A MYSTERY OF .MODERN VENICE.

Marlborough Daily Times, Volume II, Issue 142, 30 July 1880, Page 2 (Supplement)

A MYSTERY OF .MODERN VENICE.

THE FOUItTJI PART. CU A IT Eli XVI. —CONTI NT El>. £ She is the truest woman that ever eathed the breath of life,’ Lady MontTry answered. 1 Remember that, and ,U will understand her. Can such a nnan aS Agnes give her love or refuse , according to circumstances ? because le man was unworthy of her, was he ss the man of her choice/ Lhe truest id best friend to liira (little as he do';rved it) in his lifetime, she naturally .-mains the truest and best friend to him ow. If you really love her, wait; and ••ust to your two best friends to time nd to me. There is my advice ; let your wn experience decide whether it is not he best advice that I can offer, Resume our journey to Venice to-morrow ; and /hen you take leave of Agnes, speak to ier as cordially as if nothing had hap--o Henry wisely followed this advice, thoroughly understanding him, Agnes nado the leave-taking friendly and ileasant on her side. When he stopped ,t the door for a last look at her, she mrriedly turned her head so that her ace was hidden from him. Was that a rood sign? Lady Montbarry, accompanying Henry down the stairs, said, Yes decidedly ! Write when you get to Venice. We shall wait here to receive letters from Arthur and his wife and we sh a ll time our departure for Italy acjordimdy.’ A week passed, and no letter came from Henry. Some days later, a telegram was received from him. It was despatched from Milan, instead of from A enice ; and it brought this strange message 1 have left the hotel. Will return on the arrival of Arthur and Ins wife. Address, meanwhile, Albergo Reale, Milan. Preferring Venice before all other cities of Europe, and having arranged to remain there until the family meeting took place, what unexpected event had led Henry to alter his plans ? and why did he state the bare fact, without adding a word of explanation ? Let the narrative follow lnm —-and find the answer to those questions at Venice. Chapter xvji. The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to English and American travellers, celebrated the opening of its doors, as a matter of course, by the giving a grand banquet., and the delivery of a long succession of speeches. Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venice in time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars. Observing the splendour of the reception rooms, and taking noto especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxury in the bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse’s view ot the futiire, and to contemplate seriously the coming dividend of ten per cent. The hotel was beginning well, at all events. So much interest in the enterprise had been aroused, at home and abroad, by profuse advertising, that the whole accommodation of the building had bean secured by travellers of all nations for the opening night. Henry onlv obtained one of the small looms on the upper floor, by a lucky accident—the absence of the gentleman who had written to engage it. He was quite satisfied, and was on 1113 way to bed, when anotliei accident altered his prospects for the night, and moved him into another and a better room. Ascending on his way to higher regions as far as the first floor of the hotel, Henry s attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting, in a strong Now England accent, against one of the greatest hardships that can be afllicted on a citizen of the United States—the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room. The Americans arc not only the most hospitable people to be found on the face of the earth—they are (under certain conditions) the most patient and goodtempered people as well. Lut they are human ; and the limit of American endurance is found in the absolete institution of a bedroom candle. The American traveller, in the present case, declined to believethathisbedromn was in acompletely finished state without a gas-burner. The manager pointed to the fine antique decorations (renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling, and explained that the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoil them in the course of a few months. To this the traveller replied that it was possible, but that he did not understand decorations. A bedroom with gas in it was what he was used to, was wlvat he wanted, and was what ho was determined to have. The compliant manager volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferior upper story (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms. Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber for a large one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman. The excellent American shook hands with him on the spot. ‘ Yon are a cultured person, sir,’ he said ; ‘ and you will no doubt understand the decorations.’ Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it. The number was Fourteen. Tired and sleepy, ho naturally anticipated a good night’s rest. In the thoroughly healthy state of his nervous system, he slept as well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest assignable reason, however, Lis just expectations were disappointed. The luxurious bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillity of Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping wdl. He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression and discomfort kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike. He went clown to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir, and ordered some breakfast. Another unaccountable change in himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. He was absolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette and cutlets cooked to perfection, he sent away untested—he, whose appetite never failed him, whoso digestion was still equal to any demands on it! The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola, and was rowed to the Lido. Out on the airy- Lagoon, he felt like a new man. He had not left the hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. Waking, on reaching the land-ing-place, he crossed the Lido, and

