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Richard Harding Davis - "The Red Cross Girl"

Hesther Lynch Piozzi - "Anecdotes of the late Samuel Johnson"

Samuel White Baker - "Eight Years' Wanderings in Ceylon"

Katharine Berry Judson - "Myths and Legends of California and the Old Southwest"

AFTER DARK

W >> Wilkie Collins >> AFTER DARK




"Of course we are prepared," answered D'Arbino, a little
irritably. "As men of honor, we are not in the habit of promising
anything that we are not perfectly willing, under proper
conditions, to perform."

"Pardon me, my dear friend," said the doctor; "I think you speak
a little too warmly to the lady. She is quite right to take every
precaution. We have the two hundred scudi here, madam," he
continued, patting the money-bag; "and we are prepared to pay
that sum for the information we want. But" (here the doctor
suspiciously moved the bag of scudi from the table to his lap)
"we must have proofs that the person claiming the reward is
really entitled to it."

Brigida's eyes followed the money-bag greedily.

"Proofs!" she exclaimed, taking a small flat box from under her
cloak, and pushing it across to the doctor. "Proofs! there you
will find one proof that establishes my claim beyond the
possibility of doubt."

The doctor opened the box, and looked at the wax mask inside it;
then handed it to D'Arbino, and replaced the bag of scudi on the
table.

"The contents of that box seem certainly to explain a great
deal," he said, pushing the bag gently toward Brigida, but always
keeping his, hand over it. "The woman who wore the yellow domino
was, I presume, of the same height as the late countess?"

"Exactly," said Brigida. "Her eyes were also of the same color as
the late countess's; she wore yellow of the same shade as the
hangings in the late countess's room, and she had on, under her
yellow mask, the colorless wax model of the late countess's face,
now in your friend's hand. So much for that part of the secret.
Nothing remains now to be cleared up but the mystery of who the
lady was. Have the goodness, sir, to push that bag an inch or two
nearer my way, and I shall be delighted to tell you."

"Thank you, madam," said the doctor, with a very perceptible
change in his manner. "We know who the lady was already."

He moved the bag of scudi while he spoke back to his own side of
the table. Brigida's cheeks reddened, and she rose from her seat.

"Am I to understand, sir," she said, haughtily, "that you take
advantage of my position here, as a defenseless woman, to cheat
me out of the reward?"

"By no means, madam," rejoined the doctor. "We have covenanted to
pay the reward to the person who could give us the information we
required."

"Well, sir! have I not given you part of it? And am I not
prepared to give you the whole?"

"Certainly; but the misfortune is, that another person has been
beforehand with you. We ascertained who the lady in the yellow
domino was, and how she contrived to personate the face of the
late Countess d'Ascoli, several hours ago from another informant.
That person has consequently the prior claim; and, on every
principle of justice, that person must also have the reward.
Nanina, this bag belongs to you--come and take it."

Nanina appeared from the window-seat. Brigida, thunderstruck,
looked at her in silence for a moment; gasped out, "That
girl!"--then stopped again, breathless.

"That girl was at the back of the summer-house this morning,
while you and your accomplice were talking together," said the
doctor.

D'Arbino had been watching Brigida's face intently from the
moment of Nanina's appearance, and had quietly stolen close to
her side. This was a fortunate movement; for the doctor's last
words were hardly out of his mouth before Brigida seized a heavy
ruler lying, with some writing materials, on the table. In
another instant, if D'Arbino had not caught her arm, she would
have hurled it at Nanina's head.

"You may let go your hold, sir," she said, dropping the ruler,
and turning toward D'Arbino with a smile on her white lips and a
wicked calmness in her steady eyes. "I can wait for a better
opportunity."

With those words she walked to the door; and, turning round
there, regarded Nanina fixedly.

"I wish I had been a moment quicker with the ruler," she said,
and went out.

"There!" exclaimed the doctor; "I told you I knew how to deal
with her as she deserved. One thing I am certainly obliged to her
for--she has saved us the trouble of going to her house and
forcing her to give up the mask. And now, my child," he
continued, addressing Nanina, "you can go home, and one of the
men-servants shall see you safe to your own door, in case that
woman should still be lurking about the palace. Stop! you are
leaving the bag of scudi behind you."

