On descending next morning to the drawing-room, I found Angelo there before me, the idol of a crowd of ?sthetic young ladies who adored art (and especially the artist) without understanding much about either. He was exhibiting to their admiring gaze the contents of his portfolio and unless my eyesight deceived me, it was the identical portfolio he had displayed to me on that memorable wedding morning.  
It had been my intention to question the artist on that singular utterance of his when he first parted from Daphne: "You are nearer to him now than you have been for months;" but as I saw that he purposely ignored me, I imitated his example, and ignored him.
 
I was curious to see how he would receive Daphne on this occasion—their first meeting after her refusal of him; but he manifested no signs of embarrassment when she appeared, and acknowledged her presence with an air so grave and stately that none, seeing him, would ever have guessed that he had at one time made passionate love to her.
 
Daphne was confused and blushed a little, and was not sorry, I think, when, at the sound of the breakfast-bell, I relieved her of his presence by escorting her to the table, taking care to put as many feet[Pg 187] of mahogany as I could between her and the artist, who had for his partner the lively Florrie.
 
During breakfast the conversation turned on the mysterious apparition of the preceding night, and Daphne was twitted by the ladies for her fright; but the Baronet, noticing how agitated she became and how distasteful the subject was to her, came to her aid, and, declaring that he would not allow her to be teased, diverted the conversation to another channel.
 
"When do you expect to finish your picture?" he said, turning to Angelo.
 
"Within a few days: perhaps a few hours."
 
Perhaps a few hours! Such an answer implied that it was within the range of probability for the completion of his picture to take place on Christmas Day—that is, on the very anniversary of the day on which he had finished his last masterpiece. This coincidence of dates was certainly remarkable, and my uncle could not help reverting to it.
 
"Christmas is a favorite time with you," he remarked. "Your last great work, if I remember rightly, received its final touch on Christmas Day."
 
"Yes," replied the artist, "because both pictures represent death scenes; and the brilliant sunshine and blue skies of summer-time are too joyous to allow me to think of anything sad. I am like that poet who could never write good verse unless he was in an elegant and tastefully-appointed study. Similarly, I find the gloom and darkness of your English Christmas a more appropriate time than any other to portray my conceptions of death."
 
"Egad! there's something in that," said the doctor with a nod of approval. He seemed to have taken a great fancy for Angelo. "The weather has a wonderful effect on the mental faculties."
 
[Pg 188]
 
"The want of a suitable model has delayed your work, I think you said," said the Baronet to Angelo. "Did you procure in London what you wanted?"
 
"Yes; I have—found a—a—" he seemed to hesitate as to the choice of a word—"a lovely figure. The very ideal of what an artist's model should be."
 
"What is the subject of your picture?" inquired Florrie.
 
"I am going to call it 'Modesta, the Christian Martyr.' It represents a scene in the Coliseum. A Christian maiden is breathing her last on the sands of the arena. A Libyan lion stands proudly over her, with one claw fixed in her breast."
 
"What a ghastly subject!" said Florrie.
 
"Ghastly? Yes; yet such things have been, and 'tis well to recall them," replied the artist gravely. "You must judge my picture by the end it is meant to accomplish, which is not mere vulgar sensationalism. It is intended as a contribution to religion—an aid to morality; for it is my object to show the character of ancient paganism, and from the contemplation of the sweet girl-martyr men will derive nobler ideas of the great battle which their ancestral Christianity had to fight."
 
His eyes sparkled and his cheek glowed with the fire of enthusiasm.
 
"Angelo posing as an exponent of morality is a new character," I murmured to my uncle, who sat beside me.
 
The artist was now in his element. A multitude of questions relative to his new work were addressed to him from all sides. Nobody was more attentive to his words than the doctor, or more curiously interrogative. I marvelled to see him taking such an interest in Angelo's painting.
 
[Pg 189]
 
"It was Italy," explained the artist, "that furnished me with the blue sky of my picture. I spent months there experimenting on canvas till I had caught the lovely transparent azure of the Italian atmosphere. The amphitheatre I painted sitting on the arena of the Coliseum itself, picturing to my mental eye the place as it existed in the palmy days of the Empire. From Rome I transferred my canvas to Paris. They have a magnificent African lion there in the Jardin d'Acclimatation. I took a photograph of him. It was a difficult matter for the keepers to compel him to assume the pose I wanted, but it was managed at last; and, working from the photograph, I got the image of the lion fixed on the canvas. Since my arrival at the Abbey here I have been filling in the minor details and working at the figure of the girl-martyr, which I am hoping will prove the crowning-piece of the whole picture."
 
"Well," said the genial Baronet, when breakfast was over, "what is to be the programme for to-day? I would propose a ride over the moors, but I fear the weather is scarcely propitious."
 
"Oh, we can't ride out to-day," said Florrie. "We all solemnly promised the Vicar yesterday that we would help him to decorate the church with flowers and holly this morning."
 