enjoyed a morning’s swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poor restaurant on the Island, in those clays ; but his appetite was now ready for anything ; lie eat whatever was offered to him, like a famished man. He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sent away untested his excellent breakfast at the hotel. Returning to Venice he spent the rest of the day in the picture galleries and the churches. Towards six o’clock his gondola took him back, with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling acquaintances with whom he had engaged to dine at tiio table cl’hdto. The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every guest in the hotel but one. To Henry’s astonishment, the appetite with which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely left him when he sat down to table. He could drink some wine, but he could literally eat nothing. ‘ What in the world is the matter with you ?’ his travelling acquaintances asked. He could honestly answer, ‘ I know no more than you do.’ When night came, he gave lite comfortable and beautiful bedroom another trial. The result of the second experiment was a repitition of the result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervading sense of depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless night. And once more, when ho tried to cat Lis breakfast, his appetite completely failed him ! This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary to be passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends in the public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager, naturally zealous in the defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the implied reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invited tlie travellers present to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick’s bedroom was to blame for his sleepless nights ; and he especially appealed to a grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-table of an English traveller, to take the lead in the investigation. ‘ This Doctor Bruno, a first physician in he explained. ‘ I appeal to him to say if there are any unhealthy influences in Mr. Westwick’s room.’ Introduced to Number Fourteen, the doctor loooked ro and him with a certain appearance of interest which was noticed by everyone present. ‘The last time I was in the room,’, he said, ‘was on a melancholy occasion It was before the palace was changed into an hotel. I was in professional attendance on an English nobleman who died here.’ One of the persons present inquired the name of the nobleman. Doctor Bruno answered (without the slightest suspicion that he was speaking before a brother of the dead man), ‘ Lord Montbarry.’ Henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to anybody. He was not in any sense of the term, a superstitious man. But he felt, nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance to remaining in the hotel. He decided on leaving Venice. To ask for another room would be, as he could plainly see, an offence in the eyes of the manager. To remove to another hotel, would be to abandon an establishment™ the success of which he had a pecuniary interest. Leaving a note for Arthur Barvillo, on his arrival in Venice, in which he merely mentioned that he had gone to look at the Italian lakes, and that a lino addressed to his hotel at Milan would bring him back again, lie took the afternoon train to Padua—and dined with his usual appetite, and slept as well as ever that night. The next day, a gentleman and his wife, returning to England by way of Venice, arrived at the hotel and occupied Number Fourteen, Still mindful of the slur that had been cast on one of his best bedchambers, the manager took occasion to ask the travellers the next morning how they liked their room. They left him to judge for himself how well they were satisfied, by remaining 0, day longer in Venice than they had originally planned to do, solely for the purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to them by the new hotel. ‘We have met with nothing like it in Italy,’ they said ; ‘ you may rely 011 our reeominending you to all our friends.’ On the day when Number fourteen was again vacant, an English lady travelling alone with her maid arrived at the hotel, saw the room, and at once engaged it. The lady was Mrs. Norburv. She had left Francis Westwick at Milan, occupied in negotiating for the appearance at his theatre of the new dancer at the Scala. Not having heard to the contrary, Mrs, Norbury supposed that Arthur Barvillo and his wife had already arrived at Venice. She was more interested in meeting the young married couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargaining which delayed the engagement of the new dancer ; and she volunteered to make her brother’s apologies, if his theatrical business caused him to be late in keeping his appointment at the honeymoon festival. Mrs. Norbury’s experience of Number Fourteen differed entirely from her brother Henry’s experience of the room. Falling asleep as readily as usual, her repose was disturbed by a succession of frightful dreams; the central figure in everyone of them being the figure of her dead brother, the first Lora Montbarry. She saw him starving in a loathsome prison ; she saw him pursued by assassins, and dying,) under their knives ; she saw him drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water; sho saw him in a bed on tire, burning to death in the flames ; she saw him tempted by a shadowy creature to drink, and dying of the poisonous draught. The reiterated horror of these dreams had such an effect on her that she rose with the dawn of day, afraid to trust'herself again in bed. In the old times, she had been noted in the family as the one member of it who lived on affectionate terms with Montbarry. His other sister and his brothers were constantly quarrelling with him. Even his mother owned that her eldest son was of all her children the child whom she least liked.

