AN INADVERTENT DISCOVERY
IT was one of those links in the chain of life, which present
themselves unsought, which at the moment seem unimportant; yet which
have a grave bearing upon one's after happiness.
Phyllys had no thought of making any discovery; indeed, she did not
recognise it as such. Her mind was bent upon the disappointing nature
of human friendships; though she did not use such phraseology, but
only said to herself that things were "horrid." She was perplexed and
uncomfortable; wondering what could have so upset Giles; wishing he
would behave like his former self.
Little had been seen of him since his arrival. At luncheon he was
sombre, and Phyllys treated him with dignity. Colin looked ill, ate
nothing, and talked like a machine wound up; and since luncheon he too
had been invisible.
Between five and six o'clock Phyllys was alone with Mrs. Keith. Rain
fell heavily, keeping them in, and keeping callers away. Mrs. Keith
knew nothing of the studio scene; but she had noted with dismay
Phyllys' bearing at luncheon, towards both Giles and Colin, and she
used this opportunity to descant on dear Giles' fine character, the
beautiful devotion between him and Colin, and the manner in which,
years earlier, he had been wont to deny himself amusement that he might
spend hours beside Colin in a darkened room, making time pass for the
invalid.
"If you had any idea how Colin used to suffer, you really wouldn't
wonder at my anxiety," she observed. "For days together he could hardly
endure a glimmer of light. One dreads what might bring that back. And
Colin never can do anything without working himself into a state of
excitement."
She reverted to the merits of Giles.
"There is something about him so grand, so unlike the common run of
men. He has such control over himself. Colin is a dear fellow too;
still, his is the smaller and weaker nature."
"I shouldn't have thought so; he seems to me anything but weak."
"That may be hardly the right word; and if he is small, it is only
by comparison with Giles. Almost any man seems dwarfed beside him.
Yes, even my own boy. Is that odd? Why should love be blind? I do not
see Colin's faults the less, because he is dear to me. As for Giles'
faults, really I find it hard to say what they are, except a hot
temper, conquered long ago."
Phyllys was silent. Morning recollections supplied a commentary.
"Dear fellow, he is so unselfish," went on Mrs. Keith. "So wonderfully
kind. Giles' wife, by-and-by, will be the happiest of women. As for
Colin's wife, it is to be hoped that she will not mind his moods and
trying ways."
But if Mrs. Keith wished to turn Phyllys from Colin to Giles, she went
to work in a wrong fashion. Talk presently branched to Kathleen Alyn
and her father, and Phyllys felt this to be a safer topic. She was
learning caution.
"Kathleen is a fascinating woman," averred Mrs. Keith, beginning to
outline an elaborate pattern upon a square of silk. "Everybody likes
her. Mr. Dugdale can be disagreeable when he chooses."
"I should think most people could." Phyllys liked Mr. Dugdale.
"Tiresome!" muttered Mrs. Keith. "This silk will not do. I must get the
other piece."
"What piece? Can I find it?"
Mrs. Keith raised absent eyes. She was thinking what a pretty tractable
wife Phyllys might make for Giles. For reasons of her own, unknown to
other people, she had set her heart on this consummation.
"Thanks very much, if it will not be a trouble. I don't want to
disarrange these things by moving. It is a square of crimson silk, and
you will see it on the shelf, just inside one of my black oak cabinets.
There are two in my room, you know. The one that is unlocked, on the
right side as you go in."
Phyllys ran upstairs, thinking still of Giles, and suddenly found
herself face to face with him. He looked so solemn that she could not
resist a smile, and his face relaxed.
"I have seen nothing of you yet," he observed. "But to-morrow—"
"Are you going out now?"
"I am obliged, unfortunately. But, if I might count on you in the
morning for a walk—would you come? We have no fells or mountain
streams; still, you shall see something pretty."
Phyllys demurred, for she had hitherto devoted the better part of her
mornings to the studio. It would not do, however, to be at the beck and
call of Colin. Her proud spirit rose in protest, all the more because
she had felt his power.
"I should like a walk," she said demurely; and Giles' face, growing
rigid under her hesitation, lighted anew. She could not but see the
change.
"Then I may reckon on you," he said, and his look was eloquent.
Friends still! That was what it uttered.
She gave one slight flash, and ran off. With regard to him, as
with regard to Colin, questioning arose. Was it with the one only
artist-interest? Was it with the other only friendship?
Phyllys made no attempt to find a reply. She knew that it was
delightful, after years of snubbing, to find herself the object of so
much attention.
Reaching Mrs. Keith's bedroom, her recollections were confused. A black
oak cabinet, unlocked—so much remained. Turning to the left, she pulled
the door of the cabinet on that side, and it opened. Within she saw no
crimson silk. A pile of shawls and cloaks had been heaped together in
the space below; and she disturbed the pile, pulling it out, searching
for the silk. So doing, she came on something behind; a half-length
portrait in a black frame. A pair of blue eyes, dreamy, observant, met
her own. "How like!" she exclaimed.