"And he says that he must keep you to your promise," smiled a clerical-looking young man, the Rev. Cyprian Fontalwater, curate of Silverdale, who, having come with that very message from the Vicar, had been compelled by the hospitable Sir Hugh to stay to breakfast. "Our Dissenting brethren"—he called them brethren, but he didn't mean it—"are beautifying and adorning their—er—meeting house, and we must not be outdone by them in floral decorations any[Pg 190] more than we are in the—ahem!—spiritual portion of the service."
 
He coughed slightly, as if apologising for bringing this last point before the notice of the company.
 
The conversation now took an ecclesiastical turn under Florrie's lead, and we were soon discussing such topics as the decorations, Christmas carols, and the anthem to be sung at the service in the morning.
 
"Well," said the Baronet, giving the signal for rising, "suppose before setting off for the church you spend an hour in the picture-gallery, and view my latest addition to it."
 
Expressions of delighted assent arose.
 
"When I tell you that the addition I allude to is the great masterpiece of Mr. Vasari," he added with a gracious wave of his hand towards the artist, "the masterpiece that set all Paris talking last summer, we shall require no other reason for visiting the gallery at once."
 
Remembering Angelo's curious dealings with regard to his famous work of art, I thought to see him betray some little confusion when it was mentioned by the Baronet. He manifested no such embarrassment, however, but gravely bowed his acknowledgments; and Sir Hugh led the way from the breakfast-table. The artist and curate each offered an arm to escort Florrie. Preference was given to Art, and Ecclesiasticism retired confounded.
 
"I shall put myself under your guidance," said Florrie, taking Angelo's arm. "You must be my cicerone, and point out the beauties of the picture for me. I haven't seen it yet, you know."
 
"The beauties? You do me too much honour. Say the defects, rather."
 
"Very well, the defects, then," said the irrepressible[Pg 191] Florrie. "I daresay that sounds uncomplimentary, but it isn't meant to be so. I'm no connoisseur, and what you artists consider defects I may consider beauties, and what you know to be beauties I may think defects. I never go into an art-gallery and become enraptured with some sweet interesting painting without being told by some frowning critic that it is a very mediocre performance, worth nothing at all. But if I come to some ugly daub, whose perspective is all at fault and whose figures are so comically drawn that I feel tempted to laugh, I am told that I must reverence and adore because it is a Cimabue or a Fra Angelico. I am deficient in taste, I suppose. What is the title of your picture, Mr. Vasari?"
 
"I have entitled it 'The Fall of C?sar,'" replied the artist, a little confounded, I thought, at the idea that there should be any one in existence ignorant of the title of his famous work.
 
"'The Fall of C?sar?' Oh, how interesting. What did he fall from?" she asked with an assumed ignorance. She uttered this rather loudly; and then, dropping her voice, she whispered in Daphne's ear: "Now hear Mr. Fontalwater give us a lecture. He's sure to. Mad on history. Read nothing else from his cradle upwards."
 
And sure enough the Reverend Cyprian, on hearing her question, at once proceeded to satisfy her curiosity.
 
"Caius Julius C?sar, Miss Wyville, was stabbed by conspirators in the Senate House at Rome, and fell at the base of Pompey's statue covered with twenty-three wounds. According to Plutarch the conspirators were Marcus Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cassius, Casca——"
 
"My goodness, Mr. Fontalwater, what a memory you have!" cried Florrie, cutting him short with a[Pg 192] look of mock admiration. "You surely don't expect me to remember all those names? You are worse than my old governess. Have you introduced all those classical fogies into your picture, Mr. Vasari?"
 
"No, Miss Wyville; my picture contains but two figures—C?sar lying dead at the foot of Pompey's statue. I have represented this statue pointing downward with its lance, figuratively intimating thereby the fate that befalls a too lofty ambition. Personal vanity has induced me to represent Pompey with my own features, a proceeding for which I can quote a notable precedent—the immortal Haydon, who, in his famous picture, 'Curtius leaping into the Gulf,' gave to the Roman hero his own countenance—a fact mournfully prophetic of his own sad downward destiny."
 
"And so," replied Florrie, "in the figure of Pompey you represent yourself as triumphing over the dead. Fie, Mr. Vasari!"
 
"I am pointing a moral, you see."
 
"What a curious idea to introduce one's own face into a picture! I should not like to offend you: you would paint some wicked historical woman, and then give her my features. But tell me, have you given to your C?sar the face of a friend? Come, don't deny it; I am sure you have. Whose features served as a model? Oh, do tell us!"
 
"You are mistaken," he replied. "I did, indeed, procure an ancient bust of C?sar, but finally I abandoned sculptured fact for my own imagination, and endeavoured to paint ambition's ideal face."
 
"I am quite dying to see it," said Florrie. "Is it true what they say, Mr. Vasari, that your way of painting is a secret?"
 
"Quite true. I am not aware that my method is[Pg 193] employed by the artists of to-day. Yet my method is no new thing; it is simply the revival of an idea buried in the dust of ages."
 