Sensible and resolute woman as sho was, Mrs. Norbury shuddered with terror as sho sat at the window of her room, watching thy sunrise, and thinking of her dreams. She made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maid came in at the usual hour, and noticed how ill she looked. Tho womaq was of so superstitious a temperament that it voultl have been in

the truth. Mrs. Norbury merely rethe last degree indiscreet to trust her with marked that she had not found the bed quite to her liking, on account of the large size of it. She was accustomed at home, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed. Informed of this objection later in the day, the manager regretted that he could only offer to the lady the choice of one other bedchamber, numbered Thirty-eight, and situated immediately over the bedchamber which she desired to leave. Mrs. Norbury ac-' cepted the proposed chango of quarters. Sho was now about to pass her second night in the room occupied in the old days oAhe palace by Baron Rivar. Once more, she fell asleep as usual. And, once more, the frightful dreams of the first night terrified her; following each other in the same succession. This time her nerves, already shaken, were not equal to the renewed torture of terror inflicted on them. She threw on her dres-sing-gown, and rushed out of her room in the° middle of the night. The porter, alarmed by the banging of the door, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in search of the first human being she could find to keep her company. Surprised at this last new manifestation of the famous ‘English eccentricity,’ the man looked at the hotel register, and led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by her maid. The maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was not even undressed. She received her mistress quietly. When they were alone, and when Mrs. Norbury had, as a matter of necessity, taken her attendant into her confidence, the woman made a very strange reply. ‘ I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants’ supper to-night,’ she said. ‘The valet of one of the gentleman staying hero has heard that the late Lord Montbarry was the last person who lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel. The room he died in, ma’am, was the room you slept in last night. Your room to-night is the room just above it. I said nothing for fear of frightening you. For my own part, I have passed the night as you see, keeping rny light in, and reading my Bible. In my opinion, no member of your family can hope to be happy or comfortable in his house.’ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ ‘ Please to lot me explain myself, ma’am. When Mr. Henry Westwick was here (L have this from the valet, too) he occupied the room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you. For two nights he never closed his eyes. Without any reason for it (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room) he could vot sleep ; lie felt so low and so wretched in himself. And what is more, when daytime came, he couldn’t even eat while he was linger this roof. You may laugh at me ma’am —but even a servant may draw her own conclusions. It’s my conclusion that something happened to my lord, which wo none of ns know about, when he died in this house. His ghost walks, in torment until he can toll it ! The living persons related to him are the persons who feel he is near them—the persons related to him are the persons who may yet see him in the time to come. Don’t, pray don’t stay any longer in this dreadful place ! f wouldn’t stay another night here myself—no, not for anything that could be offered me ! ’ Mrs. Norbury ot once set her mind at ease on this last point. ‘ I don’t think about it as you do/ she said gravely. ‘ But I should like to speak to my brother of what has happened. Wo will go back to Milan. Some hours necessarily elapsed bofore they could leave the hotel, by the first train in the forenoon. In that interval, Mrs. Norbury’s maid found an opportunity of confidentially informing the valet of what had passed between her mistress and herself. The valet had other friends to whom he related the circumstances in his turn. In due course of time, the narrative, passing from mouth to mouth, reached the ears of the. manager. Ho instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in danger, unless something was done to retrieve the character of the room numbered Fourteen. English travellers, well acquainted with the peerage of their native country, informed him that Henry Westwick and Mrs. Norbury were by no means the only members of the Montbarry family. Curiosity might bring more of them to the hotel, after hearing what had happened. The manager’s ingenuity easily hit on the the obvious means of misleading them, in this case. The numbers of all the rooms were enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to the doors. lie ordered anew plate to be prepared, bearing the number, ‘ 13 A’ ; and he kept the room empty, after its tenant for the time being had gone away, until the plate was ready. He then re-numbered the room ; placing the removed Number Fourteen on the door of - bis own room (on the second floor), which, not being to let, had not previously been numbered at all. By this device, Number Fourteen disappeared at once and for ever from the books of the Hotel, as the number of a bedroom to let. Having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with travellers, on the subject of the changed numbers under penalty of being dismissed, the manager composed his mind with the reficc'.ion that had done his duty to his employers., ‘Now,’ he thought to himself, with an excusable sense of triumph, ‘ let the whole family come here if they like ! The hotel is a match for thorn.’ CHAPTER XVIII. Before the end of the week the manager found himself in relations with- ‘ the family’ once more. A telegram from, Milan announced that Mr. Francis Westwick would arrive in Venice on the next day ; and would be obliged if Number Fourteen, on the first floor, could be reserved for him, in the event of its being vacant at the time. The manager paused to consider, before he issued his directions. : The rernuinbcred room had been last let to a French gentleman.-would bo occupied on the day of air. Francis Westwick’s arrival, but it would empty again on tho day, after. Would/ 1 be well to reserve the room‘for Hie special occupation of Mr. Francis ? and when he had passed the night unsuspiciously and comfortably in ‘ No. Id A,’ to ask him in the presence of witnesses how he liked his bedchamber ? In this case, if the reputation of the room happened to.be called in question again, tho answer would vindicate

