i believe it is not an uncommon thing for a sentinel to slumber at his post, and wake to find himself still in a standing posture. to the ordinary mortal, however, this would certainly be a novel experience.
judge, then, of my surprise, on returning to a state of consciousness, to discover that i was on my feet in an erect position with my back against what seemed to be a stone pillar. it is not quite correct to define my attitude as "erect:" leaning forward would more aptly describe it. my balance was maintained by a contrivance of somewhat sinister significance. my hands were extended almost horizontally behind me, one on each side of the pillar, my wrists being firmly secured to each other by something which, judging by the sense of touch was a silken sash so twined and twisted as to serve the same purpose as a strong cord. my arms ached with the pain arising from the unnatural position in which they were sustained; and my head throbbed acutely, probably from the effects of the drug exhaled by the phial.
in what place i stood it was impossible to tell, for there lay a darkness all around as black and oppressive as though a pall had been flung over me. fear imparts the wildest fancies to the human mind. my first impression was that i had awoke on the other side of the[pg 252] dark river that parts this world from the next, and that my eyes, so soon as they were able to pierce the gloom, would discover scenes more terrible than those imagined by the genius of dante.
reverting, however, to the train of events that had brought me to the state of unconsciousness, i came to the more rational conclusion that i was still in the nuns' tower. the stone column to which i was attached was without doubt the pillar that upheld the arched roof of the studio-cell; and the silken fabric that bound my hands, i felt intuitively, was the purple curtain that, earlier in the day, had been hung over the casement.
my eyes, becoming by slow degrees accustomed to the darkness, discerned through the penumbra around me a grey oblong object elevated in air and crowned with a triangular apex, which finally resolved itself into the shape of a gothic casement; and then little by little the whole perspective of the studio-cell became dimly outlined on my vision; and there, by the side of the table, within the oaken chair, sat a figure.
my first impulse was to shout for help, but i checked myself lest such cry should be the signal for my mysterious captor to despatch me. how he had gained access to the cell was evident.
at a point equidistant from the window and the door a slab of stone that formed a part of the flooring was raised, and reclined obliquely against the wall. beneath the place where it had lain an opening yawned, and the faint outline of steps going downwards proved the truth of the statement contained in the addendum to the antiquary's book that there was another mode of communicating with the tower besides the ordinary way of the door.
i turned my staring eyeballs towards the shape at[pg 253] the table. it was too dark at first for me to distinguish his features, but the contour of the figure seemed to suggest the personality of angelo. by and by the obscurity of the cell became faintly illumined by the withdrawal of some dark clouds from the face of the sky, and i saw that my captor was indeed the artist. clad in a dark velvet jacket, he sat with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and one leg thrown carelessly over the other.
i had not expected my captor to be any one else than angelo, and yet the recognition seemed to come upon me as a surprise.
i shall not pretend to be a hero, and say that the recognition brought with it no fear. it did indeed bring a very great pang of fear. i felt such a sensation then as i never before felt and never wish to feel again.
i was a captive in the power of a rival who hated me with all the hatred of a hatred-loving race. i had sneered at him and at his adored art. i had robbed him of daphne, depriving him by that act of a figure whose beauty would be an acquisition to his studio. i had little to hope from his mercy.
preserving with difficulty my presence of mind, i manipulated the silken bands on my wrists in the hope of releasing myself, but angelo had performed his task too well to permit this. it was evident that my earthly salvation was not within my own power. it must come—if it should come at all—from without. with a terror that increased moment by moment, i recognised how hopeless was my situation.
true, the baronet and my uncle would miss me on their return, and, conjecturing that i had gone to the nuns' tower, might come to seek me, but their aid would be of no avail, for, even if they should come[pg 254] with a body of servants armed with axes, it would take them a minute at least to force open the strong oaken door—ample time for the artist to compass his work of vengeance and escape by the secret passage.
what men usually do when nothing else is left for them to do, i did. the first really fervent prayer that i ever breathed rose to my lips.
as i could see angelo's eyes quite plainly, i concluded he could see mine, and hence he must have perceived that i had recovered from my state of lethargy. he did not speak, however, but continued to look at me, as if my captivity were a luxury too rich for words. several minutes passed, and at last the silence became so oppressive that i could bear it no longer, and i said:
"was it you who bound me like this?"
"it was."
a brief reply—delivered in a cool tone of voice, too, as if the seizure and binding of a gentleman to a gothic pillar was an every-day event with him, and of too trifling a character to require any comment or apology.
"confound your ill-timed jest! cut these cords at once, before my cries bring assistance."
the artist took up from the table the poniard with the red stain on its blade, and proceeded to sharpen the edge on a square slab of marble that did duty occasionally as a palette. silly that i was! i actually believed that my bold manner had frightened him, and that he was going to comply with my request. the noise produced by the sharpening process was not a pleasant one, and it set my teeth on edge.
"oh, that'll do!" i cried impatiently—that is, impatiently for a captive, dependent on the pleasure of[pg 255] another for his release. "that'll do. it's sharp enough for the purpose."
"pardon me, no," he replied, lifting his eyes from the dagger to contemplate me for a moment. "it's not sharp enough for the purpose."
something in the intonation of his voice drove out the last traces of the drug, and restored me instantly to the full use of my faculties, as drunken men are said to become sobered by a sudden shock.
"what are you going to do?" i cried.
as if there could be any doubt in the matter!
"immortalise you by my art."
if he had said that he was going to take vengeance on a rival whom he hated i should have understood him, but this speech of his was unintelligible.
