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, “Despair not! your grandsire lives.”
“He lives!” she repeated, her countenance once more expressing radiant hope, as the sudden gleam of sunshine bursts forth amidst the last drops of the April shower.
But, almost at the same instant that she uttered those words, her eyes caught sight of the inscription at the foot of the picture; and, bounding forward she read it aloud.
“Holy Virgin! I am deceived—basely, vilely deceived!” she continued, all the violence of her grief, which had begun to ebb so rapidly, now flowing back upon her soul; then turning abruptly round upon the stranger, she said in a hoarse hollow tone: “Signor, wherefore thus ungenerously trifle with my feelings—my best feelings? Who art thou? what would’st thou with me? and wherefore is that portrait here?”
“Agnes—Agnes!” exclaimed her companion, “compose yourself, I implore you! I do not trifle with you—I do not deceive you! Your grandsire, Fernand Wagner, is alive—and in this house. You shall see him presently; but in the meantime, listen to what I am about to say.”
Agnes placed her finger impatiently upon the inscription at the bottom of the portrait, and exclaimed in a wild, hysterical tone, “Canst thou explain this, signor? ‘January 7th, 1516,’—that was about a week after I abandoned him; and, oh! well indeed might those words be added—‘His last day thus!’”
“You comprehend not the meaning of that inscription!” ejaculated the stranger, in an imploring tone, as if to beseech her to have patience to listen to him. “There is a dreadful mystery connected with Fernand Wagner—connected with me—connected with these two portraits—connected also with——”
He checked himself suddenly, and his whole form seemed convulsed with horror as he glanced toward the black cloth covering the neighboring frame.
“A mystery?” repeated Agnes. “Yes—all is mystery: and vague and undefinable terrors oppress my soul!”
“Thou shalt soon—too soon—be enlightened!” said the stranger, in a voice of profound melancholy; “at least, to a certain ex
tent,” he added, murmuringly. “But contemplate that other portrait for a few moments—that you may make yourself acquainted with the countenance of a wretch who, in conferring a fearful boon upon your grandsire, has plunged him into an abyss of unredeemable horror!”
Agnes cast her looks toward the portrait of the tall man with the magnificent hair, the flashing blue eyes, the wildly expressive countenance, and the symmetrical form bowed with affliction; and, having surveyed it for some time with repugnance strongly mingled with an invincible interest and curiosity, she suddenly pointed toward the inscription.
“Yes, yes; there is another terrible memorial!” cried the stranger. “But art thou now prepared to listen to a wondrous—an astonishing tale—such a tale as even nurses would scarcely dare narrate to lull children——”
“I am prepared,” answered Agnes. “I perceive there is a dreadful mystery connected with my grandsire—with you, also—and perhaps with me;—and better learn at once the truth, than remain in this state of intolerable suspense.”
Her unknown friend conducted her back to the ottoman, whereon she placed herself.
He took a seat by her side, and, after a few moments’ profound meditation, addressed her in the following manner.
CHAPTER VII.
REVELATIONS.
“You remember, Agnes, how happily the times passed when you were the darling of the old man in his poor cottage. All the other members of his once numerous family had been swept away by pestilence, malady, accident, or violence; and you only were left to him. When the trees of this great Black Forest were full of life and vegetable blood, in the genial warmth of summer, you gathered flowers which you arranged tastefully in the little hut; and those gifts of nature, so culled and so dispensed by your hands, gave the dwelling a more cheerful air than if it had been hung with tapestry richly fringed. Of an evening, with the setting sun, glowing gold, you were wont to kneel by the side of that old shepherd; and together ye chanted a hymn giving thanks for the mercies of the day, and imploring the renewal of them for the morrow. Then did the music of your sweet voice, as it flowed upon the old man’s ears in its melting, silvery tones, possess a charm for his senses which taught him to rejoice and be grateful that, though the rest of his race was swept away, thou, Agnes, was left!
“When the winter came, and the trees were stripped of their verdure, the poor cottage had still its enjoyments; for though the cold was intense without, yet there were warm hearts within; and the cheerful fire of an evening, when the labors of the day were passed, seemed to make gay and joyous companionship.
“But suddenly you disappeared; and the old man found himself deserted. You left him, too, in the midst of winter—at a time when his age and infirmities demanded additional attentions. For two or three days he sped wearily about, seeking you everywhere in the neighboring district of the Black Forest. His aching limbs were dragged up rude heights, that he might plunge his glances down into the hollow chasms; but still not a trace of Agnes! He roved along the precipices overlooking the rustling streams, and searched—diligently searched the mazes of the dark wood; but still not a trace of Agnes! At length the painful conviction broke upon him that he was deserted—abandoned; and he would sooner have found thee a mangled and disfigured corpse in the forest than have adopted that belief. Nay—weep not now; it is all past; and if I recapitulate these incidents, it is but to convince thee how wretched the old man was, and how great is the extenuation for the course which he was so soon persuaded to adopt.”
“Then, who art thou that knowest all this?” exclaimed Agnes, casting looks of alarm upon her companion.
“Thou shalt soon learn who I am,” was the reply.
Agnes still gazed upon him in mingled terror and wonder; for his words had gone to her heart, and she remembered how he had embraced her when she first encountered him in the church. His manners, too, were so mild, so kind, so paternal toward her; and yet he seemed but a few years older than herself.
“You have gazed upon the portrait of the old man,” he continued, “as he appeared on that memorable evening which sealed his fate!”