it, on the evidence of a member of the very family which had first given Number Fourteen a bad name. After a little reilection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, and directed that ‘1.3 A’ should be reserved accordingly 7On the next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits. He had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in Italy; lie had transferred the charge of Mrs. Norbury to his brother Henry, who had joined him in Milan ; and he was now at full liberty to am>.se himself by testing in every possible way the extraordinary influence exercised over his relatives by the new hotel. When his brother and sister first told him Venice in the interest of his theatre. Tho what their experience had been, he immediately declared that he would go to circumstances related to him contained invaluable hints for a ghost-drama. The title occurred to him in the railway : 1 The Haunted Hotel.’ Post that in rod letters six feet high, on a black ground, all over London —mid trust the excitable public to crowd into the theatre ! Received with the politest attention by the manager, Francis met with a disappointment on entering the hotel. ‘ Some mistake, sir. No such room on the first floor as Number Fourteen. The room bearing the number is on tho second floor, and has been occupied by me, from the day when the hotel opened. Perhaps you meant number 13 A, on the first floor ! It will be at your service to-morrow —a charming room. In the meantime, wo will do the best we can for you, to-night.’ A man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably the last man in the civilised universe who is capable -of being impressed with favourable opinions of his follow-creatures. Francis privately set the manager down as a humbug, and the story about the numbering of the rooms as a lie. On the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant, before the hour of the table d’hote, for tho express purpose of questioning the waiter, without being overheard by anybody. The answer led him to tho conclusion that ‘ 13 A’ occupied the situation in the hotel which had been described by his brother and sister as the situation of ‘l4.’ He asked next for tho "V isitor’s List ; and found that the French gentleman who then occupied ‘ 13 A,’ was the proprietor of a theatre in Paris, personally well known to him. Was the gentleman then in the hotel ? He had gone out, but would certainly return for the table d’hote. When the public dinner was over, Francis entered the room, and was welcomed by his Parisian colleague, literally, with open arms. ‘Come and have a cigar in my room, said the friendly Frenchman. . 1 1 want to hear whether you have really engaged that woman at Milan or not.’ In this easy way, Francis found his opportunity of comparing the interior of the room with the description which lie had heard of it at Milan. Arriving at the door, the I renchman bethought*himself of his travelling companion. I My scene-painter is hero with me,’ he said‘on the look-out for materials. An excellent fellow, who wit take it as a kindness if we ask him to join us. I’ll tell the porter to send him up when he conies in.’ He handed the key of his room to Francis. ‘ I will be bacic ill a minute. It’s at the end of tho corridor—-13 A.’ Francis entered the room alone. I here were the decorations on the walls and the Ceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! He had just time to perceive this at a glance, before his attention was diverledgto himself and his own sensations, by a grotesquely disagreeable occurrence which took him completely by surprise. He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room, entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. It was composed (if such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, which were separately-discovcrable exhalations nevertheless. This strange blending of odours consisted of something faintly and unpleasantly aromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterably sickening that he threw open the window, and pat his head out into the fresh air, unable to endure the Horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer. The French proprietor joined Ins English friend, with his cigar already lit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymen in general—the sight of an open window. ‘You English people are perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air !’ he exclaimed. ‘We shall catch our deaths of cold.’ Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. ' Are yon really not aware ot tho smell there is in the room V he asked.

