we had not expected to see sir hugh wyville until the following christmas, which we were to spend as his guests in cornwall. it chanced, however, that he too was taking a continental tour, and joined our rhine steamer at cologne. he was delighted to see his old schoolfellow, my uncle, and arm in arm with him paced the deck in friendly converse, talking of the old days at eton.
daphne's beauty made a great impression upon the baronet, and he inquired the reason of the sad look on her face, a look that had become habitual since that terrible night at rivoli. so my uncle related her story to him, finishing with an account of the mysterious circumstances that had attended our stay at rivoli, to all of which the baronet listened with deep interest.
"and so," he remarked, when the tale was ended, "the enquiry held on the body of the old man led to no result?"
"none, so far as the discovery of the assassin was concerned. all that we learned was that the old man's name was matteo carito; that he was a native of rivoli, but had been absent from the town for twenty years or more, and that he had returned to it only three days before his death. it is strange that he should have been struck down so soon after reaching his home."
[pg 165]
"the assassin had perhaps followed him there. and so the button proved no clue?"
"none at all."
"a pity, that. and the priest you have spoken of?"
"father ignatius?"
"yes. was he questioned as to the nature of the confession made to him by the murdered man?"
"yes, but naturally he refused to divulge the secrets of the confessional. he declared, however, it had no bearing on the crime, and could not in any way help towards the discovery of the murderer, and with that we had to be content. legal procedure is carried on at rivoli in a fashion different from what it is in england. father ignatius is the great man of the town, and he would be a bold magistrate who would dare to question him too closely. the reverend padre would think nothing of excommunicating him next sunday from the altar with bell, book, and candle, and the people of rivoli would approve, so devoted are they to him."
"it is certainly a mysterious business," said sir hugh, "and one more so never came within my experience. at any rate, let us hope your suspicions are unfounded, and that captain willard was not at rivoli as you suppose."
"remember, leslie," he said a day or two later, "you are not to spend christmas at your london house. the place and the time of the year would only serve to recall your daughter's grief on the very day when she should be most happy. you must come to the abbey and help me to burn the yule log. there will be more than fifty guests, so you will hardly be dull. my niece, florrie, will be just the companion for miss daphne, so you must make no excuses."
and he parted from us at cologne on the [pg 166]understanding that we were to pass our christmas-tide at silverdale abbey.
once removed from rivoli and its weird associations daphne rapidly recovered her health and spirits, and we spent the summer exploring the beauties of the rhineland.
when we returned to london, my first care was to obtain a copy of the standard of july the 2nd, and i turned eagerly to the remainder of the article relating to vasari's picture, and found the passage referring to the anglo-indian office to be as follows:—
"mr. vasari's explanation of his success is to the effect that he has rediscovered a secret known only to the ancient greek artists, a statement that must be taken with a grain of salt. a few days ago a strange incident happened in connection with the picture. a gentleman in uniform—an anglo-indian officer, to judge by a description given of him—who had paid the fee for admission, was proceeding leisurely along the gallery, and had arrived at the room containing the masterpiece, when his further progress was barred by vasari, who would not allow him to enter, but in an authoritative voice ordered him to withdraw, without, however, assigning any reason for this behaviour. the officer declined to withdraw, and an altercation ensued between him and the artist. when at vasari's order the attendants prepared to remove the officer the latter drew his sword, but the timely intervention of the gendarmes prevented serious consequences. the gentleman, whose name we are unable to give, was ejected and his money returned. it is said that he intends to take legal proceedings against the artist. a curious point of law will thus be raised: whether the proprietor of a gallery open to the public has a right, on purely personal grounds, to refuse admission[pg 167] to whomsoever he will? in an interview with a reporter, vasari stated that the officer in question was drunk, that he was hostilely disposed towards the artist, and that he had sworn to destroy the famous picture with his sword. on the other hand, it is alleged that the officer was quiet and sober, and that he contemplated no such act of vandalism."