"what are you going to do, i ask?"
"i have told you: make a sacrifice on the altar of art."
"what on earth do you mean?" i cried, tugging at my bonds.
"that picture," replied the artist, pausing in his occupation to point with his dagger at the canvas on the easel; "that picture is at a standstill for want of an appropriate model. i have found my model."
with parted lips and dilated eyes i gazed at the speaker, wondering whether he were in earnest. his easy air of unconcern inspired me with false hopes. he was only acting the part of a would-be assassin, i thought. it was a jest of his to frighten me. a trick to compel me perhaps to forswear all claim to daphne.
"do you hope to frighten me by these tricks?" i cried, assuming a courage i did not feel. "i have but to raise my voice——"
"raise it, then."
there was a look in his eyes, a motion of the dagger that convinced me i had better not.
"you are wise. your silence has added a few moments to your brief span of life."
if there had been a tremor in his voice, if his features had relaxed from their set expression, i could have hoped then that his humanity might yet triumph over the impulse of crime. but this cold, mechanical calmness—it was even a more frightful thing than the deed he was contemplating.
"would you murder me for the sake of a picture?" i asked in as quiet a tone as i could assume.
"killing in the interests of art is not murder, any more than the burning of a heretic in the interests of holy religion is murder."
it was evident that the italian was in deadly earnest, and that his whole soul was absorbed by one passion—devotion to his art. in the interests of that fetish, crime even was excusable. this is the age of realism—of a realism that too often dispenses with morality. angelo's ?sthetics of death was but the logical outcome of the realistic school.
the artist had imparted the necessary edge to his weapon, and reclined once more in an easy attitude, fingering the blade with a delicate touch, and surveying my form with a critical eye.
"i cannot say that you are quite the beau-ideal for an artist. a little more massiveness in your figure, a little more muscular development of the limbs, would be more in accordance with the canons of physical beauty. still, these little imperfections can be rectified on the canvas."
the mockery of this remark was not accompanied by any relaxation of his features. he might have[pg 257] been wearing a stone mask, so little mobility did his face display.
"nor can i say that your present expression is precisely that which a dying christian ought to assume. there is an appreciable want of resignation in it. still, it is within the power of my pencil to transfigure your face with the divine light of martyrdom, thus conferring upon you an immortality on canvas—an eternity of fame which assuredly you would never gain by the productions of your pen, though literature, we know, be your forte."
this last was a mocking allusion to a boast of mine made at rivoli.
a devilish motive prompting these remarks was obvious. he wanted to apply torture to the mind before applying it to the body. he felt that the captive was the true victor; for though he might slay me, yet the deed would never make daphne his. i longed to taunt him with this, and to hurl back gibe for gibe. prudence restrained me, however. a rash retort might precipitate matters, and cause him to execute his deadly work sooner than he intended; and delay was of value to me, for as the human mind abandons hope only with the last breath, so did i cling to the expectation that rescue might come in a shape i did not dream of. therefore i listened to the artist without saying a word.
"some weeks ago i learned that you and daphne were to spend your christmas at the abbey. i prepared for the event. i had vowed that, living or dead, daphne should minister to the success of my picture, and since i could not have the living woman, i resolved to have her dead form; it would suit my purpose equally well—perhaps better. i have learnt a little of the topography of the abbey. a secret passage [pg 258]connecting this tower with the bedchambers furnished me with the ready means for carrying her off to my studio in the darkness of the night. this phial here," holding up the bottle that he had evidently removed from my breast-pocket, where i had placed it—"you have had some experience of it yourself—applied to her pretty nostrils would be an instant balm for hysterics. however, my scheme of last night miscarried—through you. therefore you take her place. you have prevented me from adequately realising my conception of the sweet and sad death-beauty of a girl-martyr. art demands, then, that you atone for your intervention by becoming the substitute. behold, martyr, your attire!" he added, turning to the table and lifting up the different articles composing the roman costume.
replacing them, he took up the ivory paw whose use had so much puzzled me.
"you see this? to lacerate your naked body with—to give to its quivering white the very wounds that a lion's claws would inflict. my own invention—exclusively my own."
he spoke of his projected task in as cool a tone as a scientist might use in speaking of the dissection of a dog.
"you see," he continued, laying down the claw, "this is the age of realism. nothing is now accepted in literature, art, or the drama that does not bear on its front the stamp of reality. art, if it is to hold the mirror up to nature, must not shrink any more than medical science from experimenting on the living frame, and analysing with delicate eye its varying phases of agony."
he paused for a moment, and then, with the air of a man arriving at the end of a set oration, he said:
"you now have my secret. know, then, how i[pg 259] intend to produce on that canvas the dying agonies of modestus the martyr—the picture destined to create an epoch in the history of modern art. so soon as the church-bells chime the hour of midnight you are dead. such is daphne's wish."
"daphne's!" i ejaculated.