‘ Smell!’ repeated his brother-manager. ‘I smell my own good cigar. Try one yourself. And for Heaven’s sake shut the window !’

Francis declined the cigar by a sign. ' Forgive me/, he said. ‘ I will letxve you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy—l had better go out.’ Ho put his handkerchief, over his nose and mouth, and crossed the room to the door. The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state of bewilderment that he 'actually forget to seize the opportunity of shutting out the fresh air. ‘ Is it so nasty as thatT he asked, with a broad stare of amazement. ‘ Horrible ! ’ Francis muttered behind handkerchief. / I never smelt anything like it in my life!’ . ; p>! ; ::<t There was a knock at the' door. The ssene-painter appeared. Xiis employer instantly asked him if lie smelt anything. • " ' * • , . ‘ I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly ! ’ \ . 1 Wait a minute. Besides my. cigar, do you smell anything else —vile, abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt before?’ The scene-painter appeared to i be puzzled by the vehement , energy, of the la igunge addressed to him. ‘The room ‘is as fresh and sweet, as a room can. be,’ lie answered. As he spoke, ho looked back with astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust.'!' : • The Parisian ;directori approached his Eiiglish colleague, and looked at him with grave and anxious scrutiny. • You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses asyours, who smell

nothing - . If you want evidence from more.noses, look there!’ He pointed to two little English girh, at play in the comdpi*. , 7‘The door of my room is wide open -and you know how fast a smell can travel .No w • listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses, in the language of their own dismal island. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell here—ha /’ The children hurst out laughing, and answered emphatically, ‘No.’ ‘My good Westwick,’ the Frenchman resumed, in his own language, ‘ the conclusion is surely plain ?■ There is something wrong very wrong, with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical man.’ Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The night-breeze soon restored him. He was able to light a cigar, and to think quietly over what had happened. CUA.FTBII XIX. Avoiding the crowd under the colon - ades. Francis walked slowly up and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light of the rising moon. _ Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist. The strange effects produced on him by the roomfollowing on the other relatives of his dead brother —exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man. ‘ Perhaps,'he reflected, ‘my temperament is more imaginative than I supposed it to be—and this is a trick played on me by my own fancy t Or, perhaps my friend is right; something is physically amiss with me l I don’t feel ill, certainly. But that is no safe criterion sometimes. I am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn’t seem likely to supply mo with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from an invis'blc ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback. If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of the theatre.’ As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion, he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was observing him with marked attention. ‘ Am I right in supposing you to be Mr. Francis Westwick l ’ the lady asked, at the moment when ho looked at her. ‘ That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour of speaking ? ’ ‘ We have only met once,’ she answered a little evasively, ‘ when your late brother intro luced me to the members of his family. I wonder if you have quite forgotten my big black eyes and hideous complexion?’ She lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlight rested on her face. Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom he most cordially disliked—the widow of his dead brother, the first Lord Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her. IJi3 experience on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘ I thought you were in America ! ’