"I can't take it, sir."

"And why not?"

"_She_ would have taken money!" Saying those words, Nanina
reddened, and looked toward the door.

The doctor glanced approvingly at D'Arbino. "Well, well, we won't
argue about that now," he said. "I will lock up the money with
the mask for to-day. Come here to-morrow morning as usual, my
dear. By that time I shall have made up my mind on the right
means for breaking your discovery to Count Fabio. Only let us
proceed slowly and cautiously, and I answer for success."

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning, among the first visitors at the Ascoli Palace
was the master-sculptor, Luca Lomi. He seemed, as the servants
thought, agitated, and said he was especially desirous of seeing
Count Fabio. On being informed that this was impossible, he
reflected a little, and then inquired if the medical attendant of
the count was at the palace, and could be spoken with. Both
questions were answered in the affirmative, and he was ushered
into the doctor's presence.

"I know not how to preface what I want to say," Luca began,
looking about him confusedly. "May I ask you, in the first place,
if the work-girl named Nanina was here yesterday?"

"She was," said the doctor.

"Did she speak in private with any one?"

"Yes; with me."

"Then you know everything?"

"Absolutely everything."

"I am glad at least to find that my object in wishing to see the
count can be equally well answered by seeing you. My brother, I
regret to say--" He stopped perplexedly, and drew from his pocket
a roll of papers.

"You may speak of your brother in the plainest terms," said the
doctor. "I know what share he has had in promoting the infamous
conspiracy of the Yellow Mask."

"My petition to you, and through you to the count, is, that your
knowledge of what my brother has done may go no further. If this
scandal becomes public it will ruin me in my profession. And I
make little enough by it already," said Luca, with his old sordid
smile breaking out again faintly on his face.

"Pray do you come from your brother with this petition?" inquired
the doctor.

"No; I come solely on my own account. My brother seems careless
what happens. He has made a full statement of his share in the
matter from the first; has forwarded it to his ecclesiastical
superior (who will send it to the archbishop), and is now
awaiting whatever sentence they choose to pass on him. I have a
copy of the document, to prove that he has at least been candid,
and that he does not shrink from consequences which he might have
avoided by flight. The law cannot touch him, but the Church
can--and to the Church he has confessed. All I ask is, that he
may be spared a public exposure. Such an exposure would do no
good to the count, and it would do dreadful injury to me. Look
over the papers yourself, and show them, whenever you think
proper, to the master of this house. I have every confidence in
his honor and kindness, and in yours."

He laid the roll of papers open on the table, and then retired
with great humility to the window. The doctor looked over them
with some curiosity.

The statement or confession began by boldly avowing the writer's
conviction that part of the property which the Count Fabio
d'Ascoli had inherited from his ancestors had been obtained by
fraud and misrepresentation from the Church. The various
authorities on which this assertion was based were then produced
in due order; along with some curious particles of evidence
culled from old manuscripts, which it must have cost much trouble
to collect and decipher.

The second section was devoted, at great length, to the reasons
which induced the writer to think it his absolute duty, as an
affectionate son and faithful servant of the Church, not to rest
until he had restored to the successors of the apostles in his
day the property which had been fraudulently taken from them in
days gone by. The writer held himself justified, in the last
resort, and in that only, in using any means for effecting this
restoration, except such as might involve him in mortal sin.

The third section described the priest's share in promoting the
marriage of Maddalena Lomi with Fabio; and the hopes he
entertained of securing the restitution of the Church property
through his influence over his niece, in the first place, and,
when she had died, through his influence over her child, in the
second. The necessary failure of all his projects, if Fabio
married again, was next glanced at; and the time at which the
first suspicion of the possible occurrence of this catastrophe
occurred to his mind was noted with scrupulous accuracy.

