Chapter X (2)

"'Then my last senses fail me. But I know the trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips my wrist from above. And then I find myself lying on the floor of a great hall in a dim light. And into my eyes, as I lie there, little better than a corpse, if the truth be told, are looking the sweetest eyes surely God ever made....'"

Here Madeline exclaimed, interrupting, "Oh, how jolly! Now they're there! But do go on; I mustn't interrupt. Go on, Uncle Kit." The reader continued, "'... And her two hands stroke my face and hold me by my own....'"

At this point Sir Stopleigh interposed respectably. "A--really," said he, "we must hope that this young lady, whoever she was, was not the Duke's wife. You will excuse me, my dear Madeline, but that is certainly what I understood you to suppose."

His daughter interjected disreputably. "Oh, bother! Never mind Pupsey--go on."

Then Mr. Pelly said apologetically, "It _was_ the Middle Ages, you know. Let's see, where were we? Oh--'hold me by my own'"--and went on reading:

"'... And her dear voice is in my ears, and if I die now, at least I shall have lived. So said I to myself, as Attilio worked hard with a file to free my limbs. And they moisten bread with wine, and put it in my mouth. For, indeed, what I say is true, and the last of my strength went in sending that little _ambusciata_ to the poor Uguccio. Still, revival is in me, though it comes slowly. But I can only utter the one word "Love," and can only move to kiss the hand I hold and the pale face that comes to mine. Then I hear the beloved voice I had never hoped to hear again:

"'"Can we trust that wicked old Marta, Attilio? If she betrays us we are lost."

"'"_Che che_! She owes him an old grudge, and will pay him--now or later! And a thousand crowns, _per Bacco_! No, no--trust her!"

"'"But I hear a footstep coming down his stair; if it is she, it is to say he is waked. If it is he, she has betrayed us."

"'"Neither the one nor the other, I wager. See, the Signore is getting the blood in his face. He will eat soon, and all will be well."

"'Then I feel in my neck a dog's nose, that smells, and the touch of his tongue; that licks. But what he would say we know not, though he tries to speak, too, dog wise. I know him for the _cagnoletto_ of la Marta, the old woman--for had I not seen him in the days when I painted my Maddalena in the _Stanza delle Quattro Corone_?...'"

Madeline interrupted again. "_Now_ I hope you're convinced. He was sent for to paint the Duchess. And he painted Maddalena. Of course, Maddalena _was_ the Duchess!"

"The Herr Professor's theory is that he painted two ladies, one of whom was Maddalena, some beautiful attendant with whom he was in love, the other the Duchess. He may have, you know!"

"He may have done anything, Uncle Christopher! But he didn't. What's the use of being so roundabout? Besides, if she wasn't the Duchess, how did she know the Duke was asleep?"

Her parents may have been anxious to avoid critical discussions, and suggested that perhaps the reading had better go on. It is just possible, also, that Mr. Pelly, who was a typical little old bachelor, saw rocks ahead in a discussion of the Duke and Duchess's domestic arrangements, for he introduced a point of which the Baronet and his Lady did not see the importance.

"Stop a bit, Miss Mad!" said the old gentleman, laying down the manuscript. "I've a bone to pick with you."

"Don't be too long. I want to know what that old woman had been at. It's only some Scientific nonsense, I expect. Go on."

"It's not Scientific this time. It's the other way round." Miss Upwell pricked up her ears. "I want to know, if there was a Duchess named Maddalena, what becomes of the theory that I christened the picture-ghost after you by subconscious cerebration?"

"I see. Of course. I didn't see that." It had produced a visible impression. Madeline appeared to cogitate over it in an animated way, and then to mellow to a conclusion suddenly. "Well--but that proves it wasn't a dream at all, but a genuine phenomenon, and all sorts of things. I'm right, and you're wrong, and the picture was telling the truth all through. I knew she was." Her three hearers smiled from within the entrenchments of their maturity at the youthful enthusiasm of the speaker, and then said very correct things about this coincidence and that being really remarkable, and how we must not allow our judgments to be swayed by considerations, and must weigh everything deliberately, and accept everything else with caution, and hesitate about this, and pause before that, all with a view to avoiding heterodox conclusions. After which Mr. Pelly resumed:

"'Then, as Attilio holds his hand a moment from filing, as one who awaits some issue before he may begin his labours afresh; and as my darling, whom alone I see--for I see nothing else--awaits it, too, I hear a step that halts, and then a door is pushed from without, and the step halts into the room, as some clocks tick. And it is then I begin to know of a great pain in my right hand.

"'And here I may say to you, _Illustrissima_, that had this chanced but a few years later, this hand of mine that was my joy to use, the source and very life of all my skill, might even have been saved, and I might many times again have painted the dear face of my Maddalena. For what is there that is not possible to the skill of the great Francese Ambrogio?'"