"ay! she wishes for your death. she has promised to marry me to-night. did you not know?"
he spoke in so natural a tone that i could but stare fixedly at him, wondering what his motive could be in fabricating so wild a statement. my look of perplexity was so great that the artist laughed aloud. this was the first time his facial muscles had relaxed. the transition from rigidity to mobility was not an agreeable one.
a terrible metamorphosis was coming over the artist. it seemed as if some part of his nature, that he had long kept hidden, was rising up to the surface. it did arise—fast. it revealed itself in his unearthly laugh, in the distortion of his mouth, in the wild light of his eyes, in the goblin attitude he had suddenly assumed with his head sunk forward on his breast and his crooked fingers clawing at the air.
his head sunk forward on his breast
angelo was mad!
mad! why had i not guessed this before? a thousand circumstances—curious facial expressions, odd sayings, tricks of gesture—came welling up from the depths of the past. trivial, considered apart, in the aggregate they were significant, and tended to confirm my terrible discovery.
this revelation of angelo's character imparted a fresh element of horror to my situation, and reduced to a minimum my chances of escape. angelo sane might perhaps be diverted from his deadly purpose by the thought that discovery would be certain to attend the[pg 260] commission of his crime. but no such reason could prevail with a madman.
flinging back his dark locks with a defiant gesture, the maniac fixed his glittering eye on me, and commenced to chant some italian refrain composed in a very mournful key, keeping time to the air with the motions of his hand. i recognised the refrain. i had heard it once at rivoli. it was a funeral hymn.
the foreign words imperfectly comprehended by me, the plaintive character of the refrain, united to the melancholy voice of the maniac, made this singing the most awful and unearthly thing i had ever heard, thrilling me to the very centre with the most eerie sensations. every now and then he would pause to take a drink from a spirit-flask, resuming his wild song immediately afterwards. usually a foe to intoxicants, he was now taking draughts of brandy in a reckless fashion, and i knew that he was working himself up for his fiendish task. the cold grey cell, the dim light, the gibbering thing at the table chanting my death song, formed a picture that has lived in my memory ever since, and often have i started from sleep with a cry of terror, shivering at the recollection of this night.
the cell had been gradually growing brighter, and at last on one side of the casement, through the tangles of ivy, appeared the silver arc of the moon whose arrowy beams slanted to the floor, adding a still greater sense of weirdness to the scene. the moon seemed to have a disturbing effect upon the artist's disordered mind, for he turned uneasily to the casement.
"too much light. too much light. i hate this silvery glare," and raising his arms he exclaimed tragically, "oh, endymion, why sleepest thou? rise[pg 261] with thy white arms and draw cynthia down to thy embrace."
as he spoke the moon actually was veiled by a passing cloud.
"i knew he would obey me," he exclaimed triumphantly. "am not i lord of the night and of its shadows?"
had there remained in my mind any doubt as to his sanity this absurd effusion would have effectually removed it. the sound of the church clock chiming the half hour now smote on my ears. if the maniac adhered to his threat i had but thirty minutes left to live, and i concentrated all my faculties upon the difficulties of my position. my uncle must by this time have returned with sir hugh, and on finding myself as well as the keys of the nuns' tower and the gallery missing, would guess where i was and they might even now be on their way to seek me and to arrest the artist. if they were listening outside they would hear angelo's voice and would understand the peril i was in. they could not easily force the door, nor, if they had any suspicion of the artist's insanity, would they be so rash as to try, but one blow would shatter the window and give them instant admission into the tower.
buoyed up with the hope that help might arrive at any moment, i resolved, if possible, to soothe and flatter the maniac, with a view of gaining time and of getting him to postpone his self-imposed task beyond the midnight hour. i would persuade him to talk of his last picture, of his brother artists, of his early days at rivoli—of anything, that would divert his attention from me, and delay the fatal stroke.
"angelo, listen to me," i said, forcing my voice to adopt the slow deliberate tones i have heard hospital nurses employ in order that they may the more readily[pg 262] find lodgment in the disordered brain—"i am quite willing to die."
even while saying this, the incongruity of telling a falsehood when so near the point of death occurred to me, but i repeated the falsehood:
"i am quite willing to die."
"it is sweet to die for art," cried the artist gravely, as if the remark were an indisputable axiom.
"i will not struggle with you."
this at least was true, for the silken bands would not let me.
"daphne wished you not to struggle," remarked the madman.
"but before i go, tell me—tell me—" i hesitated, not knowing what to say next. "tell me—what has become of my brother george?" i cried, on the spur of the moment. "you must know," i added.
"your brother?" cried the artist, his eyes lighting up, as if some new chord in his memory were touched. "your brother?"
he was silent for a moment as if reflecting; and then looking all around, as if to ascertain that we were alone, he whispered:
"you will never reveal to any one what i am going to tell you?"
"it will not be within my power to reveal anything after you have finished with me," i replied with a smile that was the essence of ghastliness.
"true, true; i am forgetting that."
taking up the stained poniard, he bent forward in his chair and whispered between his white teeth:
"you see this red stain? his! it is a twelvemonth old—a twelvemonth this very night."
making a stab at an imaginary figure, he looked at[pg 263] me, and said: "wait. i'll show you how i did it presently."
"i am quite willing to wait." my trembling lips could scarcely frame the words. "let me have the whole story—every word. i shall not mind if you take hours over it."
"you shall have the whole story. oh, you shall not lose a syllable of it! ho! ho! it was a master-stroke of craft. was borgia or macchiavelli ever more cunning? i glory in the deed. i love to dwell on it. i act it every night. in the secrecy of my chamber, in the quietness of the picture-gallery, i rehearse the whole tableau of that glorious time. they would not permit me to do this in the day-time, you know," he said, exchanging his excited manner for one that was quite grave and confidential. "they would call me mad: they would take me away—far away from my studio and my easel, and they would put me in a padded room, and i should paint no more. but i am too cunning for them," he cried, his eyes lighting up once more with the fire of madness. "i baffled them. they know not that in the still hours, while they sleep, i am occupied in the work of killing captain willard. he takes a deal of killing, too!" he added, resuming as if by magic his quiet air again. "each night i slay him; yet each night he returns again, clamouring for the death-stroke. i would not believe it if i did not see it for myself. strange, is it not?" he concluded, turning to me.