The fourth section narrated the manner in which the conspiracy of
the Yellow Mask had originated. The writer described himself as
being in his brother's studio on the night of his niece's death,
harassed by forebodings of the likelihood of Fabio's marrying
again, and filled with the resolution to prevent any such
disastrous second union at all hazards. He asserted that the idea
of taking the wax mask from his brother's statue flashed upon him
on a sudden, and that he knew of nothing to lead to it, except,
perhaps, that he had been thinking just before of the
superstitious nature of the young man's character, as he had
himself observed it in the studio. He further declared that the
idea of the wax mask terrified him at first; that he strove
against it as against a temptation of the devil; that, from fear
of yielding to this temptation, he abstained even from entering
the studio during his brother's absence at Naples, and that he
first faltered in his good resolution when Fabio returned to
Pisa, and when it was rumored, not only that the young nobleman
was going to the ball, but that he would certainly marry for the
second time.

The fifth section related that the writer, upon this, yielded to
temptation rather than forego the cherished purpose of his life
by allowing Fabio a chance of marrying again--that he made the
wax mask in a plaster mold taken from the face of his brother's
statue--and that he then had two separate interviews with a woman
named Brigida (of whom he had some previous knowledge ), who was
ready and anxious, from motives of private malice, to personate
the deceased countess at the masquerade. This woman had suggested
that some anonymous letters to Fabio would pave the way in his
mind for the approaching impersonation, and had written the
letters herself. However, even when all the preparations were
made, the writer declared that he shrank from proceeding to
extremities; and that he would have abandoned the whole project
but for the woman Brigida informing him one day that a work-girl
named Nanina was to be one of the attendants at the ball. He knew
the count to have been in love with this girl, even to the point
of wishing to marry her; he suspected that her engagement to wait
at the ball was preconcerted; and, in consequence, he authorized
his female accomplice to perform her part in the conspiracy.

The sixth section detailed the proceedings at the masquerade, and
contained the writer's confession that, on the night before it,
he had written to the count proposing the reconciliation of a
difference that had taken place between them, solely for the
purpose of guarding himself against suspicion. He next
acknowledged that he had borrowed the key of the Campo Santo
gate, keeping the authority to whom it was intrusted in perfect
ignorance of the purpose for which he wanted it. That purpose was
to carry out the ghastly delusion of the wax mask (in the very
probable event of the wearer being followed and inquired after)
by having the woman Brigida taken up and set down at the gate of
the cemetery in which Fabio's wife had been buried.

The seventh section solemnly averred that the sole object of the
conspiracy was to prevent the young nobleman from marrying again,
by working on his superstitious fears; the writer repeating,
after this avowal, that any such second marriage would
necessarily destroy his project for promoting the ultimate
restoration of the Church possessions, by diverting Count Fabio's
property, in great part, from his first wife's child, over whom
the priest would always have influence, to another wife and
probably other children, over whom he could hope to have none.

The eighth and last section expressed the writer's contrition for
having allowed his zeal for the Church to mislead him into
actions liable to bring scandal on his cloth; reiterated in the
strongest language his conviction that, whatever might be thought
of the means employed, the end he had proposed to himself was a
most righteous one; and concluded by asserting his resolution to
suffer with humility any penalties, however severe, which his
ecclesiastical superiors might think fit to inflict on him.

Having looked over this extraordinary statement, the doctor
addressed himself again to Luca Lomi.

"I agree with you," he said, "that no useful end is to be gained
now by mentioning your brother's conduct in public--always
provided, however, that his ecclesiastical superiors do their
duty. I shall show these papers to the count as soon as he is fit
to peruse them, and I have no doubt that he will be ready to take
my view of the matter."

This assurance relieved Luca Lomi of a great weight of anxiety.
He bowed and withdrew.

The doctor placed the papers in the same cabinet in which he had
secured the wax mask. Before he locked the doors again he took
out the flat box, opened it, and looked thoughtfully for a few
minutes at the mask inside, then sent for Nanina.

"Now, my child," he said, when she appeared, "I am going to try
our first experiment with Count Fabio; and I think it of great
importance that you should be present while I speak to him."

He took up the box with the mask in it, and beckoning to Nanina
to follow him, led the way to Fabio's chamber.

CHAPTER VIII.