"This would be Ambrose Paré," said the reader, "who would have been about the same age as Cosimo dei Medici, the father of the lady to whom this is written..." But he resumed abruptly, in obedience to a shade of impatience in Madeline:

"'Yet have I not been altogether disabled. For do I not write this with my left hand? I am, however, but an _egoista_--a selfish person--to dwell on this; though I know your Excellency will pardon this fault in an old man.

"'I hear, then, the halting step approach. And both await the words that will follow it in silence. It is the old Marta Zan.

"'_Sta tranquillo--sta tranquillo per bene_!' He is quiet--he is quiet for good! Her voice has a little laugh in it. It is not a sweet laugh to hear.

"'"Does he still sleep--will he sleep?" It is my Maddalena who asks. And la Marta replies, "_Non c'e pericolo_! No fear!" But I see across the shoulder of my darling, as she stoops over me again and tries to clear my brow of tangled hair--but, you may well think, to little purpose--I see that the old woman holds somewhat up, hanging from betwixt her finger and old thumb, to show to Attilio. And he laughs to see the little knife and its sharp point, but below his breath, as guilt laughs to guilt. But this my beloved heeds not; she is busy with my hair.

"'I can tell but little now from what I saw with my own eyes of what happened in the sequel, till I found myself here again in the little old Castello in the hills where I passed all the early years of my boyhood, in the family of my wife's father, now dead; though her mother still lived, and for many years after that. What I do remember comes to me as the speech of those about him reaches the sleeper who half wakes, to sleep and dream again.

"'I can recollect riding, behind Attilio this time, down the stony road I had come up in such pain behind his comrade. I can just recollect the barking of the great dogs in the Castle court when we came away; whereon my Maddalena spoke earnestly to one of them, Leone, and he went and carried her speech to the others, and they were silent, though some made protest under their full utterance. And though I saw the janitors and porters at the great gate in deep sleep, I did not then know of the cunning work of the old Marta, who, indeed, was learned in the use of drugs, and could as easily have poisoned them all as made them sleep. Indeed, it was said by many that the clever Duchess of Ferrara, the sister of Cesare Borgia, had learned somewhat of the art of poisoning in her youth from this same Marta Zan. But of this I can say nothing with certainty.

"'But this I do know, that this Marta, who was then near on eighty years of age, having received the reward she had earned of five hundred crowns, and another five hundred for a _buona mano_, did not accompany us, on the score of her age, being unable to mount a horse. But, as you may guess, Eccellenza, it was she who had occasioned the old Duke's death, and none of my doing, as was said by some, though the certainty that the knife used was the girdle-dagger of the fat Castellan Ferretti was held a sure proof of his guilt, and led to his being _giustiziato_ some months later. And she chose this way of sending her old betrayer to Hell rather than that of poison, seeing that her skill in this last was so well known to all that there was none other in the household on whom suspicion could have fallen. On which account, as I have since understood, she returned again to his bedside to see her work secure, and replaced the knife in the wound, whereby the guilt of his death was fixed on the fat Ferretti. I can in nowise guess why la Marta so long deferred her revenge against the Duke, except it was...'"

Mr. Pelly stopped despairingly. "Half a page gone! We must remain unenlightened--as well as on a good many other points. There is not very much more. I may as well finish:--

"'How great my happiness has been with my Maddalena you, _Illustrissima_, may know from your most illustrious father, who has known of me throughout. Life is made up of good and ill, and what right has one so truly blessed as I have been to complain of the cruelty of Fate in depriving him of his right hand and its power of work? Think of what his lot is to him to whom night and day alike give the sun in heaven to his soul! Contrast it with that of the sated blow-fly, of the world-compelling tyrant, at whose pleasure are all the contents, at choice, of all the world's treasure-houses, except Love. That is the one thing wealth cannot buy, that the behests of kings command in vain! And that has been mine, in all its fulness; a fruit whose sweetness has no compeer, a jewel whose light mirrors back the glow that shines for ever in the eyes of God....' The reader paused, for there was an interruption from without.

"What on earth _can_ it be, at this time of night? I'm sure it's a carriage this time! Do look out and see--oh no! go on and let's have the rest. It can only be the General--he changed his mind, and his train was late. We shall see in a minute--let's have the last page...." This was collective speech, which ended when Mr. Pelly said, "There isn't very much." He went on reading rapidly, subject to a sense of advent elsewhere in the house:

"'One only thing, as I have said, is to me a constant thorn of regret--the destruction of the picture I painted in those early days, of my Maddalena. It was all my heart and strength could do, and would have served to tell of all I might have done had God but spared me my right hand. But _fiat voluntas tua, Domine_! None knows for certain how it was destroyed, nor by whom. For the statement of the Old Devil to my Maddalena, that it was burned, for that it was judged worthless by men of great knowledge in Art, and condemned as rubbish, is of little weight. In those last days what could have been the motive of such a statement but to add to my darling's pain? It was averred by the Ferretti, even to the day that he went to the gibbet, that it was removed to a place of safety by order of the Duke; but either he did not choose to say to what place, or possibly did not know. And when all the contents of the rooms the Duke had lived in were removed, and the late Duke, his son, came and took possession of the castle, so deep was his hatred of his father's memory--as, indeed, he believed his mother had been poisoned by his orders--that he had all the furniture removed, and all the pictures that might bring back the wicked old man's memory to his mind. And there was no such picture among them, as I saw myself; for by invitation of Duke Giulio, with whom I have always been on friendly terms, I inspected every picture as it was removed from the Ducal apartments, the walls of which, as you know, were so worthily decorated afterwards by Francesco Primaticcio, to whom I would so proudly have shown that one little work by mine own hand. But, alas! there is, I fear, no doubt that for once only the old Duke spoke without lying, and that in truth he had had it burned, for a _dispetto_ to me, and to give a little more pain to my darling....'"

