THE PORTRAIT POINTS
One winter afternoon some weeks after the discovery of the coral
necklace and the pearl ring, Mary was in the library alone, reading
“Hamlet.” It was the last play on the list which Aunt Nan had
suggested, and Mary liked it best of all. Nothing further of a
“mysterious” nature had happened in the library; but Mary had almost
forgotten to think about anything of the kind. She was reading now for
the pleasure of it.
She had kindled a little fire in the fireplace, and the library was
very cozy, full of flickering shadows and dancing lights, that played
about the old volumes, and seemed every minute to change the expression
on the bust of Shakespeare and on Aunt Nan’s picture above it.
But Mary, cuddled up in the big armchair with Caliban in her lap and
the little red book in her hand, was too much interested in the fate
of poor Ophelia and the unlucky Prince to notice lights or shadows.
She had come to the scene where Hamlet is talking sorrowfully to his
mother in her chamber, and every word was wonderful. Suddenly she came
upon a line underscored; the last part doubly underscored:--
“_Look here upon this picture_, THEN ON THIS.”
Hamlet was pointing out to his mother the portraits of two kings, the
good one who had been murdered, and his wicked brother who had killed
him. The underscored line made Mary’s heart beat faster. She had
learned to connect some pleasant surprise with Aunt Nan’s choice of
quotations. In the margin opposite this line was penned an exclamation
point--just that and nothing more. Eager as she was to go on with the
story, and to find out what Hamlet had to say next, Mary knew that
it was time to turn to the notes at the back of the book, to see if
Aunt Nan meant anything in particular by that exclamation. She could
not help feeling as if Aunt Nan herself had called out, “Stop! Look!
Listen!”--just as the signs at the railway crossings do to absorbed
travelers.
Yes; there was something written in the notes, in a blank space at the
end of a paragraph: “_Look at my portrait! Then turn to the play of
Othello._--”
“Oh, dear!” said Mary to herself. “I believe we are coming to another
Secret!” And she felt her heart give a little jump of excitement. “‘_My
portrait._’ There is only one portrait of Aunt Nan.” And she glanced
up at the picture over the fireplace. Then, indeed, she noticed how
the firelight was making Aunt Nan’s queer eyes dance and glitter, and
how her mouth seemed to be smiling in the most knowing way. “_Look
here upon this picture_, THEN ON THIS.” What did the last part of this
line, doubly underscored, mean to Aunt Nan? Mary studied the picture
long and earnestly. There was something about it that she did not quite
understand. It was as if Aunt Nan were trying to tell her something,
but could not make the words plain. Mary felt that she almost had the
clue to something--but not quite. Caliban did not seem to help her. If
John were only here; John was so good at guessing riddles!
Mary put down Caliban, who promptly jumped up onto the desk. Then she
ran out into the hall and called, “John! John!” for she knew that he
was in the house, probably, as usual, ravenous for tea. “Come to the
library, John!” she called again, in answer to his “Hello! What?”--“I
think it’s another Secret. Quick!” she added, to bring him the sooner.
Down came clattering boots, and John dashed into the room all
excitement. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly. And Mary showed him the
line. “H’m!” commented John, looking at the portrait curiously. “She
does look sly, doesn’t she, Mary? But you haven’t looked up the other
thing yet. I say, hurry! Let’s see what your old ‘Othello’ has to tell
about it.”
Sure enough! Mary had forgotten the reference to “Othello.” Hurriedly
she got out the proper volume, and turned to the right page and line.
“_A fixéd figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at._”
She read slowly. “What in the world does that mean? I’m sure I don’t
know.”
John had been all this time studying the portrait with its queer
expression. When Mary read the quotation he clapped his hands. “Oh, I
say!” he cried. “It talks about a _finger_, pointing. That’s it! She
means the hand of the portrait is pointing to something. It has been
pointing all the time, and we’ve only got to find out _what at_! Look,
Mary. Don’t you see she is pointing, just as plainly as can be?”
Mary dropped “Othello” and ran to look at the picture. The queer eyes
of Aunt Nan seemed to meet hers, and yes! she certainly seemed to be
pointing with the long forefinger of her right hand which rested on her
breast.
Mary followed the direction of the pointing finger, as John was trying
to do in the fading light. It seemed to point to a corner of the wall
on which the portrait itself hung; to a shelf in the left-hand alcove
by the fireplace. Both Mary and John ran eagerly to the corner and
began to sight from finger to shelf and back again, to get a straight
line from the pointing finger.
“I think it falls _here_” said John, touching a fat brown book labeled
“Concordance,” on the fourth shelf from the bottom. “But I have looked
behind all the books on this shelf. I know I have!”
“No, it doesn’t fall there,” said Mary. “I am sure she is pointing
about _here_.” And she laid her hand on a row of green-and-gold
volumes, whose titles she could hardly read in the dim light.
“‘Gems from the Poets,’” spelled John with difficulty. “Do you suppose
she means these? And what does she want us to do, anyway? Let’s try
this one.” He took down Volume I, which turned out to be “Gems from
Marlowe,” a poet of whom neither of them had even heard. John looked
under the book, and examined the wall behind where it had stood, and
began to look through the book itself, as carefully as possible. But
Mary was searching farther. “I don’t think it is that one,” she said.
“I think she is pointing farther along in the row.”
“Let’s try them all,” suggested John, seizing another volume,--“‘Gems
from Beaumont and Fletcher’--whoever they are!” He flapped the leaves
and looked in the space at the back where the cover was loose. But
there was nothing unusual about that book. Meanwhile Mary was still
drawing an imaginary line from the point of the portrait’s finger to
the shelf in the corner.
“I am sure she is pointing _here_,” she said, laying her hand on the
last volume in the row, which looked exactly like the others. “‘Gems
from Shakespeare,’” she read the label on the back. “Yes, of course
this ought to be the right one. She liked him best of all the poets,
John. I believe this is it!”
Mary pulled the volume from the shelf eagerly. But when she held it in
her hands she uttered a cry of surprise that made John drop the book he
was flapping strenuously, and turn to her.
“What is it, Mary?” he asked. “Have you found something?”
“Oh, John!” she whispered in the greatest excitement, “it isn’t a book
at all! It is--something else! I think it is the Secret!”