"it's extraordinary!" my white lips gasped. which, if it were true, it most certainly was.
the maniac stared at me a few seconds with a most bewildered air, looking as if he had forgotten something, or as if he did not quite understand how i came to be in my present position, and then went on:
[pg 264]
"yes, this red stain is his. i slew him. why? let me think," resting his elbow on the table and pressing his forefinger to his brow for all the world like a sane man. "let me think; i had a motive for it. what was it? love of my art? yes, that was it—art."
he paused again, as if he found it difficult to collect his shattered memories.
"from the first hour of my calling as an artist it became an object with me to woo and win a woman whose face should be all that a painter could desire. no vulgar model who displays her charms for hire would do for me; my inspiration must come from a pure and beautiful maiden who, fired with the spirit of my enthusiasm, would be devoted to all that was high and noble in art for its own sake. her lovely shape, delineated in various attitudes on the canvas, should be the making of my pictures. in short," he added, "i was a second zeuxis in quest of beauty."
he made another stop, and then resumed:
"at last, after long years of waiting, i found what i had sought. imagination could not picture a form more lovely than that of daphne leslie, and i resolved to make her the handmaid of art. but there was an obstacle in the way. that obstacle was captain willard. no matter. he must die; art demanded it, and i took an oath that the eve of his wedding should be the last day of his life. but how was i to set about it? i knew what suspicions would arise—what a hue and cry would be raised by society—if a distinguished officer, who had come all the way from india to wed a rich and lovely bride, should vanish mysteriously on the very eve of his intended marriage. all the machinery of the law would be set in motion to discover the author of the deed. suspicion would be sure to fall on the artist who was known to entertain feelings of[pg 265] love towards the bride. 'it was vasari that did it,' men would say, 'and jealousy was the cause.' i must act with caution. ah! i would forge a letter in captain willard's handwriting—easy task this for an artist!—purporting that he had fled of his own accord to the continent. ho! ho! it was bravely done—bravely. no one ever dreamt that he was dead, and that angelo had killed him."
he put on an air of savage pride which plainly implied, "now what do you think of that?"
like a trembling child flinging a cherished eatable to a dog of which he is afraid, i flung the maniac a propitiatory falsehood, despising myself for it the minute afterwards:
"i always thought you were a clever fellow."
he accepted this tribute of admiration with the air of one who quite deserved it, and continued:
"yes; i would so arrange the affair that none should ever discover what had really happened. i would kill him and travel in his dress to dover, making it appear as if captain willard had really departed for the continent. i was not unlike him in build and features, and by painting and disguising my face i could transform myself into his very image. i tried the experiment beforehand. the mirror showed me what an actor the stage has lost. even you were deceived when landing from the steam-packet last christmas morning. it was i whom you saw on the pier amid the falling snow."
my amazement at this point was so great that it made me forget the perilous situation i was in. spellbound at the revelation, i stood like a spectator gazing at some actor who enthralls him.
"his death furnished me with a noble idea in connection with the picture i was then painting, 'the fall[pg 266] of c?sar.' did not parrhasius when he wished to paint prometheus chained to the rock and tortured by the vulture, order one of his slaves to be fettered, and the bosom of the shrieking captive to be laid open, that he might paint the agony of prometheus in all its glorious reality? gods! what a picture that must have been! oh, that i, too, could have by me a man just slain, with the red blood distilling from the wounds! what a glorious model it would be! its image transferred to the canvas would be the making of my picture. what realism it would exhibit! this work at least would not be called mediocre by the cold critics. ah! bright thought! captain willard shall be my model. the very stroke that deprives a rival of life shall be the means of elevating me to fame. could vengeance take a sweeter, a more subtle form?"
it seemed an age since angelo had begun his recital, but as the church-bells had not pealed the quarter, i knew he had not yet been fifteen minutes over it. my ears were keenly alert for any sound that might indicate that help was approaching, but everything was still and quiet outside the tower.
"i met captain willard late on christmas eve returning from daphne's house. i asked him to come to my studio for a few minutes: 'i have a surprise for you,' i said. so i had. as i spoke i had to turn my face from him to hide the light of triumph in my eyes. he came willingly enough, talking of the happy morrow. we were alone. i led him to a picture on an easel. 'a present for your bride; do you like it?' i said, standing behind him. oh, what a thrill was going through me! 'yes,' he replied—his last word! 'well, how do you like that?' i cried as my weapon descended. hatred—love—fame nerved my arm with[pg 267] a triple power, and i struck him down—down—down. this is how i did it."
at this point the maniac sprang to his feet with the rapidity of lightning, and, lifting the dagger on high, made a swift downward stab at an ideal figure. my heart gave a great leap, for i thought he was going to strike me.
"with one loud cry he dropped—thud! oh, that cry! it rings in my ears still. it was the sweetest music to me. i stood over him with my dripping weapon ready to deal him a second stroke, and a red drop fell on his vest. i wanted him to cry, to move, to rise, that i might have the pleasure of striking him down once more. but he never moved after that one stroke, and i took him up in my arms and flung him down again that i might enjoy the luxury of the sound."
dropping the dagger, he illustrated his words by going through the motion of flinging a body to the ground. anything more devilish than his manner i had never seen.