that was all concerning the anglo-indian officer, and what angelo's real reason was for withholding the picture from the eyes of this man, and why he had been desirous of concealing this part of the critique from me, were insoluble questions adding fresh elements to the atmosphere of mystery in which it seemed his delight to walk.
i determined to have an interview with the italian for the purpose of obtaining a little light on the matter. i was anxious, also, to question him on another point—namely, the whereabouts of my brother. george had evidently been living in seclusion at rivoli, and angelo must have been aware of the fact, otherwise his words to daphne on parting from her—"you are nearer to him now than you have been for months"—would have had no meaning. so i called at the artist's london residence, but was told by his servant that he was in some distant part of the country, engaged in the production of a picture which it was confidently affirmed would be superior even to "the fall of c?sar."
then i took a hasty trip to paris, to the rue de sévres, to find, as i had expected, that the vasari gallery no longer existed. i visited the offices of the temps, the gaulois, and other newspapers, and studied whole files of journals in order to learn the details of the law-suit between vasari and the officer, but could[pg 168] discover no mention of it. i found on enquiry at the law courts that the case had never been brought.
next i tried to discover the destination of the famous picture, and learned that it had not been disposed of at public auction, but that the sale had been effected privately between the artist and the purchaser. no one could give me the name of the latter, and so, completely baffled, i returned to england, to find that vasari was still away from town in some distant place, of which his servant either could not or would not tell me the name.
december came, and on the day before christmas eve daphne, her father and myself were established at silverdale abbey, a fine castellated building mantled all over with ivy, and embosomed within a spacious and well wooded park. there was already a goodly company of guests present, which was expected to double its number on the morrow.
in the temporary absence of the baronet we were received by his niece, florrie wyville, and spent a delightful time as she led us through the many tapestried rooms full of curious old furniture, down carved oak staircases lighted by ecclesiastical-looking casements of stained glass, along broad halls adorned with stags' antlers and suits of armour, out on to stone terraces grey with age and dark with ivy.
"isn't it a dear old place?" she exclaimed enthusiastically when our first tour of exploration was over. "i have been here only a week, and yet i believe i know more about it even than uncle hugh knows. it is more than six hundred years old, and was originally a nunnery."
"and why is it called silverdale?" i asked.
"there was a silver mine here at one time. i [pg 169]believe part of the abbey stands over an air shaft belonging to it; and in olden days nuns who broke their vows were thrown down it."
"how horrible," said daphne with a shudder.
"not so horrible as walling them up alive like that poor thing in marmion," florrie replied, jealous for the good repute of her beloved abbey.
"does the shaft still exist?" i asked.
"i think so, but the passage leading to it was bricked up years ago. i lay awake last night thinking of those old days, and fancying i could hear a ghostly procession of nuns rustling along the hall and chanting—— why, what is the matter, miss leslie? you look quite scared."
i diverted the conversation to more cheerful topics, and soon the girls were discussing what characters they should assume in the fancy dress ball to be held at silverdale on twelfth-night.
the baronet was justly proud of his beautiful home, and when, late that night, after the retiring of the guests, we were smoking in the library, he listened with evident pleasure to my congratulations on its perfect preservation unspoiled from the middle ages.
"you must see the picture-gallery to-morrow," he said. "that is the real gem of the place. but as you take such an interest in the abbey and its antiquities, this book may interest you." he found a key and unlocked a bookcase. "it is a complete history of the abbey from its foundation to the present time. it has never been published. my brother had it drawn up by a first-rate antiquary. i haven't had time to read it properly yet. why, how's this? the book is gone."
"some other guest who takes the same interest in the abbey that i do," i suggested, "has borrowed the book and forgotten to return it."
[pg 170]
"impossible," sir hugh replied. "this bookcase is kept locked, and i always carry the key."
"was that the only copy of the book?" my uncle asked.
"the only copy. it was in manuscript, but the leaves were bound like an ordinary book. if the book be gone the loss is irreparable."
"when did you see it last?"
"about a month ago, i should say. its usual place is there, third from the end on the top shelf. whoever took it away did not wish its removal to be noticed, for he——"
"or she," i murmured, thinking of florrie's enthusiasm over the abbey.