About six months after the events already related, Signor Andrea
D'Arbino and the Cavaliere Finello happened to be staying with a
friend, in a seaside villa on the Castellamare shore of the bay
of Naples. Most of their time was pleasantly occupied on the sea,
in fishing and sailing. A boat was placed entirely at their
disposal. Sometimes they loitered whole days along the shore;
sometimes made trips to the lovely islands in the bay.

One evening they were sailing near Sorrento, with a light wind.
The beauty of the coast tempted them to keep the boat close
inshore. A short time before sunset, they rounded the most
picturesque headland they had yet passed; and a little bay, with
a white-sand beach, opened on their view. They noticed first a
villa surrounded by orange and olive trees on the rocky heights
inland; then a path in the cliff-side leading down to the sands;
then a little family party on the beach, enjoying the fragrant
evening air.

The elders of the group were a lady and gentleman, sitting
together on the sand. The lady had a guitar in her lap and was
playing a simple dance melody. Close at her side a young child
was rolling on the beach in high glee; in front of her a little
girl was dancing to the music, with a very extraordinary partner
in the shape of a dog, who was capering on his hind legs in the
most grotesque manner. The merry laughter of the girl, and the
lively notes of the guitar were heard distinctly across the still
water.

"Edge a little nearer in shore," said D'Arbino to his friend, who
was steering; "and keep as I do in the shadow of the sail. I want
to see the faces of those persons on the beach without being
seen by them."

Finello obeyed. After approaching just near enough to see the
countenances of the party on shore, and to be barked at lustily
by the dog, they turned the boat's head again toward the offing.

"A pleasant voyage, gentlemen," cried the clear voice of the
little girl. They waved their hats in return; and then saw her
run to the dog and take him by the forelegs. "Play, Nanina," they
heard her say. "I have not half done with my partner yet." The
guitar sounded once more, and the grotesque dog was on his hind
legs in a moment.

"I had heard that he was well again, that he had married her
lately, and that he was away with her and her sister, and his
child by the first wife," said D'Arbino; "but I had no suspicion
that their place of retirement was so near us. It is too soon to
break in upon their happiness, or I should have felt inclined to
run the boat on shore."

"I never heard the end of that strange adventure of the Yellow
Mask," said Finello. "There was a priest mixed up in it, was
there not?"

"Yes; but nobody seems to know exactly what has become of him. He
was sent for to Rome, and has never been heard of since. One
report is, that he has been condemned to some mysterious penal
seclusion by his ecclesiastical superiors--another, that he has
volunteered, as a sort of Forlorn Hope, to accept a colonial
curacy among rough people, and in a pestilential climate. I asked
his brother, the sculptor, about him a little while ago, but he
only shook his head, and said nothing."

"And the woman who wore the yellow mask?"

"She, too, has ended mysteriously. At Pisa she was obliged to
sell off everything she possessed to pay her debts. Some friends
of hers at a milliner's shop, to whom she applied for help, would
have nothing to do with her. She left the city, alone and
penniless."

The boat had approached the next headland on the coast while they
were talking They looked back for a last glance at the beach.
Still the notes of the guitar came gently across the quiet water;
but there mingled with them now the sound of the lady's voice.
She was singing. The little girl and the dog were at her feet,
and the gentleman was still in his old place close at her side.

In a few minutes more the boat rounded the next headland, the
beach vanished from view, and the music died away softly in the
distance.

LAST LEAVES FROM LEAH'S DIARY.

3d of June.--Our stories are ended; our pleasant work is done. It
is a lovely summer afternoon. The great hall at the farmhouse,
after having been filled with people, is now quite deserted. I
sit alone at my little work-table, with rather a crying sensation
at my heart, and with the pen trembling in my fingers, as if I
was an old woman already. Our manuscript has been sealed up and
taken away; the one precious object of all our most anxious
thoughts for months past--our third child, as we have got to call
it--has gone out from us on this summer's day, to seek its
fortune in the world.

A little before twelve o'clock last night, my husband dictated to
me the last words of "The Yellow Mask." I laid down the pen, and
closed the paper thoughtfully. With that simple action the work
that we had wrought at together so carefully and so long came to
a close. We were both so silent and still, that the murmuring of
the trees in the night air sounded audibly and solemnly in our
room.

