She Painted her Face (9 page)

I have said that the hall was panelled. On the wall which faced us one of the panels had sunk— not very much, but five inches— exactly the height of the block which I had pulled out of the stair. The gap thus shown was breast high and fifteen inches in width. Beyond was an open space, and when I put in my hand I could feel a faint current of air.

The panel hung on a chain, which was, of course, attached to the balance above. And so long as it hung on that chain the panel could go no farther, because the counterweight had no room to rise. So I took the weight of the panel while Herrick undid the chain.

(Here let me say that those that installed the contrivance so long before had left undone no convenience, however nice, however hard to devise. But for their provision the panel's weight being gone, the counterweight mast have sunk and the chain have run up out of reach. But this was provided against, for the chain ran up through a hole which served as a guide, which was half an inch too small for the last of the links.)

Then I let the panel sink slowly into some slot in the stone.

AT LAST IT came to rest, some six inches still protruding and making a sill to the doorway which we had discovered at last.

This gave to a winding stair, precisely resembling that upon which we had passed so many wearisome hours. In a word, with the hall for landing, the stair of the tower went on down, curling slowly right handed into the bowels of the earth.

For the others I cannot answer, but until we were about to go down I had never considered to what "the doorway" might lead, but now that we were about to discover the truth I remembered the late Count's words, and, with those for straw, began to make fabulous bricks.

"It may be that you can use it..."

I will not set down the pictures my fancy drew. Enough that they were all false. But I have this consolation— that not one man in a million would have predicted the scene which presently met our eyes.

Herrick declined to go down, but stayed in the hall with Brenda, "unless and until," said he, "my lady decides that she wants me on In this act." So I accompanied Caroline, torch in hand.

For thirty-six steps we went down. And then we came to a chamber that had an unusually solid door with a small grating. The door swung back easily.

On the threshold we stopped, and peered into the room.

The chamber was small— some fifteen feet by eight, and some nine feet high. Its walls and floor and ceiling were all of stone, and though there was no window, the air was by no means foul. (This, I afterwards found, was due to two vents one low down in a wall, and the other high up at the opposite end of the room; but though I sought for their mouths I was never able to find them, because they were too well hid.

Towards one end of the cell was a great oak stall, plainly very ancient and finely carved, and against one wall was a coffer, also of oak. There was no other furniture.

In the stall was seated a man— or what was left of one. His pose was natural. His head was up and was leaning against the back of the stall, his arms lay along its arms, and his trunk and his feet were well and truly planted on oak and stone. His clothes were those of the fifteenth century. His tunic was of diapered velvet which the passage of many years had brought to shreds and tatters, if not to dust, but a jewelled belt was still girdling the crumbling loins and a chain was sunk in the ruin about the neck. Hose still hung upon the legs, which were skin and bone, and a patch, that had been a cap, was still crowning the thick fair hair. This was inviolate. The face and hands were withered, but otherwise well preserved, and might have been those of a man incredibly old. but a few hours dead. The eyes, which were wide, had a curious, sightless look, and might have belonged to a man who was living, but blind; and the whole was in no way offensive, because, I suppose, there was no sign of corruption, but only of age. Indeed, had the hair been white, the figure would have been full of dignity; but the colour of the hair was fatal, suggesting an old man's efforts to seem to be young one of Time's shabbier jests, for the man had not seen old age.

On the coffer were lying three things. One was a skin of parchment— or part of a skin. Upon this had been written Latin, still to be read. By its side lay the translation, clearly inscribed upon vellum and made at some later date. And between the two lay a massive signet-ring.

As might have been expected, the documents told us the truth.

Here sits Elbert, Duke of Austria and Carinthia, King of Hungary, slain by his host and liegeman, Rudolf of Brief, because he came upon him defiling his wife.

With the fear of death upon her, Helen of Brief declared the following facts:

That the King and she were secretly married, before he wedded the Queen and before she deceitfully wedded Rudolf of Brief. In proof whereof she offered her marriage lines signed by the Cardinal Gaddi, lately dead of the plague, whom God reward.

That the first and third of her children, whom Rudolf believed to be his, were both the sons of the King.

Rudolf made haste to apprise the Queen of the truth.