"or she has filled up the gap with a book identical in colour and binding, so that i thought at first it was the very book. athanasii opera," he muttered contemptuously, scanning the title of the substituted volume. "confound athanasius."
"with all my heart, and his creed too," said my uncle cheerfully. "but i have no doubt the other, more valuable, book will turn up all right soon."
"i sincerely hope it will," sir hugh replied, scrutinising every part of the bookcase as if he thought the volume were deliberately hiding from him. "at any rate, it isn't here now," and giving up the search in disgust he walked to the fireplace and flung himself into a chair, looking exceedingly annoyed. "it looks like a case of theft, but i can't for the life of me see why a thief should choose that particular book. he would only give himself away if he tried to make money by selling it. no one in the abbey would have taken it; people don't pick locks to get what they have only to ask for, and every one here knows i have no objection to lending my books." and for some time[pg 171] he smoked in moody silence, uninterrupted by any remark from us.
"by the way," he said presently, "i shall shortly have the pleasure of introducing you to a genius. i'm waiting up for him now. he is coming by the last train."
"who is the genius?" my uncle inquired with a smile.
"that italian artist whose picture 'the fall of c?sar' made such a sensation in paris last spring."
i was so surprised that i knocked over a branched candlestick by my side and nearly set the tablecloth on fire.
"you must have heard of him," said sir hugh, carefully replacing the candlestick.
"oh, yes, we have heard of him," said my uncle, looking at me.
sir hugh did not appear to notice the meaning way in which my uncle spoke.
"he is spending christmas here," said sir hugh. "in fact he has been living at the abbey for the last two months. he went to london this week to get some artistic material. he is painting a picture for me.
"what is the subject?" my uncle asked.
"i left that to him," sir hugh answered. "artists naturally prefer not to be fettered in matters of that sort, and they always do best what they like best. but he calls this new picture——"
"'modesta, the christian martyr,'" i interrupted.
"yes," said sir hugh surprised. "how on earth did you know? i was not aware that he had told any one but me."
"he told me himself," i explained. "we are friends of his. at least we met him at rivoli last [pg 172]summer, and he told us he had a commission for a picture with leave to choose his own subject. you must be the man who gave him the commission he was referring to."
"so you know him?" said the baronet regretfully. "i am disappointed. i thought i had a pleasure in store for you, and i am forestalled. yes; that's it. 'modesta, the christian martyr,' is to be the picture of the year. he stipulated that he should exhibit it before finally handing it over to me, and of course i was quite agreeable."
"it was politic too," my uncle remarked. "a man will take more pains over a picture that all the critics will see than over one that will go straight into a private collection."
"i suppose that is true," said sir hugh, "though vasari is not the man to scamp his work. i have fitted up a studio for him in the nuns' tower, that grey tower connected with the east wing of the abbey by a cloister. it's a lonely sort of place, but he seems to prefer it to any other room in the abbey, and he certainly is free from interruption there."
"well, i hope for your sake the picture will be a success," said my uncle, suggesting that he did not care at all how it might affect the artist's career. "do you think it will equal his last?"
"i can't say. i haven't seen it." then, noticing our surprise, sir hugh explained. "you see his studio is a sort of holy shrine into which only the high priest of art is allowed to enter. the door is closed to every one—even to me." the pomposity with which the good baronet emphasised the last word was immense.
"well it is contrary to his usual practice," my uncle said drily. "we haven't found him backward in talking about his work, have we, frank?"
[pg 173]
"i don't think modesty is a disease with him," i admitted. "do you know whether he was as secretive about his 'fall of c?sar' before he sprung it on an admiring world?"
"i believe he was. permitted none to enter his studio till the work was finished. he claims to have rediscovered a secret known to the great artists of classical times, and does not want to reveal it to contemporary rivals. between ourselves, i don't believe there is any mystery about it, but it suits his purpose to pretend there is. our friend knows something about human nature, and to throw a veil of secrecy round your work while you are doing it is quite good business, provided, of course, the work is good when finished. let me see, you were in paris last spring. of course you saw the great picture?"
