‘ . . . 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 obstinately1 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, positively2 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 backwards3 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 deluded4 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 perfectly5 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 tempted6 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 accomplished7 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 spoke8. She not only admitted that she had the same superstitious9 motive10 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 Baron11 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 partially12 deranged13. 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 Consul14 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 entirely15 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 heeding16 the question, Agnes rose abruptly17 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 agitate18 yourself.’
‘I must speak! My mind is full of horrid19 questions about it. I know I can’t identify it — and yet I ask myself over and over again, in whose likeness20 did it appear? Was it in the likeness of Ferrari? or was it —?’ she stopped, shuddering21. ‘The Countess knows, I must see the Countess!’ she resumed vehemently22. ‘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 realizing her wild idea of you as the avenging23 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 ascended24 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 respite26, I haven’t done my writing yet!’
She dropped on her knees, and held out her clasped hands entreatingly27. 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 wrung28 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 ragged29 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 inclination30 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 edifice31, I next ascend25 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 extremity32 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 corrupt33 taste of the period in every part of it. Still, there is a certain interest which attaches to the mantel-piece: it conceals34 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 machinery35 of this curious place of concealment36 has been kept in good order by the present lord, as a species of curiosity. He condescended37 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 pivot38, 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 revolve39 into its proper position again.
‘You need read no farther,’ said the Countess. ‘Be careful to remember what you have read.’
She put back the page of vellum in her writing-desk, locked it, and led the way to the door.
‘Come!’ she said; ‘and see what the mocking Frenchman called “The beginning of the end.” ’
Agnes was barely able to rise from her chair; she trembled from head to foot. Henry gave her his arm to support her. ‘Fear nothing,’ he whispered; ‘I shall be with you.’
The Countess proceeded along the westward40 corridor, and stopped at the door numbered Thirty-eight. This was the room which had been inhabited by Baron Rivar in the old days of the palace: it was situated41 immediately over the bedchamber in which Agnes had passed the night. For the last two days the room had been empty. The absence of luggage in it, when they opened the door, showed that it had not yet been let.
‘You see?’ said the Countess, pointing to the carved figure at the fire-place; ‘and you know what to do. Have I deserved that you should temper justice with mercy?’ she went on in lower tones. ‘Give me a few hours more to myself. The Baron wants money — I must get on with my play.’
She smiled vacantly, and imitated the action of writing with her right hand as she pronounced the last words. The effort of concentrating her weakened mind on other and less familiar topics than the constant want of money in the Baron’s lifetime, and the vague prospect42 of gain from the still unfinished play, had evidently exhausted43 her poor reserves of strength. When her request had been granted, she addressed no expressions of gratitude44 to Agnes; she only said, ‘Feel no fear, miss, of my attempting to escape you. Where you are, there I must be till the end comes.’
Her eyes wandered round the room with a last weary and stupefied look. She returned to her writing with slow and feeble steps, like the steps of an old woman.
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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entreatingly
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| 哀求地，乞求地 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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44
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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