Werewolf Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
conveyed from the church, she found herself lying upon an ottoman, in a large and elegantly furnished apartment.
The room was lighted by two silver lamps suspended to the ceiling, and which, being fed with aromatic oil of the purest quality, imparted a delicious perfume to the atmosphere.
The walls were hung with paintings representing scenes of strange variety and interest, and connected with lands far—far away. Thus, one depicted a council of red men assembled around a blazing fire, on the border of one of the great forests of North America; another showed the interior of an Esquimaux hut amidst the eternal ice of the Pole;—a third delineated, with fearfully graphic truth, the writhing of a human victim in the folds of the terrific anaconda in the island of Ceylon; a fourth exhibited a pleasing contrast to the one previously cited, by having for its subject a family meeting of Chinese on the terraced roof of a high functionary’s palace at Perkin; a fifth represented the splendid court of King Henry the Eighth in London; a sixth showed the interior of the harem of the Ottoman Sultan.
But there were two portraits amongst this beautiful and varied collection of pictures, all of which, we should observe, appeared to have been very recently executed—two portraits which we must pause to describe. One represented a tall man of about forty years of age, with magnificent light hair—fine blue eyes, but terrible in expression—a countenance indisputably handsome, though every lineament denoted horror and alarm—and a symmetrical form, bowed by the weight of sorrow. Beneath this portrait was the following inscription:—“F., Count of A., terminated his career on the 1st of August, 1517.”
The other portrait alluded to was that of an old—old man, who had apparently numbered ninety winters. He was represented as cowering over a few embers in a miserable hovel, while the most profound sorrow was depicted on his countenance. Beneath this picture was the ensuing inscription:—“F. W., January 7th, 1516. His last day thus.”
There was another feature in that apartment to which we must likewise direct our reader’s attention, ere we pursue the thread of our narrative. This was an object hanging against the wall, next to the second portrait just now described. It also had the appearance of being a picture—or at all events a frame of the same dimensions as the others; but whether that frame contained a painting, or whether it were empty, it was impossible to say, so long as it remained concealed by the large black cloth which covered it, and which was carefully fastened by small silver nails at each corner.
This strange object gave a lugubrious and sinister appearance to a room in other respects cheerful, gay, and elegant.
But to resume our tale.
When Agnes awoke from her stupor, she found herself reclining on a soft ottoman of purple velvet, fringed with gold; and the handsome stranger, who had borne her from the church, was bathing her brow with water which he took from a crystal vase on a marble table.
As she slowly and languidly opened her large hazel eyes, her thoughts collected themselves in the gradient manner; and when her glance encountered that of her unknown friend, who was bending over her with an expression of deep interest on his features, there flashed upon her mind a recollection of all that had so recently taken place.
“Where am I?” she demanded, starting up, and casting her eyes wildly around her.
“In the abode of one who will not injure you,” answered the stranger, in a kind and melodious tone.
“But who are you? and wherefore have you brought me hither?” exclaimed Agnes. “Oh! remember—you spoke of that old man—my grandfather—the shepherd of the Black Forest——”
“You shall see him—you shall be restored to him,” answered the stranger.
“But will he receive me—will he not spurn me from him?” asked Agnes, in a wildly impassioned—almost hysterical tone.
“The voice of pity cannot refuse to heave a sigh for thy fall,” was the response. “If thou wast guilty in abandoning one who loved thee so tenderly, and whose earthly reliance was on thee, he, whom you did so abandon, has not the less need to ask pardon of thee. For he speedily forgot his darling Agnes—he traveled the world over, yet sought her not—her image was, as it were, effaced from his memory. But when accident——”
“Oh! signor, you are mistaken—you know not the old man whom I deserted, and who was a shepherd on the verge of the Black Forest!” interrupted Agnes, in a tone expressive of bitter disappointment, “for he, who loved me so well, was old—very old, and could not possibly accomplish those long wanderings of which you speak. Indeed, if he be still alive—but that is scarcely possible——”
And she burst into tears.
“Agnes,” cried the stranger, “the venerable shepherd of whom you speak accomplished those wanderings in spite of the ninety winters which marked his age. He is alive, too——”
“He is alive!” ejaculated the lady, with reviving hopes.
“He is alive—and at this moment in Florence!” was the emphatic answer. “Did I not ere now tell thee as much in the church?”
“Yes—I remember—but my brain is confused!” murmured Agnes, pressing her beautiful white hands upon her polished brow. “Oh, if he be indeed alive—and so near me as you say—delay not in conducting me to him; for he is now the only being on earth to whom I dare look for solace and sympathy.”
“You are even now beneath the roof of your grandfather’s dwelling,” said the stranger, speaking slowly and anxiously watching the effect which this announcement was calculated to produce upon her to whom he addressed himself.
“Here!—this my grandsire’s abode!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, and glancing upward, as if to express her gratitude to Heaven for this welcome intelligence. “But how can that old man, whom I left so poor, have become the owner of this lordly palace? Speak, signor!—all you have told me seems to involve some strange mystery,” she added with breathless rapidity. “Those wanderings of which you ere now spoke—wanderings over the world, performed by a man bent down by age; and then this noble dwelling—the appearances of wealth which present themselves around—the splendor—the magnificence——”
“All—all are the old man’s,” answered the stranger, “and may some day become thine!”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Agnes, sinking upon the ottoman from which she had ere now risen, “I thank thee that thou hast bestowed these blessings on my relative in his old age. And yet,” she added, again overwhelmed by doubts, “it is scarcely possible—no, it is too romantic to be true! Signor, thou art of a surety mistaken in him whom thou supposes to be my grandsire?”
“Give me thine hand, Agnes—and I will convince thee,” said the stranger.
The young lady complied mechanically; and her unknown friend led her toward the portrait of the old man of ninety.
Agnes recognized the countenance at a single glance, and would have fallen upon the floor had not her companion supported her in his arms.
Tears again came to her relief; but hastily wiping them away, she extended her arms passionately toward the portrait, exclaiming, “Oh! now I comprehend you, signor! my grandsire lives in this dwelling indeed—beneath this roof; but lives only in that picture! Alas! alas! It was thus, no doubt, that the poor old man seemed when he was abandoned by me—the lost, the guilty Agnes! It was thus that he sat in his lonely dwelling—crushed and overwhelmed by the black ingratitude of his granddaughter! Oh! that I had never seen this portrait—this perpetuation of so much loneliness and so much grief! Ah! too faithful delineation of that sad scene which was wrought by me—vainly penitent that I am!”
And covering her face with her hands she threw herself on her knees before the portrait, and gave way to all the bitterness and all the wildness of her grief.
The stranger interrupted her not for some minutes: he allowed the flood of that anguish to have its full vent: but when it was partially subsiding he approached the kneeling penitent, raised her gently, and said,