Take me to the Countess at once.’

Henry hesitated. ‘Are you composed enough to see her, after the shock that you have suffered?’ he asked.

She trembled, the flush on her face died away, and left it deadly pale. But she held to her resolution. ‘You have heard of what I saw last night?’ she said faintly.

‘Don’t speak of it!’ Henry interposed. ‘Don’t uselessly agitate yourself.’

‘I must speak! My mind is full of horrid questions about it. I know I can’t identify it — and yet I ask myself over and over again, in whose likeness did it appear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari? or was it — ?’ she stopped, shuddering. ‘The Countess knows, I must see the Countess!’ she resumed vehemently. ‘Whether my courage fails me or not, I must make the attempt. Take me to her before I have time to feel afraid of it!’

Henry looked at her anxiously. ‘If you are really sure of your own resolution,’ he said, ‘I agree with you — the sooner you see her the better. You remember how strangely she talked of your influence over her, when she forced her way into your room in London?’

‘I remember it perfectly. Why do you ask?’

‘For this reason. In the present state of her mind, I doubt if she will be much longer capable of realising her wild idea of you as the avenging angel who is to bring her to a reckoning for her evil deeds. It may be well to try what your influence can do while she is still capable of feeling it.’

He waited to hear what Agnes would say. She took his arm and led him in silence to the door.

They ascended to the second floor, and, after knocking, entered the Countess’s room.

She was still busily engaged in writing. When she looked up from the paper, and saw Agnes, a vacant expression of doubt was the only expression in her wild black eyes. After a few moments, the lost remembrances and associations appeared to return slowly to her mind. The pen dropped from her hand. Haggard and trembling, she looked closer at Agnes, and recognised her at last. ‘Has the time come already?’ she said in low awe-struck tones. ‘Give me a little longer respite, I haven’t done my writing yet!’

She dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands entreatingly. Agnes was far from having recovered, after the shock that she had suffered in the night: her nerves were far from being equal to the strain that was now laid on them. She was so startled by the change in the Countess, that she was at a loss what to say or to do next. Henry was obliged to speak to her. ‘Put your questions while you have the chance,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘See! the vacant look is coming over her face again.’

Agnes tried to rally her courage. ‘You were in my room last night — ’

she began. Before she could add a word more, the Countess lifted her hands, and wrung them above her head with a low moan of horror. Agnes shrank back, and turned as if to leave the room. Henry stopped her, and whispered to her to try again. She obeyed him after an effort. ‘I slept last night in the room that you gave up to me,’ she resumed. ‘I saw — ’

The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. ‘No more of that,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Jesu Maria! do you think I want to be told what you saw? Do you think I don’t know what it means for you and for me? Decide for yourself, Miss. Examine your own mind. Are you well assured that the day of reckoning has come at last? Are you ready to follow me back, through the crimes of the past, to the secrets of the dead?’

She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered. Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke. It was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity were nearly worn out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as she unlocked a desk which stood on the table. Opening a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, as if it had been torn out of a book.

‘Can you read Italian?’ she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes.

Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head.

‘The leaf,’ the Countess proceeded, ‘once belonged to a book in the old library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. By whom it was torn out you have no need to know. For what purpose it was torn out you may discover for yourself, if you will. Read it first — at the fifth line from the top of the page.’

Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. ‘Give me a chair,’ she said to Henry; ‘and I will do my best.’ He placed himself behind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help her to understand the writing on the leaf. Rendered into English, it ran as follows: —

I have now completed my literary survey of the first floor of the palace. At the desire of my noble and gracious patron, the lord of this glorious edifice, I next ascend to the second floor, and continue my catalogue or description of the pictures, decorations, and other treasures of art therein contained. Let me begin with the corner room at the western extremity of the palace, called the Room of the Caryatides, from the statues which support the mantel-piece. This work is of comparatively recent execution: it dates from the eighteenth century only, and reveals the corrupt taste of the period in every part of it. Still, there is a certain interest which attaches to the mantel-piece: it conceals a cleverly constructed hiding-place, between the floor of the room and the ceiling of the room beneath, which was made during the last evil days of the Inquisition in Venice, and which is reported to have saved an ancestor of my gracious lord pursued by that terrible tribunal. The machinery of this curious place of concealment has been kept in good order by the present lord, as a species of curiosity. He condescended to show me the method of working it. Approaching the two Caryatides, rest your hand on the forehead (midway between the eyebrows) of the figure which is on your left as you stand opposite to the fireplace, then press the head inwards as if you were pushing it against the wall behind. By doing this, you set in motion the hidden machinery in the wall which turns the hearthstone on a pivot, and discloses the hollow place below. There is room enough in it for a man to lie easily at full length. The method of closing the cavity again is equally simple. Place both your hands on the temples of the figures; pull as if you were pulling it towards you — and the hearthstone will revolve into its proper position again.