For the sake of that injured lady, he undertook, on conditions, to hold his peace. Between them it was agreed

That he should hold to his witness the corpse of the King, himself, providing another to take its place and be interred and entombed as though it were that of the King.

That since Otto, whom he thought his firstborn, was now IN TRUTH Duke of Austria and Carinthia, King of Hungary, he and his heirs should FOR EVER hold the right to call upon the heirs of her body in any stress, whose help they shall have WITHOUT FAIL by showing the King's great ring.

That her heirs shall be so instructed in perpetuity.

By Rudolf's order, Gollanx, a chemist of Innsbruck, preserved the corpse of the King. This he did according to a certain prescription which he had of a learned Venetian whose son he had saved. His raiment also he dipped against the corruption of Time.

Dated the ninth day of March In the year of Our Lord one thousand four hundred and thirty-nine (the King being dead on the seventh, having lain in state till now and to be replaced this night) and written down word for word as my lord Rudolf hath commanded by his unworthy servant and clerk.

GABRIEL OF LITTAI.

Whom I slue whiles his ink was wett for he hath a long tongue and I have need of a boddy as he hath sayed.

RUDOLF OF BRIEF."

The original postscript was laboriously written in German and poorly spelt. The translation was done in German from first to last, and to this had been added two lists— one of the Lords of Brief and one of the several heads of the other House.

Caroline was trembling.

"Oh, Richard, d'you know what this means?"

"It means you're a queen." said I. "But, then, I knew that before."

"No, no." She dabbed at the parchment. "That last name there. Not my grandfather's— the other. Harriet Vincentia Saying, Duchess of Whelp. She's still alive, and she's bigger than any queen. She's always known as 'Old Harry." Her mother was English, as mine was, and if shell take up my cause—"

"She must," said I. "It's a case of deep calling to deep."

"She's a law to herself." said Caroline thoughtfully. "But If she does— well, next time you come to Brief you wont have to force any bars."

"That's right," said I, feebly enough. With a sudden movement, I set a torch in her hand. "And now I'll go for a pen. You must write your name here at once. Shall Herrick come down?"

"If you please."

I left her there and mounted the unworn stair.

The thing was absurd and childish, but now that I saw what was coming, my heart sank down. The "rough stuff" was over, and so— my service was done. From now on, steps would be taken by a lady of high degree. Pressure would be put on the impostor; ways and means would be used which were out of my ken. And when the game had been won, I should be invited to Brief, where a servant would hold the door wide and another would take my hat. I should be ushered— I that had broken into the place, to set a queen on her throne. And then I should be presented to Her Grace the Duchess of Whelp, and the Countess of Brief would tell her how good I had been. I that had held a king's daughter against my hammering heart.

I suppose that my face was betraying my state of mind, for, as I stepped Into the hall, I saw Herrick throw up his head and clap his hands to his eyes.

"Oh, I can't bear it," he groaned. "Don't say that after all this—"

"On the contrary," said I, "we're practically home. I'm going to get pen and ink— for you to take down."

Leaving him staring, I entered the room on my left, passed to a table and dipped a pen in some ink. Then I came back and gave it to Herrick and watched him begin to descend.

Brenda, of course, was wide-eyed; but it was not for me to tell her what we had found.

"It's her ladyship's secret," I said; "but at least I may tell you this that, thanks to what we've discovered, she's going to come by her rights."

"It is very ancient?" said Brenda. "It's nearly five hundred years old."

Brenda drew in her breath.

"And has been handed down all that time from father to son?"

"Certainly," said I. "And each of them signed his name. The signatures are down there. I think there are thirty-two."

(Here I should say that, in fact, there were thirty-three, the first twenty-five of which are those of the "lords" of Brief. The twenty sixth was that of the first of the "counts.")

"Few houses." said Brenda, "could show such a title as that."

"Very few," said I, sitting down. "Is your family ancient, too?"

"I really don't know," said I "I believe we go back some way, but I've nothing to show."

"The Revokes have held Raven for more than a hundred years."

"But I have no home," said I. "In fact, I'm nothing at all. It's true that I have some money— much more than I need. But that is all. I haven't even got an address."

Brenda frowned.