"And are you not going to reveal it?"
 
"And raise a crowd of imitators? Pardon me—no. None shall rob me of my laurels. If it were possible to patent my idea, I should have no hesitation in disclosing it. But the secret shall not die with me. At my death I will leave papers showing how my effects were wrought."
 
I attributed all this to the vanity of the artist, not knowing how much truth there was in his boasted secret.
 
The doctor nodded approval, as if he understood all that the artist meant. He had been walking close to Angelo all the way from the breakfast-table, listening to his utterances as though they were so many gems of wisdom that deserved to be treasured in the memory.
 
By this time we had entered the gallery, a magnificent hall—long, broad, and lofty. On one side only was the light admitted, and that through high and deep embrasured casements. The spaces between the windows were adorned with the family portraits all arranged in chronological order, beginning with a fearfully weird daub of Richard III.'s time, and ending with a splendid portrait of Sir Hugh.
 
The wall facing the windows was covered with pictures of a general character, and was penetrated at regular intervals by deep alcoves containing suits of mail and mounted knights armed cap-à-pie, illustrating various periods of English history; for the Wyvilles had been an ancient family long ere they received from the hand of Mary Stuart's son the patent of baronetcy.
 
[Pg 194]
 
We proceeded leisurely down the gallery, I listening, in shame be it written, with very little interest to the Baronet's genealogical discourse, because all my thoughts were running on Angelo's painting.
 
"I understood," said my uncle, turning to the artist, "that your great picture had gone to Spain, and never expected to meet it in the Abbey here."
 
"What gave you that idea?" inquired Angelo with a smile of amusement.
 
"Yourself, I believe. Don't you remember telling us at Rivoli that you had sold your picture to a Spanish nobleman?"
 
"I certainly do not remember saying so," replied the artist with a decided emphasis on the negative adverb, and speaking in the tone of one who was quite sure of the truth of his statement.
 
"Oh, yes, you did," I returned quietly. "De Argandarez was the name of the nobleman—an old hidalgo of Aragon, you know."
 
"I think I remember it, too," said Daphne timidly.
 
"We are three to one, you see," remarked my uncle.
 
"Far be it from me," said Angelo, "to differ from Miss Leslie, but I certainly have no recollection of ever saying any such thing. I was guilty of falsehood if I did. How could I have said so, when Sir Hugh was the only one who offered to purchase?"
 
This argument was of course unanswerable. The doctor offered us the tribute of a pitying smile, as if to say, "This is how a man of genius is liable to be misinterpreted."
 
We had now reached the middle of the hall, when a sudden exclamation broke from Sir Hugh, and on looking up I saw that worthy Baronet staring at a certain extent of oak panelling in the wall that faced the windows. There was nothing remarkable about[Pg 195] this extent of panelling: it held no pictures, that was all; but the Baronet's words soon showed us what was wrong.
 
"Why, how's this?" he cried in a voice that was almost a shout. "The picture's gone!"
 
"The picture? What picture?" cried Angelo, dropping Florrie's arm in his excitement, and hurrying to the side of the Baronet.
 
"Why yours! 'The Fall of C?sar.'"
 
"Are you sure?" cried Angelo breathlessly.
 
"Quite. And it was hanging here last night, I will swear."
 
There was a deep and painful silence, followed by the usual commonplaces evoked by a surprise.
 
"Where can it have gone?" cried Angelo, his voice expressing the deepest concern. "Sir Hugh, I trust nothing has happened to that picture. Though yours in point of law, I still regard it to some extent as mine. I would never have parted with it, if I had thought it would be destroyed. My picture! my picture! Some one must have stolen it."
 
He sank down on a seat, and lifted his hand to his brow with a bewildered air, as if scarcely realising the situation.
 
"This is the work of an enemy," he murmured.
 
If his words were true, the enemy was certainly one who knew how to strike home. No mortification—not even Daphne's refusal of his love—could have been more bitter to the artist than the knowledge that his adored masterpiece was in the hands of an enemy capable of destroying it.
 
"Let all the servants be sent for," cried the Baronet. "What does all this mean? First it is a book that vanishes, then a picture."
 
"And next—a lady," murmured a voice.
 
[Pg 196]
 
It was the doctor who spoke, but his tones were so low that they reached no ear but mine. I stared at him, wondering what he meant.
 
"A book? What book?" cried Florrie.
 
The Baronet described the missing volume, relating the circumstances under which he came to lose it. The guests shook their heads. They could give no account of its disappearance.
 
All the servants, young and old, male and female, now came trooping into the hall, with wonder depicted on their faces at being thus strangely summoned.
 
"Now, Fruin," said the Baronet, addressing the butler, whose duty it was to see that the gallery was locked at night, "let me ask you if the fastenings of these windows," and he pointed to the long line of casements, "were all as secure when you examined them this morning as they were when you left them last night?"
&n............