Agnes started wildly.
“Yes, sealed his fate, but spared him his life!” said the unknown, emphatically. “As he is represented in that picture, so was he sitting mournfully over the sorry fire, for the morrow’s renewal of which there was no wood! At that hour a man appeared—appeared in the midst of the dreadful storm which burst over the Black Forest. This man’s countenance is now known to thee; it is perpetuated in the other portrait to which I directed thine attention.”
“There is something of a wild and fearful interest in the aspect of that man,” said Agnes, casting a shuddering glance behind her, and trembling lest the canvas had burst into life, and the countenance whose lineaments were depicted thereon was peering over her shoulder.
“Yes, and there was much of wild and fearful interest in his history,” was the reply; “but of that I cannot speak—no, I dare not. Suffice it to say that he was a being possessed of superhuman powers, and that he proffered his services to the wretched—the abandoned—the deserted Wagner. He proposed to endow him with a new existence—to restore him to youth and manly beauty—to make him rich—to embellish his mind with wondrous attainments—to enable him to cast off the wrinkles of age——”
“Holy Virgin! now I comprehend it all!” shrieked Agnes, throwing herself at the feet of her companion: “and you—you——”
“I am Fernand Wagner!” he exclaimed, folding her in his embrace.
“And can you pardon me, can you forgive my deep—deep ingratitude?” cried Agnes.
“Let us forgive each other!” said Wagner. “You can now understand the meaning of the inscription beneath my portrait. ‘His last day thus’ signifies that it was the last day on which I wore that aged, decrepit, and sinking form.”
“But wherefore do you say, ‘Let us forgive each other?’” demanded Agnes, scarcely knowing whether to rejoice or weep at the marvelous transformation of her grandsire.
“Did I not ere now inform thee that thou wast forgotten until accident threw thee in my way to-night?” exclaimed Fernand. “I have wandered about the earth and beheld all the scenes which are represented in those pictures—ay, and many others equally remarkable. For eighteen months I was the servant—and slave of him who conferred upon me this fatal boon——”
“At what price, then, have you purchased it?” asked Agnes, with a cold shudder.
“Seek not to learn my secret, girl!” cried Wagner, almost sternly; then, in a milder tone, he added, “By all you deem holy and sacred, I conjure you, Agnes, never again to question me on that head! I have told thee as much as it is necessary for thee to know——”
“One word—only one word!” exclaimed Agnes in an imploring voice. “Hast thou bartered thine immortal soul——”
“No—no!” responded Wagner, emphatically. “My fate is terrible indeed—but I am not beyond the pale of salvation. See! Agnes—I kiss the crucifix—the symbol of faith and hope!”
And, as he uttered these words, he pressed to his lips an ivory crucifix of exquisite workmanship, which he took from the table.
“The Virgin be thanked that my fearful suspicion should prove unfounded!” ejaculated Agnes.
“Yes—I am not altogether lost,” answered Wagner. “But he—the unhappy man who made me what I am—— And yet I dare not say more,” he added, suddenly checking himself. “For one year and a half did I follow him as his servitor—profiting by his knowledge—gaining varied information from his experience—passing with the rapidity of thought from clime to clime—surveying scenes of ineffable bliss, and studying all the varieties of misery that fall to the lot of human nature. When he—my master—passed away——”
“On the 1st of August, 1517,” observed Agnes, quoting from the inscription beneath the portrait of the individual alluded to.
“Yes; when he passed away,” continued Wagner, “I continued my wanderings alone until the commencem
ent of last year, when I settled myself in Florence. The mansion to which I have brought you is mine. It is in a somewhat secluded spot on the banks of the Arno, and is surrounded by gardens. My household consists of but few retainers; and they are elderly persons—docile and obedient. The moment that I entered this abode, I set to work to paint those portraits to which I have directed your attention—likewise these pictures,” he added, glancing around, “and in which I have represented scenes that my own eyes have witnessed. Here, henceforth, Agnes, shalt thou dwell; and let the past be forgotten. But there are three conditions which I must impose upon thee.”
“Name them,” said Agnes; “I promise obedience beforehand.”
“The first,” returned Fernand, “is that you henceforth look upon me as your brother, and call me such when we are alone together or in the presence of strangers. The second is that you never seek to remove the black cloth which covers yon place——”
Agnes glanced toward the object alluded to and shuddered—as if the veil concealed some new mystery.
“And the third condition is that you revive not on any future occasion the subject of our present conversation, nor even question me in respect to those secrets which it may suit me to retain within my own breast.”
Agnes promised obedience, and, embracing Wagner, said, “Heaven has been merciful to me, in my present affliction, in that it has given me a brother!”
“Thou speakest of thine afflictions, Agnes!” exclaimed Wagner; “this is the night of revelations and mutual confidences—and this night once passed, we will never again allude to the present topics, unless events should render their revival necessary. It now remains for thee to narrate to me all that has befallen thee since the winter of 1516.”
Agnes hastened to comply with Fernand’s request, and commenced her history in the following manner:
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HISTORY OF AGNES.
“When you, dear brother—for so I shall henceforth call you—commenced your strange and wondrous revelations ere now, you painted in vivid colors the happiness which dwelt in our poor cottage on the borders of the Black Forest. You saw how deeply your words affected me—I could not restrain my tears. Let me not, however, dwell upon this subject; but rather hasten to explain those powerful causes which induced me to quit that happy home.
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