She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner : she simply stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her. ‘Let me walk with you for a few minutes,’ she quietly replied. ‘ I have something to say to yon.’ He showed her his cigar. ‘lam smoking,’ he said. ‘ f don’t mind smoking.’ After that, there was nothing to bo done (short of downri.ht brutality) but to yield. Ho did it with the worst possible grace. ‘Well?’ lie resumed. ‘.What do you want of mo ? ’ ‘ You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first tell you what my position is. lam alone in the world. To the loss of my husband has now been added another bereavement, the loss of my companion in America, my brother —-Baron Rival’. The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown on his assumed relationship to tlie Countess, were all known to Francis. ‘ Shot in a gambling-saloon ? ’ he asked brutally. ‘ The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,’ she said, with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain occasions. ‘As a native of horse-racing England, you belong to a nation of gamblers. My brother died no extraordinary death, Mr. Westwicli. He sank, with many other unfortunate people, under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit. The cal and ty of Ins loss made the United States unendurable to rue. I left by the first steamer that sailed from Now York —a French vessel which brought me to Havre. I continued my lonely journey to the Soutli of France. And then I went on to Venice.’ ‘ What does all this matter to me ?' Francis thought to himself. She paused, evidently expecting him to say something. ‘ So you have come to Venice ?’ he said carelessly. ‘Why?’ ‘ Because I couldn’t help it,’ she answered. Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity. ‘ That sounds odd,’ ho remarked. ‘ Why couldn’t you help it ?’_ ‘ Women are accustomed to act on impulse,’ she explained. ‘Suppose are say that an impulse has directed my journey ? And yet, this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in. Associations that I detest are connected with it in my mind. If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again. I hate Venice. As you see, however, I am here. When did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before? Never, I am sure ! ’ She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered Her tone. ‘ When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to bo in Venice ? ’ he exclaimed. She laughed—a bitter mocking laughed ‘ Say I, guessed it! ’ Something in her tone,, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of her eyes' as they rested on him, roused the quick - temper that was in Francis Westwick. ‘Lady Montbarry ’ho began. " :i ' j " ‘ Y'j, , '■ ‘ Stop there! ’she interposed.:, ‘lour brother Stephen’s wife calls herself Lady Montbarry now. 1 share my title with no woman. "Call me by amy name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying your brother. Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.’

‘Countess Narona,’ Francis resumed, ‘if your object in claiming my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. Speak plainly or permit me to wish you good evening.’ ‘ If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood’s arrival in Venice a secret,’ she retorted, ‘speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on your side, and say so.’ Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded. ‘Nonsense!’ ho broke out petulantly. ‘My brother’s travelling arrangements are secret to nobodv. He brings Miss Lockwood here, 1 with Lady Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to A r enice ?’ The Countess had suddenly 7 become grave and thoughtful. * She made no reply. The two strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity of the square, were now standing before the church of St. Mark. The moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail. Even the pigeons of St. Mark were visible, in dark closely patched rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors. ‘ I never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,’ the Countess said quietly ; speaking, not to Francis, but to herself. ‘Good-bye, St. Mark’s by moonlight! I shall see you again. ’ Sim turned away from the church, and saw Francis listening to her with wondering looks. ‘No,’ she resumed, placidly picking up the lost thread of the conversation, ‘ I don’t know why Miss Lockwood is coming here, I only know that we are to meet in Venice. ’

‘ By previous appointment l ’ ‘By destiny,’ she answered, with her head on her breast, and her eyes on the ground. Francis burst out laughing. °Or if you like it better,’ she instantly resumed, ‘ by what fools call Chance.’ Francis answered easily, out of the depths of his strong common sense. ‘ Chance seems to he taking a queer way of bringing the meeting about,’ he said. ‘We have all arranged to meet at the Palace Hotel. How is it that your name is not on the Visitor’s List! Destiny ought to have brought you to the Palace Hotel too.’

