THE ANCESTOR
THE Dower House was away from the main road. A sprawling mass of low
buildings, it stood behind untidy hedges and crumbling walls. Once the
place had enjoyed the services of a lodge-keeper, but the tiny lodge was
deserted, the windows broken, and there were gaps in the tiled roof. The
gates had not been closed for generations; they were broken, and leant
crazily against the walls to which they had been thrust by the last
person who had employed them to guard the entrance to the Dower House.
What had once been a fair lawn was now a tangle of weeds. Thistle and
mayweed grew knee-deep where the gallants of old had played their bowls;
and it was clear to Michael, from his one glance, that only a portion of
the house was used. In only one of the wings were the windows whole; the
others were broken or so grimed with dirt, that they appeared to have
been painted.
His amusement blended with curiosity, Michael saw for the first time the
picturesque Mr. Sampson Longvale. He came out to meet them, his bald
head glistening in the afternoon sunlight, his strapped fawn-coloured
trousers, velvet waistcoat and old-fashioned stock completely supporting
Gregory Penne’s description of him.
“Delighted to see you, Mr. Knebworth. I’ve a very poor house, but I
offer you a very rich welcome! I have had tea served in my little
dining-room. Will you please introduce me to the members of your
company?”
The courtesy, the old-world spirit of dignity, were very charming, and
Michael felt a warm glow toward this fine old man who brought to this
modern atmosphere the love and the fragrance of a past age.
“I should like to shoot a scene before we lose the light, Mr. Longvale,”
said Knebworth, “so, if you don’t mind the meal being a scrambling one,
I can give the company a quarter of an hour.” He looked round. “Where is
Foss?” he asked. “I want to change a scene.”
“Mr. Foss said he was walking from Griff Towers,” said one of the
company. “He stopped behind to speak to Sir Gregory.”
Jack Knebworth cursed his dilatory scenario man with vigour and
originality.
“I hope he hasn’t stopped to borrow money,” he said savagely. “That
fellow’s going to ruin my credit if I’m not careful.”
He had overcome his objection to his new extra; possibly he felt that
there was nobody else in the party whom he could take into his
confidence without hurt to discipline.
“Is he that way inclined?”
“He’s always short of money and always trying to make it by some fool
trick which leaves him shorter than he was before. When a man gets that
kind of bug in his head he’s only a block away from prison. Are you
going to stay the night? I don’t think you’ll be able to sleep here,” he
said, changing the subject, “but I suppose you’ll be going back to
London?”
“Not to-night,” said Michael quickly. “Don’t worry about me. I
particularly do not wish to give you any trouble.”
“Come and meet the old man,” said Knebworth under his breath. “He’s a
queer old devil with the heart of a child.”
“I like what I’ve seen of him,” said Michael.
Mr. Longvale accepted the introduction all over again.
“I fear there will not be sufficient room in my dining-room for the
whole company. I have had a little table laid in my study. Perhaps you
and your friends would like to have your tea there?”
“Why, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Longvale. You have met Mr. Brixan?”
The old man smiled and nodded.
“I have met him without realizing that I’ve met him. I never remember
names—a curious failing which was shared by my great-great-uncle
Charles, with the result that he fell into extraordinary confusion when
he wrote his memoirs, and in consequence many of the incidents he
relates have been regarded as apocryphal.”
He showed them into a narrow room that ran from the front to the back of
the house. Its ceilings were supported by black rafters; the open
wainscoting, polished and worn by generations of hands, must have been
at least five hundred years old. There were no swords over this
mantelpiece, thought Michael with an inward smile. Instead, there was a
portrait of a handsome old gentleman, the dignity of whose face was
arresting. There was only one word with an adequate description: it was
majestic.
He made no comment on the picture, nor did the old man speak of it till
later. The meal was hastily disposed of, and, sitting on the wall,
Michael watched the last daylight scene shot, and was struck by the
plastic genius of the girl. He knew enough of motion pictures and their
construction to realize what it meant to the director to have in his
hands one who could so faithfully reproduce the movements and the
emotions which the old man dictated.
In other circumstances he might have thought it grotesque to see Jack
Knebworth pretending to be a young girl, resting his elderly cheek coyly
upon the back of his clasped hand, and walking with mincing steps from
one side of the picture to the other. But he knew that the American was
a mason who was cutting roughly the shape of the sculpture and leaving
it to the finer artiste to express in her personality the delicate
contours that would delight the eye of the picture-loving world. She was
no longer Adele Leamington; she was Roselle, the heiress to an estate of
which her wicked cousin was trying to deprive her. The story itself he
recognized; a half-and-half plagiarism of “The Cat and the Canary,” with
which were blended certain situations from “The Miracle Man.” He
mentioned this fact when the scene was finished.
“I guess it’s a steal,” said Jack Knebworth philosophically, “and I
didn’t inquire too closely into it. It’s Foss’s story, and I should be
pained to discover there was anything original in it.”
Mr. Foss had made a tardy reappearance, and Michael found himself
wondering what was the nature of that confidential interview which the
writer had had with Sir Gregory.
Going back to the long sitting-room, he stood watching the daylight fade
and speculating upon the one mystery within a mystery—the extraordinary
effect which Adele had produced upon him.
Mike Brixan had known many beautiful women, women in every class of
society. He had known the best and the worst, he had jailed a few, and
had watched one face a French firing squad one grey wintry morning at
Vincennes. He had liked many, nearly loved one, and it seemed,
cold-bloodedly analysing his emotions, that he was in danger of actually
loving a girl whom he had never met before that morning.
“Which is absurd,” he said aloud.
“What is absurd?” asked Knebworth, who had come into the room unnoticed.
“I also wondered what you were thinking,” smiled old Mr. Longvale, who
had been watching the young man in silence.
“I—er—well, I was thinking of the portrait.” Michael turned and
indicated the picture above the fireplace, and in a sense he spoke the
truth, for the thread of that thought had run through all others. “The
face seemed familiar,” he said, “which is absurd, because it is
obviously an old painting.”
Mr. Longvale lit two candles and carried one to the portrait. Again
Michael looked, and again the majesty of the face impressed him.
“That is my great-great-uncle, Charles Henry,” said old Mr. Longvale
with pride. “Or, as we call him affectionately in our family, the Great
Monsieur.”
Michael’s face was half-turned toward the window as the old man
spoke. . . . Suddenly the room seemed to spin before his eyes. Jack
Knebworth saw his face go white and caught him by the arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Michael unsteadily.
Knebworth was staring past him at the window.
“What was that?” he said.
With the exception of the illumination from the two candles and the
faint dusk light that came from the garden, the room was in darkness.
“Did you see it?” he asked, and ran to the window, staring out.
“What was it?” asked old Mr. Longvale, joining him.
“I could have sworn I saw a head in the window. Did you see it, Brixan?”
“I saw something,” said Michael unsteadily. “Do you mind if I go out
into the garden?”
“I hoped you saw it. It looked like a monkey’s head to me.”
Michael nodded. He walked down the flagged passage into the garden, and,
as he did so, slipped a Browning from his hip, pressed down the
safety-catch, and dropped the pistol into his jacket pocket.
He disappeared, and five minutes later Knebworth saw him pacing the
garden path, and went out to him.
“Did you see anything?”
“Nothing in the garden. You must have been mistaken.”
“But didn’t you see him?”
Michael hesitated.
“I thought I saw something,” he said with an assumption of carelessness.
“When are you going to shoot those night pictures of yours?”
“You saw something, Brixan—was it a face?”
Mike Brixan nodded.