"You have always Raven," she said. "And when my lady is up, I think you will be welcome at Brief for as long as you live."

I smiled, and we spoke no more, but waited together in silence till Herrick came back— alone.

"Caroline wants you again," was as much as he said.

In some surprise, I took the torch from him and again descended the stair.

As I entered the little chamber:

"Look!" said Caroline, pointing. "Is that all right?"

I stooped to regard the vellum.

She had written a line beneath her grandfather's name.

Caroline Virgil, Countess of Brief, only child of the foregoing's first-born son.

"Yes," said I. "There's no mistake about that."

She gave me the pen, and picked up the great gold ring. Then she turned to look again at the body, sunk in its stall.

"Seeing's believing," she said. "But no chemist could do today what Gollanx has done."

That, of course, was most true. By every right, the body should have been dust. Instead, it had the air of a wax-work. And that, I suppose, was why it was in no way offensive, but only remarkable.

After a long look:

"We'd better be going," she said, and turned to the stair.

I began to follow her up, throwing a beam beyond her, to light her steps, but after a little she stopped to ask for a torch. I gave her one of my two, and by its light she examined the arms on the ring. Then with a sudden movement she put this into my hand.

"Put it on my finger," she said. "You have the right."

I slid my torch into a pocket and took her left hand in mine. Then I slid the ring on to her beautiful second finger, for which it was far too big. For a moment we regarded it together. Then:

"I'm out of my depth," I said. "There's a king down there— that I've been using as if he were a giant at a fair; and here I am standing up to a girl who's really a queen."

"I'm Caroline Virgil to you— and shall be, as long as you live."

"I know I said that," said I. "But now this has happened to— to put me where I belong."

"Where do you belong. Richard?"

"To the crowd," said I, "that watches the great go by."

"Where my father stood. Where, but for you. I should be standing this very day."

"What of that?" said I. "You don't belong to the crowd, and neither did he."

Her left hand tightened on mine. "I'm afraid," she said gravely, "that he, like me, must have had a very low taste. You see, we both took to you. And, unless I'm much mistaken, from what I've heard of 'Old Harry,' she'll do the same." A smile swept into her face. "Don't look so surprised, my dear. I mean what I say. And I'll tell you another thing. As I've said, if she likes, 'Old Harry' can pull this off; but if I had to choose between your assistance and hers, I'd choose you every time, and let her go hang."

My heart burned at her words— which I could not allow.

"But that— that's fantastic, Caroline."

"It isn't, really," she said. "And In any event it's true. You see no, you wouldn't see—so that's no good. Let me put it like this. Till you came I had no one to lean on. Then you came out of the blue and took the whole of my weight. Well, that has demoralised me; and now I know that I must have someone to lean on— that I cannot go back and stand by myself again. Now, so long as you are willing, you are the person on whom I wish to lean; but you seem to have an idea that that would not be correct, because the blood in my veins is rather better than yours. Well, I'm not going to argue the point, but tell me this. Was your father a stable boy?"

"Oh, no," said I. "He—"

"Well, that man's was," said Caroline, and pointed over my shoulder down the stair. "If you don't believe me I'll show it you in the books. Perhaps that'll make you feel better. Or must I do something to lower myself in your eyes?"

I cried out at that. "Very well. Who am I to you?"

"Caroline Virgil," said I. "No more?"

"No more— and no less."

"And are you content that I should lean upon you?"

Unwilling to trust my voice, I bent my head and put her hand to my lips.

I looked up to find her smiling. "The man of action," she said.

And then she was two steps above me, climbing the stair.

THERE WAS now no cause for haste, for leave before midnight we dared not, in case Brief was not asleep; and that was the hour at which Winter was to be the mouth of the drive. (He, of course, knew no more than that we were within the tower and that all was well, for I had twice sent him that signal a short half hour before dawn. This from the leads of the tower, which were easily reached.) Indeed, we were faced with the prospect of being confined for three hours with nothing to do; for, though we were all worn out, excitement and impatience between them would not allow us to rest. But first, of course, we had to cover our tracks.

Here let me say that I make no excuse for the outlook which I have this moment set down. It was ours at that time; and it must be said that I prayed it would remain so.