While the talk at the dinner-table flowed easily onward, the evening-time advanced to night—and it became necessary to think of sending the children to bed.
As Agnes rose to leave the room, accompanied by the eldest girl, she observed with surprise that Henry’s manner suddenly changed. He looked serious and preoccupied; and when his niece wished him good night, he abruptly said to her, “Marian, I want to know what part of the hotel you sleep in?” Marian, puzzled by the question, answered that she was going to sleep, as usual, with “Aunt Agnes.” Not satisfied with that reply, Henry next inquired whether the bedroom was near the rooms occupied by the other members of the travelling party. Answering for the child, and wondering what Henry’s object could possibly be, Agnes mentioned the polite sacrifice made to her convenience by Mrs. James. “Thanks to that lady’s kindness,” she said, “Marian and I are only on the other side of the drawing-room.” Henry made no remark; he looked incomprehensibly discontented as he opened the door for Agnes and her companion to pass out. After wishing them good night, he waited in the corridor until he saw them enter the fatal corner-room—and then he called abruptly to his brother, “Come out, Stephen, and let us smoke!”
As soon as the two brothers were at liberty to speak together privately, Henry explained the motive which had led to his strange inquiries about the bedrooms. Francis had informed him of the meeting with the Countess at Venice, and of all that had followed it; and Henry now carefully repeated the narrative to his brother in all its details. “I am not satisfied,” he added, “about that woman’s purpose in giving up her room. Without alarming the ladies by telling them what I have just told you, can you not warn Agnes to be careful in securing her door?”
Lord Montbarry replied, that the warning had been already given by his wife, and that Agnes might be trusted to take good care of herself and her little bedfellow. For the rest, he looked upon the story of the Countess and her superstitions as a piece of theatrical exaggeration, amusing enough in itself, but unworthy of a moment’s serious attention.
While the gentlemen were absent from the hotel, the room which had been already associated with so many startling circumstances, became the scene of another strange event in which Lady Montbarry’s eldest child was concerned.
Little Marian had been got ready for bed as usual, and had (so far) taken hardly any notice of the new room. As she knelt down to say her prayers, she happened to look up at that part of the ceiling above her which was just over the head of the bed. The next instant she alarmed Agnes, by starting to her feet with a cry of terror, and pointing to a small brown spot on one of the white panelled spaces of the carved ceiling. “It’s a spot of blood!” the child exclaimed. “Take me away! I won’t sleep here!”
Seeing plainly that it would be useless to reason with her while she was in the room, Agnes hurriedly wrapped Marian in a dressing-gown, and carried her back to her mother in the drawing-room. Here, the ladies did their best to soothe and reassure the trembling girl. The effort proved to be useless; the impression that had been produced on the young and sensitive mind was not to be removed by persuasion. Marian could give no explanation of the panic of terror that had seized her. She was quite unable to say why the spot on the ceiling looked like the colour of a spot of blood. She only knew that she should die of terror if she saw it again. Under these circumstances, but one alternative was left. It was arranged that the child should pass the night in the room occupied by her two younger sisters and the nurse.
In half an hour more, Marian was peacefully asleep with her arm around her sister’s neck. Lady Montbarry went back with Agnes to her room to see the spot on the ceiling which had so strangely frightened the child. It was so small as to be only just perceptible, and it had in all probability been caused by the carelessness of a workman, or by a dripping from water accidentally spilt on the floor of the room above.
“I really cannot understand why Marian should place such a shocking interpretation on such a trifling thing,” Lady Montbarry remarked.
“I suspect the nurse is in some way answerable for what has happened,” Agnes suggested. “She may quite possibly have been telling Marian some tragic nursery story which has left its mischievous impression behind it. Persons in her position are sadly ignorant of the danger of exciting a child’s imagination. You had better caution the nurse tomorrow.”
Lady Montbarry looked round the room with admiration. “Is it not prettily decorated?” she said. “I suppose, Agnes, you don’t mind sleeping here by yourself.?”
Agnes laughed. “I feel so tired,” she replied, “that I was thinking of bidding you good night, instead of going back to the drawing-room.”
Lady Montbarry turned towards the door. “I see your jewel-case on the table,” she resumed. “Don’t forget to lock the other door there, in the dressing-room.”
“I have already seen to it, and tried the key myself,” said Agnes. “Can I be of any use to you before I go to bed?”
“No, my dear, thank you; I feel sleepy enough to follow your example. Good night, Agnes—and pleasant dreams on your first night in Venice.”
XXII
Having closed and secured the door on Lady Montbarry’s departure, Agnes put on her dressing-gown, and, turning to her open boxes, began the business of unpacking. In the hurry of making her toilet