"and he fell thus, and lay in this manner—so."
and here the maniac flung himself backward with his arms aloft, and dropped to the floor so swiftly and naturally that i marvelled he did not hurt his head on the yellow-sanded stone. and there he lay in silence for a few seconds, with his eyes closed and his limbs rigidly extended in imitation of a dead body.
i thought of the figure in the grey cloak that fruin had seen lying on the floor of the picture-gallery. that figure had been none other than the mad artist, whose diseased imagination gloried in the still hours of night in rehearsing the terrible drama of last christmas eve. his monomania, in fact, had taken the shape of a subjective reslaying of the slain, united to an objective wearing of his victim's dress. instead of destroying[pg 268] that evidence of his guilt, he had retained george's clothing, and, as his subsequent ravings showed, regarded it as a memento of his own cleverness.
the artist rose to his feet, and flung himself back in his chair again, apparently exhausted by his emotion.
"cruel?" he gasped, staring at me, and striving to palliate the deed by the example of others. "cruel? if giotto stabs his living model on the cross that he may paint a crucified christ, if parrhasius damns his slave to torture that he may produce the agony of prometheus in all its realism, may i, too, not have my victim? cruel? it was a sacrifice to art. churchmen have burned each other for the glory of god. art is my god."
and the maniac lifted his clenched hand aloft as if defying heaven.
"my rival was lying at my feet, dead. i wanted his clothing for my purpose, so i stripped him. gods! what a figure for an artist! but he had received only one wound as yet—c?sar had many—so i dealt him some six strokes or more. how the red blood spouted up! oh, those wounds! 'poor dumb mouths!' how eloquently they will speak from the canvas! what a divine picture i shall produce! 'il divino' will deserve his name at last. already i hear the voice of the public saying, 'what a genius this vasari is!' ah! that reminds me. you have not yet seen my noble work of art. you shall. 'tis behind that tapestry."
evidently the maniac did not know that the picture had been removed. i trembled lest he should rise and discover its absence.
to my mental agony was added physical suffering, due to the unnatural position of my arms. for the sake of relief i had often moved them to and fro and up and down at the back of the pillar. i was now[pg 269] moving them farther round than they had been before, when my wrists came in contact with something sharp. feeling with my fingers as well as i could, i discovered that a part of the column had crumbled away with time and presented a rough, ragged edge. an idea darted into my mind. an idea? say an inspiration rather. my wrists were not in contact—the breadth of the pillar prevented that—there was a distance of about a foot between them. the silken band that secured me was drawn in a tight slip-knot round one wrist, and, proceeding to the other, encircled it in the same manner, and then hung downwards trailing on the floor.
now if i could but bring the band connecting my two wrists across the sharp edge of this stone, steady attrition would tear it into two portions, and i should be free. with some difficulty i worked the twisted silk into the requisite place, and then began as vigorous a friction as my cramped position would allow, dreading every moment lest the madman should perceive my motions and detect their cause.
though bending all my energies to the task before me, i tried at the same time to give a listening ear to the artist, but i am of opinion that my further report of his utterances is far from being a faithful one.
"i donned my rival's attire. i was no more angelo: i was the captain. how well his dress became me! observe my military cloak, my martial stride! see my painted scar—my brown hair and beard! i had prepared for all this weeks beforehand. who that saw me now would take me for poor 'il divino,' whose pictures are always a failure? but i had no time to lose—the dover train would be starting soon—and, leaving my divine model locked up in the studio, i hurried off to the station, posting on my way the forged letter that was to tell daphne that her [pg 270]bridegroom had fled to the continent. now for dover to prove the truth of the letter. the booking-clerk, the guard of the train, the ticket-collector, could all swear that an officer in every way resembling captain willard had travelled to dover on that christmas morning. i stood on the pier-head expressly for you to see me! i knew that you were coming in by that steamer, for daphne had told me the hour of your intended arrival. ho, ho! his own brother thrown off the scent, and ready to swear he had seen george at dover, at the very time that george was lying dead in my studio! it was rare glee afterwards to listen with grave face to the various theories propounded in my presence to account for captain willard's flight. and the world calls me mad!"
i was not aware that the world did so; but if it did, it had ample reason in his wild laugh, and demoniac glee. however, as his eyes were off me, i worked away desperately at my silken manacles.
"i must not return to london in the same attire: that would be to contradict the letter; and i must not return in my own: that might involve me in suspicion, and give rise to awkward questions if it were known that i had been at dover on the morning of captain willard's flight. no! i would return disguised in a woman's dress. ha! ha! how often have i heard you discuss the identity of the veiled lady who travelled with you from dover to london! learn now that the veiled lady is before you. now you know why she was dumb. i could not disguise my voice so effectually but that you might recognise it next morning at the wedding."
to say that i was amazed at this revelation is but a feeble way of expressing it. great as was my [pg 271]amazement, however, it did not check for an instant my working for freedom.