"no, we haven't seen it," my uncle replied. "have you?"
"have i?" said the baronet, looking as much astonished as if he had been asked whether he knew the alphabet. "my dear fellow, what are you talking about? don't you know the picture is here?"
"here?" was the simultaneous ejaculation of my uncle and myself.
"here. in this house. in my gallery."
that which eludes the most painstaking search is often revealed by mere accident. without any design on our part, we were at length within measurable distance of seeing that which we had been vainly trying to see—to wit, angelo's famous picture.
"did you buy it from the baron?" i asked.
"the baron? what baron? i don't understand you. i saw the picture last summer in paris, was struck with it like everybody else, and offered angelo ￡4,000 for it."
[pg 174]
"which offer he accepted?" said my uncle.
"which offer he accepted—after a delay of a day or two."
"you purchased it direct from angelo?" said i.
"direct."
"strange!"
"what is there so strange in the transaction?"
"do you know," i said, "that when we saw angelo at rivoli, and expressed a desire—or, to be more correct, when daphne expressed a desire to see his picture, he told her it was impossible—he had sold it to some spanish hidalgo."
"he must have been dreaming, then," returned sir hugh. "i was the first purchaser and the last."
"what could have induced him to tell such a falsehood?" i said.
"do not say falsehood," replied the baronet; "say error of memory, rather. he was thinking of some other picture, perhaps?"
"no, 'the death of c?sar;' that was the work he referred to, i am certain."
"perhaps he confounded me with some intending purchaser. why he should wish to conceal the destination of his picture from you i cannot tell. but there, he's a curious fellow," muttered the baronet thoughtfully. "genius always is eccentric, i suppose. he will stand for hours, i am told, on the cliffs, solitary and melancholy, watching the atlantic breakers and soliloquising like a second manfred. if i didn't know that art was his only mistress, i should fancy he was in love."
"your fancy is not far removed from the truth," i murmured to myself. "when you were at paris," i asked, "did you hear anything of a fracas between[pg 175] angelo and a military officer in connection with this picture?"
"yes, i remember the affair very well."
"can you tell me the name of the officer?"
"no; he was never heard of again. i think he received an order that very day to rejoin his regiment. it was that fracas, i believe, that led to my becoming the possessor of the picture."
"how was that?"
"i had offered angelo ￡4,000 for it, which he refused. he could gain more by exhibiting it, he said. however, after this affair with the officer, he came of his own accord to me and tendered it at the price i had named. he explained his change of mind by what seemed to me an absurd statement. a clique of artists, jealous of his success, had vowed to destroy his picture. he resolved to exhibit it no more publicly. he thought it would be safer in some private collection and he stipulated that i must allow him to have a sight now and again of his beloved masterpiece. i put all this down to morbid vanity, but, of course, i professed to believe him and sympathised with him, very glad to obtain the picture on any terms."
the baronet's butler, who had entered a few minutes previously to ask whether we wanted any more wine, and was lingering about under pretence of smoothing the cloth and of arranging the decanters, now joined in the conversation with the freedom of an old and faithful servant.
"i beg your pardon, sir hugh, but are you talking of mr. vasari's picture?"
"that is exactly what we are doing, fruin."
the white-haired old man shook his head.
"why, what have you got to say about it fruin?" asked his master with considerable surprise.
[pg 176]
the old servant shook his head once more.
"you hate ghost stories, sir hugh. that's why i've never spoken to you about these goings on."
"these goings on! heavens! what's the man talking about? let's have your ghost story, fruin, and i'll suspend my criticism and laughter till—you are out of the room," he added aside.
"there's something very queer about that picture."
this was my opinion too, and i listened with breathless interest to the butler's words.
"my bedroom—as you know, sir hugh—is over one end of the gallery, and ever since that picture of mr. vasari's was put into it i have heard at night sounds as if some one were walking to and fro there, and faint cries now and then. before going to bed i always lock the doors at both ends of the gallery, and take the keys with me, so that how any one can get in at night is a puzzle. i have come down alone several times to see who was there." fruin was not a timid character, if his own statement were to be received as evidence. "i always come with a lamp and a loaded pistol," he added, causing me to modify my opinion of his valour. "and on opening the door the sounds always cease and the place is always empty."