The style of dress belonged to a bygone period, and the face as a whole
was hardly that of Colin. It was a resemblance less of form and colour
than of the spirit which gleamed through.
"Some near relation," she conjectured. "But why keep it hidden here?"
Convinced that the silk was not within the cabinet, she restored the
portrait, piled the clothes as before, and tried to shut the door.
Then she saw that it had been locked, and that the hasp had failed to
catch. No key was visible. She recollected Mrs. Keith's words, "On the
'right' side as you go in." This cabinet stood on the left.
She went to the second cabinet, found that to be genuinely unlocked,
and saw the crimson silk. She caught it up and ran downstairs.
"I'm sorry to have been so long," she said. "I opened the wrong cabinet
by mistake. Somebody had locked it in a hurry, and had not shut it
first. I forgot all about right and left, and wasted time hunting.
I could not help noticing the oil-painting under the things. It has
such a look of Colin. A young man, in a queer old-fashioned dress. I
wondered whether it might be Colin's grandfather, and whether he was
dressed for theatricals." She stopped; for Mrs. Keith's face had grown
colourless.
"Are you faint?" she asked. "May I get anything for you?"
"Thanks, no; it is nothing. I shall be all right. So stupid of me!" And
Mrs. Keith smiled. "I have had three or four such turns lately. I shall
have to ask Dr. Wallace for a tonic; only I do so dislike the man.
Well—" and she pressed her handkerchief to her lips—"now I am better.
What were you saying, just before the faintness came on? Something
about—how absurd of me to forget! My head is confused."
"Only about that old painting in your cabinet. I thought it must be
some relative, because of the likeness to Colin," She would not suggest
Mrs. Keith's husband, though the idea had occurred. A wife would hardly
bury her husband's portrait beneath a pile of old clothes.
"Ah, to be sure—yes!—I remember. An old painting of my brother
Jock—Colin's uncle. Not so old, of course, as it looks. The artist had
a fancy to do it in that style. You are right about the dress. It was
for theatricals. He was good at acting—very much in request. You found
the silk?"
Phyllys gave it, remarking, "I had not heard of your brother."
"Really! But you would not. Jock has been so long in Australia, never
coming home, that friends forget his existence."
"Had you not better rest?" asked the girl, pitying her blanched lips.
"It really is of no consequence. I am used to these turns, and I think
nothing of them. One word, before any one comes. Phyllys, I am going to
treat you as a friend."
Phyllys waited, and Mrs. Keith's lips worked nervously.
"That old portrait—no one except myself knows about it, and I
'particularly' wish that others should not know. There are reasons
which I am not able to explain. It has—painful associations. The very
sight of it makes me miserable for days."
"But Colin—" the girl said.
"Colin has no idea of its existence."
"Of course I will say nothing."
"That is what I was going to ask. If you had kept to my directions you
would not have opened the wrong cabinet. Under the circumstances, I
have a right to ask you never to mention the portrait. It would mean no
end of talk and explanation—and pain to myself, which really I cannot
stand. Will you give me your promise, on your word of honour?"
It seemed to Phyllys a considerable fuss about nothing; but she readily
made answer, "Yes, of course. I promise never to say a word to anybody
about the painting unless you give me leave. I'm sorry I went to the
wrong cabinet."
"That does not matter, my dear. All I wish is to avoid tiresome and
useless discussions. But I know I may depend upon you, and now we can
dismiss the subject. I think I must have some sal volatile after all—I
feel so queer still. Thanks, no—I had better go myself. It will do me
good to move."
She mounted the wide staircase, stepping languidly till within her own
room. Then her manner changed. She bolted the door, and went to the
left-hand cabinet, finding it as described by Phyllys.
"How insane of me!" she muttered. She began to pile more clothes over
the picture, but stopped.
"No; now it has been seen, it must not stay there."
Her eyes wandered round questfully, and she went to a large cupboard,
within which was a heavy wooden box. This with difficulty she drew out.
It contained several summer gowns of thin materials, too old-fashioned
for use. She had a weakness for storing away disused articles of dress.
In the bottom she laid the portrait, face downward, finding just
sufficient space. Over it she spread a woollen shawl; over that the
gowns neatly folded; then she shut the lid, turned the key, and pushed
the box to its former position.
Somebody was tapping at the door. She straightened herself, hid away
the box-key in an inner drawer of her writing-table, locked the
left-hand cabinet, and resumed her languid air before admitting Phyllys.
"Can't I help you?" asked the girl, with astonished eyes. "I came to
see if you wanted anything—and I heard you pulling something heavy
about."
"I had to look for a business letter. Nothing of importance; but it
was rather out of reach. Thanks, no; I do not want anything. I am much
better—quite myself again."
Phyllys was perplexed, remembering the energetic sounds which had
drowned her raps.