"there was living then at dover an old friend of mine from rivoli—matteo carito by name. he was caretaker to an italian family who were spending their winter abroad. i had paid him a chance visit the previous week, and he had casually told me that he meant to spend his christmas with some italian friends in london; he thought he might safely leave the house for a day or two. it would be empty, then, on christmas morning. good! unknown to him, i procured a key that would open the front door; in the secrecy of this house i would assume my female disguise. do you remember finding me outside old matteo's house? you came on me as swiftly and silently as a ghost. i was startled, for i knew you were his brother—daphne had many a time pointed out your portrait to me—and i thought all was discovered. but i baffled you—i eluded you—how adroitly you know. matteo's house was my asylum. but matteo had not gone to london after all, and discovered me in the very act of changing my attire. he wanted to know how i had gained access to the house, and why i was masquerading in two different disguises. for a minute i hesitated; i thought of braining him on the spot. it would have been rare sport. but i pitied him—he had known me from childhood—and i concocted some story that seemed to satisfy him at the time. would now that i had slain him there and then! it would have saved me a world of trouble. he discovered it all!"
i was still tearing away fiercely at my bonds, confident that if the artist continued his ravings for a few more minutes my hands would be free. the friction of the silk on the jagged edge of the pillar produced a sharp rustling noise, but the artist noticed neither the[pg 272] sound nor my motions, so taken was he with the story of his own cleverness. he seemed to be orating more for his own satisfaction than for my information.
"yes, he discovered it all," continued he. "i had thought myself safe, for had i not effectually disposed of the body? steeping it in chemicals and wrapping it in asbestos, i had in the dead of night, in the secrecy of my cellar, committed it to the flames. ho! ho! a true classical funeral that, as became the subject, for was he not the pagan c?sar of my picture? 'vulcan, arise! vasari claims thine aid.' ah! what a glorious night that was as i moved round the funeral pyre, pouring on oil and chanting an ode from horace! what a splendid picture it would have made—'a pagan funeral!' how i regretted that i had not prepared my canvas for the event! but it was too late to think of that. then, one dark night, on some lonely common, i scattered the ashes to the four winds. not a trace of my victim left! and yet, after all my care and caution, that old dotard of a matteo had discovered my secret—discovered it by accident. i was at paris, exhibiting my picture to admiring thousands. among those who thronged to gaze at my 'c?sar' was a colonel langworthy, but just returned from india. 'that face is very like my friend willard, who disappeared so strangely last christmas!' he cried. i turned to the speaker, and whom should i see at his elbow but old matteo, with his great eyes staring at me. he had heard this chance remark: he at once divined my secret. i was so infuriated that next day, when the colonel was coming to take a second view of my picture, i ordered him to be thrust out—a mad act, for it got into the newspapers, and confirmed matteo's suspicions. thenceforward i had no peace, for no bribe would stop his mouth. he was forever [pg 273]reproaching me. i had made him an accessory to a crime, he said. his conscience troubled him for having in a manner aided me to escape on that christmas morning. he could not sleep at night. poor fool! he could go no more to mass with such a sin on his soul. he followed me to rivoli. he must—he must confess all to the priest. damn him! he did! that was why father ignatius refused me the mass that morning, and daphne present, too, to witness my humiliation! it was that that caused her to look with a different face on me, and to turn from my love with scorn. i marvel now that she is still living when i recall my fury at her refusal. she was nearer to death then—nearer to her lost george—than she had been since her bridal morning. my old nurse said i was mad that day; perhaps i was. no matter. let daphne refuse me, hate me as she will, she cannot recall her dead hero to life. there was consolation in that thought. that night, as i was making preparations to depart from rivoli, i came across his grey cloak. i always carried it with me. it was a joy to gaze on it, to think how i had won it. it was a sign of my triumph—it was a proof that he would trouble me no more with his rivalry. i put it on, for i loved to act the scene over again, and sallied out in it. i remember now with what glee i climbed crags and cliffs, singing and dancing along. aha! who is this in monkish garb that rises up before me in the moonlight? old matteo, as i live! matteo! matteo the betrayer! he sees me, he turns, he flees. ha! ha! what feeble steps! i hear him. how he pants for breath! with one fierce leap i am on him. ho! ho! my hand is on his old throat. how he struggles as i force him to the edge of the cliff! how he clings to me! 'mercy! mercy!' he screams. mercy? to him who had robbed me of my fair model? he could[pg 274] not tell any more tales after i had finished with him. from the cliff——"
the artist stopped abruptly, and assumed a listening air. along the gravel path outside came the tread of many feet approaching the place of my captivity. my heart throbbed wildly with hope, for i made certain that it was the baronet and my uncle coming to my rescue. it was not so, however. sounds of laughter, the rough voices of men mingling with the sweeter tones of women, floated upward to our ears, and i knew then that it was the party returning from the vicarage. they passed quickly beneath the window of my prison—so quickly that i had scarcely time to realise the situation—and by and by were standing, so i judged, on the lawn at the rear of the abbey. then came a silence, followed by the twanging of strings, the faint puffings of wind instruments, and such sounds as are usually the prelude to music, and i knew that they were going to sing some carols for the edification of the baronet and the other tenants of the abbey.
i glanced at the artist. should i give one loud shout for aid? i hesitated, lest the cry should cause him to sheath his dagger in my breast. i resolved first to make one more attempt to burst my bonds, and, exerting all my strength, i strained desperately at the twisted silk, plunging forward as far as its limited length would allow, careless almost as to whether the eyes of the artist were on me or not.
and now uprose an outburst of instrumental melody which lasted for a minute or so, and then, as the harmony subsided into fainter keys, the carol began. it was a solo.
whose tones were those that now rose so clear and silvery on the still, frosty air? was i doomed to die with daphne's voice ringing in my ears? she thought,[pg 275] perhaps, that i was in the library listening to her voice, and she was singing with more than ordinary power and sweetness. how quickly her joy would have turned to terror had she but known my real situation!