At this point Mr. Pelly, being close to the end, read quicker and quicker, to make a finish before the outcome of the carriage, whatever it was, should be made manifest and break up the _séance_. But the time was too short, as Mr. Stebbings the butler appeared, charged, as it seemed, with some communication, but hesitating about the choice of language in which to make it.

"General Fordyce, your ladyship. The General desired me to say, Sir Stopleigh, would you be so good as speak to him a half a minute?" But Sir S. was slow of apprehension, perhaps sleepy, and said hay what! Both ladies spoke together. "It _is_ the General! Don't you understand? He wants you to go out and speak to him."

"Me go out and speak to him--what for?"

"You'll find that out by going. Look alive, Pupsey!"

"I'm coming, Stebbings! What on earth can the General want to say to me?"

"Do go and see him, and find out." This was in chorus, from both ladies, as before. Exit Pupsey.

"I wonder what it can be! However, we shall hear directly. Is there any more to read, Uncle Christopher?"

Mr. Pelly read in a slighting, conclusive sort of way:--

"'So now I cannot show you, _Illustrissima_, as I so gladly should have done, how little change has come in the golden hair of my Maddalena, in all these thirty years! Nor the painting of that one well-remembered lock that fell all in ripples on the sunflower brocade upon her bosom----'"

Madeline got suddenly up and stood again facing the picture.

"Now," she said, "come here and see and be convinced, Mr. Incredulous." And Mr. Pelly came, and stood beside her.

"Well, my dear child," said he. "That certainly _does_ look----"

"Very like indeed! Doesn't it? But you'll see Pupsey will want to have his own way. He always does!"

"Whatever can your father be talking--talking--talking to the General about? Why can't they come in? What on earth can it be?" This is from her ladyship--a semi-aside. She is listening to the talking at a distance. Then Madeline said, "I hope you are convinced, Mr. Pelly," and after one more long look at the picture turned and went to the door, opened it, and listened through it. Her mother said maternally, "Madeline--my dear!" But for all that she stood and listened, as though she heard something. And Mr. Pelly, following her mother's eyes, turned and watched her as she stood. It seemed to him that something like a gasp took her, as though her breath caught with a sudden thrill, visible in her shoulders as her dress was cut, and that her white left arm, that was farthest from the door, caught up tight, and as it were grasped her heart. Her ladyship, looking at her over her shoulder, began, "Why--child--!" and immediately got up and crossed the room to her, saying, "Is anything wrong?" Then, as the girl closed the door and turned round. Mr. Pelly saw that she had gone ashy white, near as white as the clean art-paint on the door she stood by. But she only said, "I shall be all right in a minute." Her mother said, "Come and sit down, darling," which she did; but sat quite still, looking white. "I wish Sir Stopleigh would come," said her mother. Mr. Pelly was frightened, but behaved well, for a little old bachelor.

Presently her colour came again, and she said, "It must have been my fancy"; and her mother said, "_What_ must, dear? Do tell us!" But she only said, "How on earth can I have been such a fool?" Then her mother said again, "But what was it, dear?" and she answered uneasily. "Nothing, Mumsey." Her mother and Mr. Pelly looked at one another, puzzled.

Sir Stopleigh put his head in at the door, saying to his wife would she come out for a minute and speak to him? On which Madeline said suddenly, "I shall go to bed. Good-night, Uncle Christopher!--Good-night, Pupsey and Mumsey!" and lit a candle and went away quickly upstairs. "How very funny of Mad," her mother said, as she followed her husband from the room. "Not at all like her! I'll say good-night, Uncle Christopher, but you do as you like." The momentary vision of Sir Stopleigh--who said he would come back directly--left Mr. Pelly with an impression that he was very full of something to tell. And certainly there came a great sudden exclamation of glad surprise from her ladyship almost as soon as the door closed behind her.

"I shall hear all about it in good time," said Mr. Pelly. "At least, I suppose so." He sat down contentedly in the large armchair opposite the picture, and looked at the fire. Seventy-seven can wait.

The murmur of a distant colloquy, heard through doors and passages, and quenched by carpets, assorts itself into its elements as the silence in the library gets under weigh, and sharpens Mr. Pelly's hearing. He is clear about the woman's voice: his hostess's, of course--no other. But is that George's, or the General's, the unexplained outsider's? Surely that was a third voice, just now? Never mind, Mr. Pelly can wait!