"a clear proof," replied sir hugh, "that no one had been in the gallery, and that the sounds, caused by the wind probably, must have proceeded from some other quarter."
fruin's air implied that he was not going to be imposed upon by this explanation.
"you hear cries?" said i. "what sort of cries?"
"i can't tell you exactly, sir, for i am never near enough to hear. faint die-away sounds they are, like a mother crooning her babe to sleep."
"granting, what i don't for one moment admit,[pg 177] that the sounds come from the gallery, what have they got to do with mr. vasari's picture?" the baronet asked.
"i have been butler in this house for twenty years, sir hugh," said the old fellow gravely and respectfully, "and there were never such sounds in the gallery until that picture came here."
"do you hear them every night?" my uncle asked.
"oh no, sir, only at intervals. they may occur for two or three nights running, and then perhaps they won't be heard for a week."
"well," said sir hugh testily, "since you are sure the sounds are real and that they do come from the gallery, give us your explanation of them, that is, if you have any to give."
"it isn't what you might call an explanation," said the butler, who maintained a quiet but firm manner throughout, "but i can tell you a little more. one evening last week i was passing along the gravel-path outside the gallery windows, when i chanced to look up, and there, staring at me through the panes, was a face. though it was dusk at the time, there was light enough to see every feature of it, and i will swear that it was the same face as in the picture."
"what did you do when you saw it?"
"i went close up to the window."
"and then?"
"it wasn't there."
"and you heard no sound from within?"
"not a sound. i came into the abbey at once, taking brown with me, and found both doors of the gallery locked. we searched the gallery, but found no one in it."
"did you examine the picture, fruin," said the[pg 178] baronet, "to see whether imperial c?sar exhibited any traces of having lately walked out of the canvas?"
"i did examine the picture, sir hugh, and i am certain it had been disturbed, for i will swear that it was not hanging at the same angle as it had been in the morning."
"c?sar didn't speak, i presume, and ask you how you were?"
but the butler, whose air of quiet and sober dignity almost atoned for the absurdity of the story, was not to be moved by his master's gibes.
"don't you think it was fancy on your part, fruin?" said i. "just think how impossible it is for a figure painted on canvas to move from its frame and peer through a casement!"
"what i saw on the other side of the window was a real thing," replied the butler firmly. "it was the very face in the picture, and so would you say had you been there to see it."
"i wish to goodness we had!" said sir hugh. "well, well! you may go, fruin, unless mr. leslie or mr. willard wishes to ask you any more questions."
we had no more to put, and when the butler had withdrawn, i asked the baronet his opinion of the story.
"pooh, pooh, my dear boy! outside the pale of serious discussion. i must have stronger evidence than the solitary testimony of a superstitious and dim-sighted old servant, who in the twilight mistakes some shadow across the stained panes for an apparition."
and he waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture, as if wishing to hear no more of the absurd business.
i was silent for a time, reflecting on the story i had just heard. if it had stood alone—had been the[pg 179] sole remarkable thing related of the picture—it would not have been entitled to consideration; but so many strange things had occurred in connexion with angelo's masterpiece that i hesitated before pronouncing fruin's narration to be a fable, destitute of any foundation whatever. though at present the affair seemed coloured by the supernatural, it might have a groundwork of fact to rest upon.
"well, sir hugh," remarked my uncle, "we must certainly view this mysterious picture in the morning."
"why not now?" i said, jumping to my feet. "let us see it to-night. i shall not be able to sleep if i go to bed without seeing it."
but the baronet shrugged his shoulders with a good-humoured smile.
"no, thank you. we are warm and comfortable here. a walk in a cold picture-gallery by the pale light of the moon is an affront to these cigars and this port. let us defer our visit till the morning."
i was loth to wait till then. the picture had eluded us so long that i thought it quite within the range of probability for it to walk off during the night.