"aha!" screamed the maniac, so loudly that it could scarcely fail to attract the attention of those without. "aha! the spirits! the spirits! i knew they would be here. they visit me every night. they know the work that is going on here. listen—listen—listen to their voices! they are singing your requiem. how bravely they chanted at the foot of the grey old cliff the night i flung old matteo over! what rare music! ah! here they come, sliding down the moonbeams! god! what a throng!" he exclaimed, springing up excitedly and striking at the empty air, which his delirium was peopling with phantoms. "off! off! do you not see them? one cannot move—breathe in this atmosphere!"
my confused mind heard as in some weird dream fragments of his mad ravings mingling fantastically with the words of the carol:
christ was born on christmas day,
wreathe the holly, twine the bay,
christus natus hodie.
the babe, the son, the holy one of mary,
he is born to set us free—
laus deo! the band that connected my two wrists gave way. i was free! and at the same moment the first stroke of midnight chimed from the village steeple.
at that sound the artist snatched up the dagger from the table, and turned towards me.
"the hour is come! art demands her victim."
"stand off, you devil, or i'll brain you!" i cried, springing forward with the ends of the purple silk trailing from my wrists.
[pg 276]
the pistols i had brought with me lay on the table beyond my reach, for the artist stood between them and me, and in default of any other means of defence i snatched up the massive oaken chair, and balanced it aloft—a feat i could not perhaps have performed in ordinary moments, but now excitement imparted a magical strength to every fibre of my body.
"come on! i am free now!" i cried, brandishing the chair. "do you see me? free—free—free!"
in the sudden joy of my recovered liberty i was ten times madder than my opponent.
the artist might have stood for an image of amazement. silent and immovable he stood, staring at me with a vacuous look, evidently unable to comprehend how i had gained my freedom.
then suddenly daphne's voice was drowned in a loud tumult, and in the quick trampling of numerous feet. this was immediately followed by a succession of strokes on the massive panels of the door, dealt by some heavy implements, accompanied at the same time by the sounds as of persons scrambling up the ivy outside towards the casement. rescue was at hand!
and now across the oblong patch of moonlight that lay on the stone floor between me and the maniac appeared some dark shadows, and, turning towards the casement to ascertain the cause, the artist beheld human faces peering in through the diamond-shaped panes. a moment more and there came a great shivering and shattering of glass. the cold night air swept with a rush through the broken panes, bringing with it the wild crash of the christmas bells, a tumult of voices, and daphne's thrilling scream.
peril makes some men mad. it made angelo sane. he realised the situation—realised that his hated rival[pg 277] was slipping from his power; but the knowledge of this fact only made him more desperate.
"damn you! you shall not escape!" he cried fiercely. "i'll have your life, though i die the next moment for it!"
with the dagger gleaming aloft, he darted on me. measuring him with my eye, i swung the chair round, and tried to bring it down on his head, but he eluded the blow by springing deftly to one side.
the robe of tragedy is often sewn with the threads of comedy. the chair intended for the artist lighted instead on his unfinished picture, and went sheer through the canvas, overturning the easel, and inflicting more damage to the painted colosseum in two seconds than old time has been able to inflict on the solid original in well-nigh two millenniums.
"my picture! oh, my picture!" cried the artist. "you have destroyed it!"
petrified with dismay, he gazed on the ruins of his work of art, oblivious for the moment of everything else. taking advantage of his surprise, i sprang forward, and seized him by the throat with such force and energy that he toppled backwards, and measured his length on the floor of the cell. i fell with him.
"that's it! bravo! hold him down!" cried a voice, which i recognised as the baronet's. "we'll be with you in an instant."
sir hugh, my uncle, and some others were standing on the window-ledge, striving to effect an entrance by forcing asunder the slender cross-bars of the casement.
the artist lay extended on the floor of the cell. my knee was on his chest, and with one hand i grasped him by the throat, and with the other pinioned to the floor his hand that held the dagger. i tried to keep[pg 278] him in this position till aid should come, but with a strength almost superhuman he rose to his feet, dragging me with him, and, grappling with each other, we swayed backwards and forwards in the moonlit cell.
"i always hated you," he gasped. "but for you i might have won the love of daphne. you shall not escape me!"
he made frantic efforts to reach me with the dagger, but i clung heavily to the arm that held it, impeding his power of action. at length with a sudden effort of strength he flung me off, but as he did so the cross-bars of the casement gave way, and three human bodies were projected through it in a most ungraceful fashion, and fell on all-fours to the floor.
for one second the artist stood irresolute, and then darting towards the secret opening, he disappeared from view.
the cell seemed to swim around me, a mist passed before my eyes, and then dimly as in a dream i became conscious that i was reclining in an oaken chair, supported on one side by my uncle and on the other by daphne. the door of the tower was wide open, hanging obliquely on one hinge. someone was putting a lighted match to the wick in the antique iron lamp, and its bright flame lit up a crowd of faces that were bent upon me with wondering looks. at one end of the cell some men, a helmeted police-officer among the number, were kneeling, fingering and clawing at the stone slab which the artist had pulled down after him to cover his retreat.
"it must be chained down," i heard the baronet saying. "pass the crowbar. damn it! the fellow will escape."
"his eyes are open," i heard daphne saying. "oh, frank, you are not hurt, are you?"
[pg 279]
she was now kneeling beside me, her lovely eyes full of tenderness and sympathy. it was worth all the agony i had endured to be the object of her sweet pity. i tried to speak, but emotion checked my utterance, and i could reply to her question only by an assuring smile.
"you are looking like the very dead," said the doctor. "here, take a drop of this. this will revive you."