She abruptly pulled down her veil. ‘ Destiny may do that yet ! ’ She said. ‘The Palace Hotel ? ’ she repeated, speaking once more to herself. ‘ The old hell, transformed into the new purgatory. The place itself ! Jesu Maria ! the place itself ! ’ She paused and laid her hand on her companion’s arm. ‘ Perhaps Miss Lockwood is not going there with the rest of you ? ’ she hurst out with sudden eagerness. ‘ Are you poitively sure she will be at the hotel ? ’ ‘ Positively ! Haven’t I told you that Miss Lockwood travels with Lord and Lady Montbarry ? and don’t you know that she is a member of the family ? You will have to move, Countess, to our hotel.’ She was perfectly impenetrable to the bantering tone in which bespoke. 1 Yes,’ she said faintly, ‘ I shall have to move to your hotel.’ Her hand was still on his arm—he could feel her shivering from head to foot while she spoke. Heartily as he disliked and distrusted her the common instinct of humanity obliged him to ask if she felt cold. ‘ Yes,’ she said. ‘ Cold and faint.’ • Cold and faint, Countess, on such a night as this ! ’ ‘ The night has nothing to do with it, Mr. Westwick. How do you suppose the criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting the mpo round his neck 1 Cold and faint, too, I should think. Excuse my grim fancy'. You see, Destiny has got the rope round mil neck —and / feel it.’ She looked about her. They were at that moment close to the famous cafe known us ‘ Florian’s.’ ‘Take me in there,’ she said ; ‘ 1 must have something to revive me. You had better not hesitate. You arc interested in reviving me. 1 have not said what I wanted to say to you yet. It’s business, and it’s connected with your theatre.’ Wondering inwardly what she could possibly want with bis theatre, Francis reluctantly yielded to the necessities of the situation, and took her into the cafe. He found a quiet corner in which they could take their places without attracting notice. ‘ What will you have !’ he inquired resignedly. She gave her own orders to the waiter, without troubling him to speak for her. ‘ Maraschino. And a pot of lea.’ The waiter stared ; Francis stared. The tea v as a novelty (in connection with maraschino) to both of them. Careless whether she surprised them or not, she instructed the waiter, when her directions had been complied with, to pour a large wine-glass-full of the liqueur into a tumbler, and to till it up from the teapot. ‘ I can’t do it for myself,’ she remarked, ‘my hand trembles so.’ She drank the strange mixture eagerly, Lot as it was. ‘ Maraschino punch—will you taste some of it ?’ she s lid. ‘ 1 inherit the discovery of this di ink. When your English Queen Caroline was on the Continent, my mother was attached to her court. That much injured Royal Person invented, in her happier hours, maraschino punch. Fondly attached to her gracious mistress, my mother shared her tastes. And I, in my turn, learnt from my mother. Now, Mr. Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. You are manager of a theatre, Do you want a new play ?’ ‘ I always want a new play—provided it’s a good one.’ ‘And you pay, if it’s a good one ?’ ‘I pay liberally—in my own interests.’ . ‘ if I write the play, will you read it?’ .■ •/ : Francis hesitated. ‘What has put writing a play into your head ?’ he asked. ‘ Mere accident,’ she answered. ‘ 1 had once occasion to tell my late brother of a visit which I paid to Miss Lockwood when I was last in England. He. took no interest, in what happened at the interview, but something- struck him in my way of relating it. He s-aid, ‘ You describe what passed between you and the lady with the point and contrast of good stage dialogue. You have the dramatic instinct—try if you can write a play. You might make ‘money.’ That put it into my head.' • r t' ". Those last words seemed to startle Francis. ‘ Surely you don’t want money!’ lie exclaimed.