William's collection of stories has not, thus far, been half
exhausted yet; but those who understand the public taste and the
interests of bookselling better than we, think it advisable not
to risk offering too much to the reader at first. If individual
opinions can be accepted as a fair test, our prospects of success
seem hopeful. The doctor (but we must not forget that he is a
friend) was so pleased with the two specimen stories we sent to
him, that he took them at once to his friend, the editor of the
newspaper, who showed his appreciation of what he read in a very
gratifying manner. He proposed that William should publish in the
newspaper, on very fair terms, any short anecdotes and curious
experiences of his life as a portrait-painter, which might not be
important enough to put into a book. The money which my husband
has gained from time to time in this way has just sufficed to pay
our expenses at the farmhouse up to within the last month; and
now our excellent friends here say they will not hear anything
more from us on the subject of the rent until the book is sold
and we have plenty of money. This is one great relief and
happiness. Another, for which I feel even more grateful, is that
William's eyes have gained so much by their long rest, that even
the doctor is surprised at the progress he has made. He only puts
on his green shade now when he goes out into the sun, or when the
candles are lit. His spirits are infinitely raised, and he is
beginning to talk already of the time when he will unpack his
palette and brushes, and take to his old portrait-painting
occupations again.

With all these reasons for being happy, it seems unreasonable and
ungracious in me to be feeling sad, as I do just at this moment.
I can only say, in my own justification, that it is a mournful
ceremony to take leave of an old friend; and I have taken leave
twice over of the book that has been like an old friend to
me--once when I had written the last word in it, and once again
when I saw it carried away to London.

I packed the manuscript up with my own hands this morning, in
thick brown paper, wasting a great deal of sealing-wax, I am
afraid, in my anxiety to keep the parcel from bursting open in
case it should be knocked about on its journey to town. Oh me,
how cheap and common it looked, in its new form, as I carried it
downstairs! A dozen pairs of worsted stockings would have made a
larger parcel; and half a crown's worth of groceries would have
weighed a great deal heavier.

Just as we had done dinner the doctor and the editor came in. The
first had called to fetch the parcel--I mean the manuscript; the
second had come out with him to Appletreewick for a walk. As soon
as the farmer heard that the book was to be sent to London, he
insisted that we should drink success to it all round. The
children, in high glee, were mounted up on the table, with a
glass of currant-wine apiece; the rest of us had ale; the farmer
proposed the toast, and his sailor son led the cheers. We all
joined in (the children included), except the editor--who, being
the only important person of the party, could not, I suppose,
afford to compromise his dignity by making a noise. He was
extremely polite, however, in a lofty way, to me, waving his hand
and bowing magnificently every time he spoke. This discomposed me
a little; and I was still more flurried when he said that he had
written to the London publishers that very day, to prepare them
for the arrival of our book.

"Do you think they will print it, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"My dear madam, you may consider it settled," said the editor,
confidently. "The letter is written--the thing is done. Look upon
the book as published already; pray oblige me by looking upon the
book as published already."

"Then the only uncertainty now is about how the public will
receive it!" said my husband, fidgeting in his chair, and looking
nervously at me.

"Just so, my dear sir, just so," answered the editor. "Everything
depends upon the public--everything, I pledge you my word of
honor."

"Don't look doubtful, Mrs. Kerby; there isn't a doubt about it,"
whispered the kind doctor, giving the manuscript a confident
smack as he passed by me with it on his way to the door.

In another minute he and the editor, and the poor cheap-looking
brown paper parcel, were gone. The others followed them out, and
I was left in the hall alone.

Oh, Public! Public! it all depends now upon you! The children are
to have new clothes from top to toe; I am to have a black silk
gown; William is to buy a beautiful traveling color-box; the rent
is to be paid; all our kind friends at the farmhouse are to have
little presents, and our future way in this hard world is to be
smoothed for us at the outset, if you will only accept a poor
painter's stories which his wife has written down for him After
Dark!

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