Having closed and secured the door on Lady Montbarry's departure, Agnes put on her dressing-gown, and, turning to her open boxes, began the business of unpacking. In the hurry of making her toilet for dinner, she had taken the first dress that lay uppermost in the trunk, and had thrown her travelling costume on the bed.
She now opened the doors of the wardrobe for the first time, and began to hang her dresses on the hooks in the large compartment on one side.
After a few minutes only of this occupation, she grew weary of it, and decided on leaving the trunks as they were, until the next morning.
The oppressive south wind, which had blown throughout the day, still prevailed at night. The atmosphere of the room felt close;Agnes threw a shawl over her head and shoulders, and, opening the window, stepped into the balcony to look at the view.
The night was heavy and overcast: nothing could be distinctly seen.
The canal beneath the window looked like a black gulf;the opposite houses were barely visible as a row of shadows, dimly relieved against the starless and moonless sky.
At long intervals, the warning cry of a belated gondolier was just audible, as he turned the corner of a distant canal, and called to invisible boats which might be approaching him in the darkness.
Now and then, the nearer dip of an oar in the water told of the viewless passage of other gondolas bringing guests back to the hotel.
Excepting these rare sounds, the mysterious night-silence of Venice was literally the silence of the grave.
Leaning on the parapet of the balcony, Agnes looked vacantly into the black void beneath. Her thoughts reverted to the miserable man who had broken his pledged faith to her, and who had died in that house.
Some change seemed to have come over her since her arrival in Venice;some new influence appeared to be at work. For the first time in her experience of herself, compassion and regret were not the only emotions aroused in her by the remembrance of the dead Montbarry.
A keen sense of the wrong that she had suffered, never yet felt by that gentle and forgiving nature, was felt by it now.
She found herself thinking of the bygone days of her humiliation almost as harshly as Henry Westwick had thought of them--she who had rebuked him the last time he had spoken slightingly of his brother in her presence! A sudden fear and doubt of herself, startled her physically as well as morally. She turned from the shadowy abyss of the dark water as if the mystery and the gloom of it had been answerable for the emotions which had taken her by surprise.
Abruptly closing the window, she threw aside her shawl, and lit the candles on the mantelpiece, impelled by a sudden craving for light in the solitude of her room.
The cheering brightness round her, contrasting with the black gloom outside, restored her spirits. She felt herself enjoying the light like a child!
Would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed? No! The sense of drowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since was gone.
She returned to the dull employment of unpacking her boxes.
After a few minutes only, the occupation became irksome to her once more.
She sat down by the table, and took up a guide-book. 'Suppose Iinform myself,' she thought, 'on the subject of Venice?'
Her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned the first page of it.
The image of Henry Westwick was the presiding image in her memory now.
Recalling the minutest incidents and details of the evening, she could think of nothing which presented him under other than a favourable and interesting aspect. She smiled to herself softly, her colour rose by fine gradations, as she felt the full luxury of dwelling on the perfect truth and modesty of his devotion to her.
Was the depression of spirits from which she had suffered so persistently on her travels attributable, by any chance, to their long separation from each other--embittered perhaps by her own vain regret when she remembered her harsh reception of him in Paris?
Suddenly conscious of this bold question, and of the self-abandonment which it implied, she returned mechanically to her book, distrusting the unrestrained liberty of her own thoughts.
What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find their hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone in her room at night!
With her heart in the tomb of the dead Montbarry, could Agnes even think of another man, and think of love? How shameful! how unworthy of her!
For the second time, she tried to interest herself in the guide-book--and once more she tried in vain. Throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the one resource that was left, to her luggage--resolved to fatigue herself without mercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a safe refuge in bed.
For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation of transferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe.
The large clock in the hall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was getting late. She sat down for a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, to rest.
The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it--held it disagreeably. Was everybody in bed and asleep but herself?
Surely it was time for her to follow the general example? With a certain irritable nervous haste, she rose again and undressed herself.
'I have lost two hours of rest,' she thought, frowning at the reflection of herself in the glass, as she arranged her hair for the night.
'I shall be good for nothing to-morrow!'
She lit the night-light, and extinguished the candles--with one exception, which she removed to a little table, placed on the side of the bed opposite to the side occupied by the arm-chair.
Having put her travelling-box of matches and the guide-book near the candle, in case she might be sleepless and might want to read, she blew out the light, and laid her head on the pillow.