‘ I always want money? My faslcs are expensive. I have nothing but my poor little four hundred a year—and the wreck that is left of the other moiiey : about two hundred pounds in circular notes—no more.’ W , j V o Francis knew that she was referring to the ten thousand pounds paid by the insurance offices ‘ All those thousands gone already ! ’ he exclaimed. She blew a little puff of air over her fingers. ‘ Gone like that she answered coolly. ‘ Baron Itivar ? ’ She looked at him with a flash of anger in her hard black eyes. ‘My affairs are my own secret, Mr. Westwick. I have made you a proposal —and you have not answered mo yet. Don t say No, without thinking first. Remember what a life mine has been. I have seen more of the world than most people, playwrights included. I have had strange adventures ; l have heard remarkable stories ; 1 have observed ; I have remembered. Aro there no materials, here in my head, for writing a play—if the opportunity is granted to me l ’ She waited a moment, and suddenly repeated her strange question about Agues. ‘ When is Miss Lockwood expected to be in Venico ? ’ ‘ What has that to do with your now play, Countess?’ The Countess appeared to feci some difficulty in giving that question its lit reply. She mixed another tumbler full of the maraschino punch, and drunk one good half of it before she spoke again. * It has everything to do with my nevv play,’ was all she said. ‘Answer ntc.’ Francis answered her. ‘ Miss Lockwood may be here in a week. Or, for all 1 know to the contrary, sooner than that.’ ‘Very well. If lam a living woman and a freo woman in a week’s time—or if I am in possession of my senses in a week’s time (don't inter)opt me ; 1 know what I am talking about) —1 shall go to England, and I shall write a sketch or outline of my play, as a specimen of what I can do. Once again, will you read it?’ ‘ I will certainly read it. But, Countess, I don’t understand ’ She held up her hand for silence, .ynd finished the second tumbler of maraschino punch. ‘ I am a living enigma—and you want to know the right reading of me,’ she said. ‘ Here is the reading, a 3 your English phraco goes, in a nutshell. There is a foolish idea in the minds of many pi sj is that the natives of the warm chmates aro imaginative people. There never was a greater mistake. You will find no such unimaginative people anywhere as you find in Rally, Spain, Greece, and other Southern counirigs. To anything fanciful, to anything spiritual, their minds are deaf and blind by nature. Now and then, in the course of centuries, a great genius springs up among them ; ho is the exception which proves the rule. Now see ! I, though lam no genius-—I am, in my little way (as I suppose), nil exception too. To my sorrow, I have some of that imagination which is so common among the English and the Germans—so rare among the Italians, tho Spaniards, and the rest of them ! And what is the result ? I think it has become a disease in me. lam filled with presentiments which make this wicked life of mine one long terror to me. It doesn’t matter, just now, wliat they are. Enough that they absolutely govern me—they drive mo over land and sea at their own horrible will ; they are in rue, and torturing me, at tliis moment! Why don’t I resist them ? Ha ! but Ido resist them. I am trying (with the help of the good punch) to resist them now. At intervals I cultivate the difficult virtue of sound sense. Sometimes, sound sense makes a hopeful woman of me. At one time, 1 had the hope that what seemed reality to mo was only mad delusion, after all—l even asked tho question of an English doctor ! At other times, other sensiblo doubts of myself beset me. Never mind dwelling on them now—it always ends in the old terrors and superstitions taking possession of me again. In a week’s time, I shall know whether Destiny does indeed decide my future for me, or whether I decide it for myself, In the last, case, my resolution is to absorb this selftormenting fancy of mine in the occupation that I have told you of already Do you understand me a little better now ? And, nnr business being settled, dear Mr. Westwick, shall we get out of this hot room into the nice cool air again?’ They rose to leave the cafd. Francis privately concluded that the maraschino punch offered the only discoverable explanation of wlmt the Countess had said to him. (To he coni.!rival.)

The art of being gallant is not quite lost in Paris. ‘lt must be that lam very awkward,’ saiil she, playing at billiards ; * 1 can’t touch a ball.’—‘Princess.’ responded the Marquis, that is because a billiard-ball is not a heart. The honour of the best American Centennial joke is accorded to the Emperor of Brazil. On learning the number of revolutions per minute of the great Corliss engine at the Philadelphia Exhibition, he said, ‘That heals our South American Republics.’ ‘lf you marry Grace,’ exclaimed an irate father to his son, ‘ I will cut you oft' without a nennv, and you won’t have so much as a piece of pork to boil in the pot.'—‘WelV replied the young man, ‘ Grace before meat; ’ and.ho immediately went to publish the banns. Podder was attacked with an ailment for which his doctor prescribed calomel. After he had taken it for some time, the doctor asked him one day if the medicine had in any manner affected his teeth.—l don’t know,’ faintly whispered Podder, ‘but you can see ; they arc in the top drawer of the bureau. Mrs. Podder will hand them to you.’ A Tall Sort, —The waiter brings a dish of mushrooms to two dinners in whom the sentiment of state pride is well developed. ‘ call these mushrooms ?’ says one, corntempkiously. ‘ You ought to see the mushrooms that grow where i come from—the great big fellows, as big as dinner plates, that grow at the feet of the trees,’ ‘ln my part of the countrj’,’ says his companion, proudly, ‘the trees grow at the feet of the mushrooms.’ - - : :