"did angelo ever speak to you of his stay at rivoli?" said i to the baronet.
"never knew he had been there till you mentioned it."
"he's a native of the place. he never told you, then, of a little incident that happened in the cathedral of rivoli?"
"you are talking greek to me—at least, that is," coughed the baronet, reserving to himself the credit of a classical reputation, "er—chinese, i should say. what is the little incident to which you refer?"
i satisfied sir hugh's curiosity by giving him an account of angelo's expulsion from the communion.
[pg 180]
"did you not ask him the cause of it?" inquired he.
"we have never seen him from that day to this," i replied.
"humph!" remarked the baronet gravely. "expelled from the sacrament, was he? i don't like that, you know: it looks bad. i wish i had known this before i asked him to spend his christmas here. of course, for aught we know to the contrary, he may only have been guilty of some little trifle which we men of the world"—he swept his arm towards me as he spoke, and i felt quite proud of the title conferred on me—"think nothing of; but still it looks suspicious. a shade rests on his character, and till it be cleared off i would prefer him at any other table than mine. i ought to be certain that he is a person of fair repute—that is a duty i owe my guests; but i don't see what i can do now that matters have gone so far. i cannot, in the circumstances, ask him point-blank to produce a certificate of good character, so i must display the hospitality of the orientals, and entertain the guest without inquiring too closely into his character."
"'for thereby,'" quoted my uncle, "'some have entertained angels unawares.'"
"you are not very likely to do that," i said to the baronet, "and—"
the sound of carriage-wheels rattling over the gravel-path beneath the library windows checked the rest of my remark.
"that must be angelo," said the baronet, referring to his watch.
"talk of lucifer," said i, rising, "and he rustles his wings. with your leave, sir hugh, i'll retire for the night. i've no wish to see angelo till the morning." and with these words i departed, leaving the[pg 181] representative of the wyvilles and the head of the house of leslie to welcome, perhaps it would be more correct to write receive, the late comer.
the bedroom allotted to me was, like those of the other guests, in the eastern wing of the abbey, the western wing being appropriated to the servants' quarters. the front and central portions of the building contained the principal apartments; and the picture-gallery was at the rear on the ground-floor, connecting the two wings.
my room was a large old-fashioned chamber, whose oaken panels were draped with figured tapestry. an oriel casement with lancet-shaped panes of stained-glass gave me a fine view of the moonlit park, with the nuns' tower—angelo's studio—rising grey and solitary above a dark clump of cedars.
there was a fire in the grate and its dancing caused strange shadows to quiver upon the walls and ceiling, seeming to invest the grim figures on the tapestry with life and motion—an illusion heightened by their rustling with the draught from the open door.
the supernatural element introduced into my mind by the butler's story played the wildest tricks with my imagination, reducing me to so tense a state of nervousness that i almost hesitated to look around, lest some eerie shape should meet my gaze. the sight of my face in the glass mirror so startled me that i turned the mirror round to the wall, in order that i might not be compelled to contemplate my own reflection, to which i felt attracted, not from vanity, but from a weird fascination that made me think it was another person in the room mimicking my movements. the brass knob of the door, too, was a source of annoyance, till i hung my handkerchief over it—it[pg 182] looked so like a gleaming eye. and when i had thus absurdly disposed of its glitter, i discovered many other eyes staring at me with maddening persistency from different parts of the room.
anxious to chase away if possible the morbid fancies that were fast crowding into my mind and threatening to render my sleep the reverse of pleasant, i looked around for some book to divert my thoughts, and, suddenly remembering that at the bottom of my trunk was a volume of pickwick, i drew it forth, and, having raked up the fire into a cheerful blaze, was soon laughing heartily over the drolleries of that immortal work.
how long i continued turning over page after page i cannot tell; my reading was brought to a sudden stop by a scream which rang long, loud, and piercing through the corridors of the abbey. i flung down pickwick and darted to the door to listen. the scream was repeated, and i recognized daphne's voice.