"is my hair grey?" i murmured, putting my hand to my head, as if it were possible to ascertain by the sense of touch. "do i look old? i feel like a captive liberated from the bastile. how long have i been in this prison? years upon years?"
in a few words i told my shuddering listeners of the artist's designs on me. from regard to daphne, i reserved the story of george's end for another occasion.
"ay, ay," remarked the doctor, gravely shaking his head. "i saw this morning that he exhibited all the symptoms of insanity. genius and madness are often allied."
"well, thank heaven you are safe!" exclaimed my uncle fervently; "though more by your own efforts than by ours," he added.
"have you only just returned from the magistrate's?" i asked him.
there is a good deal of ingratitude in human nature, and even in the first joy of my deliverance i felt a disposition to reproach my uncle for what i considered a very tardy rescue, totally forgetful of the fact that if my rescuers had appeared earlier on the scene there would have been an end of me, for the artist at sight of them would have effected his deadly purpose without my being able to offer any resistance.
[pg 280]
"yes, we have only just returned," he answered, understanding the motive of my question. "everything that possibly could went wrong. the carriage broke down half way from the manse, and when we set off to finish the journey on foot we missed our way on the moors and were a long time in finding it again. when we did reach the abbey and did not see you about we guessed where you were and came at once to the tower. we heard enough to assure us that something very serious was the matter, and as we could not hope to make our way in empty handed we ran back for—"
he was interrupted by a shout coming from outside of the cell, and turning quickly i saw that the slab had been lifted up revealing a stairway beneath.
"turn your lantern down here, wilson," cried the baronet excitedly, "and lead the way. look sharp, or he'll escape after all."
the constable obediently went down the opening, followed by sir hugh, my uncle and two or three other men. thinking that i had as good a right as any to join the pursuit, i rose with the intention of following them, but at daphne's entreaty, i forbore, and, leaving the cell, we both walked across the lawn to the abbey, all unconscious of the tragedy that was happening under our very feet.
for the steps down which the artist had fled opened into a stone passage, the walls of which were dripping with moisture and stained with horrid fungi. at the foot of the steps sir hugh came upon a recess, where they found a grey cloak, and a gentleman's dress suit. the baronet, with a look of inquiry on his face, pointed out these things to my uncle.
"yes," said my uncle, "those are his clothes right enough. they are what he wore the last time we saw[pg 281] him alive. it is clear that vasari murdered him that night, and he has kept these clothes by him ever since. look," he went on, "this is where he was stabbed," and he pointed to a cut in the back of the coat. as he was handling the garment something bright fell from the breast pocket, and stooping to pick it up he recognised the ring which daphne had thrown into the well at rivoli.
"we mustn't stop," the baronet said. "hold up the light, wilson," and the whole party again stumbled forward along the passage.
"where does it lead to?" the constable asked, peering cautiously into the darkness before him.
"i wish i could tell you," sir hugh replied. "i have never seen the place before. it must be the nuns' corridor of ancient days. i always understood it had been bricked up. by the way, we must go carefully. if i'm right, there must be a deep chasm ahead—the nuns' shaft, and if—hullo, what's that?"
distant a few paces in front was a human figure crouching low against the wall.
"there he is," several voices cried at once.
"take care," said my uncle. "remember, he is a madman!"
at this, the whole party came to a sudden halt.
"yield in the king's name," shouted the constable. but whatever effect the king's name may have upon the sane it cannot be expected to exercise much influence upon a maniac. rising to his feet, with a wild laugh that sounded unearthly in the echoing passage, the madman ran on into the darkness, with the pursuit hot behind him.
suddenly he checked his headlong pace, and, turning swiftly, confronted his pursuers. the light held aloft by the constable fell full on his despairing[pg 282] face, and to their dying day those who saw angelo vasari at that moment will never forget the sight.
with a gesture in which rage, defiance and hopelessness were all mingled, he sprang into the air. for one moment he was visible, in the next he had vanished. no sound broke from him. in absolute silence, more terrible than any cry, he was swallowed by the blackness beneath him.
"by god, he's gone!" the baronet shouted, and there was fear in his voice. "stop, stop, for heaven's sake, or you are all dead men."
"what is it?" shouted some, catching the infection of his fear.
"he has leaped down the shaft of the old silver mine."
thus died angelo vasari, and perhaps it was better that he should perish by suicide than be taken alive only to fall into the hangman's hands or drag out a long life in some asylum for the insane. that the story could be kept from the general public was, of course, impossible, and the sensation caused at the inquest by the telling of the manner of his death was enhanced by the account i had to repeat of how my brother came by his. vasari's studio in london was examined, and evidence was discovered in the cellar corroborating his assertion that he had burnt the body of the man whom he had sacrificed to his insane desire for fame.
as for the picture itself, sir hugh at first thought of destroying it, but finally decided to keep it on account of its marvellous merit as a work of art. it was removed from the gallery, and hung by itself in a room where it could be inspected by the privileged few. daphne could never bring herself to look at it. she[pg 283] did not want the idealised image of her lover to be marred by the ghastly presentment of his dead likeness.
whose wife daphne is now, it is hardly necessary to say. we were married in the spring at silverdale, and quiet though we wished the wedding to be, the church was crowded with people from far and wide who were eager to see the girl whose beauty had been the cause of such a tragedy. to efface from her mind as far as possible the memory of that tragedy is the chief object of my life and i am glad to think i do not wholly fail. she wears in addition to her wedding ring a second golden band, the ring that she threw into the well at rivoli. it is to be buried with her, she says. may that day be far distant, is my constant prayer.
