The Best Horrors by F. Marion Crawford. Francis Marion Crawford

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      CHAPTER VI.

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      The little party sat by the open window of the hall on the next evening. Since the extraordinary events of the preceding day they had talked of nothing else. Augustus was endeavouring to explain his theory that by a gigantic experiment upon nature he had accidentally upset some fundamental but wholly unknown law, and he promised that if his mother-in-law would not be frightened he would cause another electric storm and produce even more extraordinary results.

      "But I am quite sure it was all a dream," objected Lady Brenda. " Only when I think of that man's hand, I really shiver. Anything more awfully clammy!"

      "I am sure they will come back to-night," said Gwendoline, in a tone of profound conviction. " It was all very odd, but I know it was quite real."

      Diana was seated at the piano, running her fingers over the keys in an idle fashion, striking melancholy and disconnected chords and then pausing to listen to the conversation.

      "Yes," she said presently, "I am sure they will come back."

      "The question," remarked Augustus, " is whether such a disturbance is likely to outlast a day unless the forces which produced it are —" he stopped, starting slightly. Lady Brenda dropped her fan, Gwendoline rose swiftly from her chair and drew back, while Diana's fingers fell upon the keys and made a ringing discord. In the dusky gloom of the long window stood two men. The one was Caesar; the other a man taller than he, with a long white beard and wrapped in a cloak. Caesar came forward, followed at a few steps by his companion.

      "I have come back," said the dead man, quietly. " You do not grudge us poor ghosts an hour's conversation? It is so pleasant to seem to be alive again, and in such company. We left you too soon last night, but it was late."

      "But where are the rest?" asked Gwendoline, disappointed at not seeing Chopin, and glancing curiously at the old man who stood by Caesar's side.

      "Chopin is at Bayreuth to-night. There is a musical festival and he could not stay away. Heine is sitting by the shores of the North Sea talking to the stars and the sea-foam. But I have brought you another friend—one perhaps greater than they when he lived, though we are all alike here."

      Caesar led his companion forward, and in the short silence that followed all eyes were turned upon the new-comer.

      He was a man of tall and graceful figure. The noble features were set off by a snowy beard and long white locks that flowed down upon his shoulders and contrasted with the rich material of his mantle. The wide folds of the latter as he gathered them in one hand did not altogether conceal the dress he wore beneath, the doublet of dark green and trunk hose of scarlet, the tight sleeve, slashed at the elbows where the fine linen showed in symmetrical puffs, the black shoes and the gold chain which hung about his neck. He was old, indeed, but his walk had a matchless grace and his erect form still showed the remains of the giant's strength. His dark eyes were brilliant still and emitted a lustre that illuminated the pale, regular features, too deathlike to convey any impression of life without that glance of the sparkling soul within.

      He paused before the group and courteously bent his head. All rose to greet him, and if there was less of awe in the action there was perhaps more of reverence, than any had felt when the greater guest had entered.

      "I am Lionardo," he said in a low and musical voice. " Lionardo, the artist —' from Vinci' they call me, because I was born there. I have joined you and the rest — these dear friends of mine who have made me one of them, and you who have conferred on us the privilege of once more exchanging thoughts and grasping hands with the living."

      "There is none whom we will more gladly honour," said Augustus, gravely. " The privilege is ours, not yours. Be seated— be one of us if you will, as well as one of these — whom you have known so long."

      "Long — yes — it seems long to me, very, very long. But I have not forgotten what it was to live. I loved life well. Men have said of me that I wasted much time — I have been laughed at as a blower of soap-bubbles, as a foolish fellow who spent his time in trying to teach lizards to fly. Perhaps it is true. I have learned the secret now, and I have learned that I could not have attained to it then. But it was sweet to seek after it."

      "I have read those foolish stories," said Diana, whose eyes rested in rapt admiration on the grand features of the artist. " No one believes them — "

      " Here in Italy," said Caesar, in his placid yet dominating tones, " people may say of you as the English said of their architect — si monumentum quceris, circumspice."

      "They would have needed to bury my body by the sluices of the Lecco canal, to give the same force to the epitaph," answered Lionardo, with a soft laugh. Then with the courtesy natural to him he turned to Diana who had been speaking when interrupted by Caesar's quotation.

      "I appreciate the kindly thought that makes you say that, Lady Diana — your name is Diana? Yes, it suits your face. I used to think I could guess people's names from their faces. Another of my foolish fancies. However, I am obliged to say that there is some truth in the report concerning the soap-bubbles. I had a theory that they were like drops of liquid — that each drop had a skin and that I could make drops of air and find out how they would act, by giving them artificial skins like those of other liquids. Something has been produced from the idea by modern students. The mistake I made was in attempting to work out my theory before proclaiming it. That is impossible. Modern students make a fat living by proclaiming their theories first and omitting to demonstrate them afterwards, taking for granted that no one will deny what persons of such importance as themselves choose to suggest."

      "I have never heard that you were so cynical," said Lady Brenda.