"oh, frank, frank!"
even in the excitement of that terrible moment a feeling of pleasure came over me. why should daphne, in her fear, call upon my name, unless i were the first person in her thoughts?
there was an ancient-looking sword hanging over the fireplace, and i took it down and rushed along the corridor in the direction of daphne's voice.
coming to the room which i knew to be hers, i dashed open the door, and saw daphne sitting erect in bed, her eyes staring wildly around, her face and manner expressive of the extremity of terror. i at once ran to the bedside.
"oh, frank, don't leave me, don't leave me till some one comes!"
she followed up this appeal by a flood of tears, and[pg 183] clung tightly to my arm with both her hands, while staring about her on all sides.
"why, daphne, what is the matter?"
"there's something in the room." she paused, and looked fearfully around her. "i don't know what. a black shape—a shadow. it was bending over me."
i cast a glance over the room, but nothing unusual met my eye, and i concluded she had been dreaming.
"you are dreaming, daphne. do not cry so. there is no one here but you and me."
"yes, yes, there is!"
all the guests, roused by the screams, had risen from their slumbers, and in various stages of dressing were thronging around the open door, becoming round-eyed as they took in the character of the scene.
"heyday! what's the matter here?" exclaimed my uncle, entering at this juncture; and all the rest, imitating his example, entered too.
"i came because i heard daphne calling for help," i replied.
"oh, papa," said daphne, withdrawing her arms from me and placing both hands in his. "i have been frightened, and could not help screaming out, and frank came."
"frightened? what was it that frightened you?"
"i—i don't know what it was," she stammered. "i opened my eyes, and there was a black thing bending over me. i could see a pair of gleaming eyes staring straight into mine. i screamed out, but the thing remained bending over me, and didn't move till frank's step sounded outside."
i opened my eyes, and there was a black thing
"what?" i cried in amazement. "didn't this shape, whatever it was, take its flight through the door?"
"no; there was no opening of the door till you came. it's here now in the room somewhere. as you[pg 184] opened the door it darted off on this side," motioning to the left with her hand.
there was a sensation among the ladies, and they drew closer to one another. the gentlemen, with a valour born of numbers, peered into wardrobes and cupboards, and looked beneath the bed and behind hangings.
i could see my uncle and the baronet exchanging curious glances, and i knew that both were connecting the cause of daphne's fright with the apparition supposed to haunt the picture-gallery. it was the opinion of every one else that she had been dreaming.
"oh, you silly girl!" cried florrie, coming to the bedside. "to fancy you saw a ghost, and frighten us all out of our beds!"
daphne shivered visibly. the search into every corner of the apartment had done very little to remove her terror.
"oh, florrie," she cried, "do stay with me for the rest of the night! i dare not sleep alone. i shall die of fright if it comes again. if you could but have seen those gleaming eyes!"
the baronet's niece expressed her perfect willingness to share her sleep with daphne.
"leave me that sword," she said to me. "i only hope that ghost will return: if it is one of flesh and blood it had better not venture too near me!"
and florrie waved the blade above her head with the serio-comic air of the pretty lady-hero in the christmas pantomine when she bids the wicked demon come on and do his worst.
"florrie is an amazon," smiled the baronet, "and doesn't fear man, ghost, or devil. i think, miss leslie, you will be quite safe in her keeping."
we made no longer tarrying, but, bidding the two[pg 185] girls "good-night," withdrew—the ladies to their rooms, the gentlemen to the broad landing, at the end of the corridor, there to discuss the affair for a few minutes.
"this is a very mysterious house," said my uncle to the baronet.
"egad! i'm beginning to think so myself."
among those who had stood silent spectators in daphne's room was a doctor of great renown.
"did you not detect," he said to my uncle, "a peculiar odour hanging around the dressing-table?"
"i did. perfumes for handkerchiefs, i suppose."
"perfumes for handkerchiefs—oh?" replied the doctor in a curious tone of voice, and sniffing as if the odour still remained in his nostrils. "hum! i shouldn't advise the young lady to sprinkle her handkerchief too freely with that sort of essence, unless she wishes to be a member of 'kingdom come!'"
