IN THE PICTURE-GALLERY.
Mr. Parmalee, true to his promise, presented himself at the earliest
admissible hour next day with all the apparatus of his art.
So early was it, indeed, that Sybilla was just pouring out the baronet's
first cup of tea, while he leisurely opened the letters the morning mail
had brought.
Lady Kingsland complained of a bad headache, her husband said, and would
not leave her room until dinner.
Sir Everard made this announcement, quietly opening his letters.
Sybilla looked at him with gleaming eyes. The time had come for her to
begin to lay her train.
My lady had ascended to her room immediately upon the departure of the
American, the preceding day, and had been invisible ever since. That
convenient feminine excuse, headache, had accounted for it, but Sybilla
Silver knew better. She had expected her to breakfast this morning, and
she began to think Mr. Parmalee's little mystery was more of a mystery
than even she had dreamed. The man's arrival gave her her cue.
"Our American friend is a devotee of art, it seems," she said, with a
light laugh. "He lets no grass grow under his feet. I had no easy task
to restrain his artistic ardor during your absence. I never knew such
an inquisitive person, either; he did nothing but ask questions."
"A national trait," Sir Everard responded, with a shrug. "Americans are
all inquisitive, which accounts for their go-aheadativeness, I dare say."
"Mr. Parmalee's questions took a very narrow range; they only comprised
one subject--you and my lady."
The young baronet looked up in haughty amaze.
"His curiosity on this subject was insatiable; your most minute
biography would not have satisfied him. About Lady Kingsland
particularly--in point of fact, I thought he must have known her in New
York, his questions were so pointed, and I asked him so directly."
"And what did he say?"
"Oh, he said no," replied Sybilla, lightly, "but in such a manner as led
me to infer yes. However, it was evident, yesterday, that my lady had
never set eyes on him before; but I did fancy, for an instant, she
somehow recognized that picture."
"What picture?" asked the baronet, sharply.
"That last portrait he showed her," Miss Silver answered. "Yet that may
have been only fancy, too."
"Then, Miss Silver, have the goodness to indulge in no more such
fancies. I don't care to hear your suspicions and surmises, and I don't
choose to have my wife so minutely watched. As for this too inquisitive
Yankee, he had better cease his questions, if he wishes to quit England
with sound bones!"
He arose angrily from the table, swept his letters together, and left
the room. But his face wore a deep-red flush, and, his bent brows never
relaxed. The first poisonous suspicion had entered his mind, and the
calm of perfect trust would never reign there again.
Sybilla gazed after him with her dark, evil smile.
"Fume and fret as you please, my dear Sir Everard, but this is only
sowing the first seed. I shall watch your wife, and I will tell you my
suspicions and my fancies, and you will listen in spite of your uplifted
sublimity now. Jealousy is ingrained in your nature, though you do not
know it, and a very little breath will fan the tiny coal into an
inextinguishable flame."
She arose, rang the bell for the servant to clear the table, shook out
her black silk robe, and went, with a smile on her handsome face, to do
the fascinating to Mr. Parmalee.
She found that cautious gentleman busily arranging his implements in the
picture-gallery, preparatory to taking sundry views of the noble room.
He nodded gravely to the young lady, and went steadfastly on with his
work.
"You certainly lose no time, Mr. Parmalee," Miss Silver said. "I was
remarking to Sir Everard at breakfast that you were a perfect devotee of
art."
"How does the baronet find himself this morning?" he asked.
"As usual--well."
"And her ladyship?" very carelessly.
"Her ladyship is not well. I'm afraid your pretty pictures disagreed
with her, Mr. Parmalee."
"Hey?" said the artist, with a sharp, suspicious stare.
"She was perfectly well until you showed them to her. She has been ill
ever since. One must draw one's own inference."
Mr. Parmalee busied himself some five minutes in profound silence.
Then--
"Where is she to-day? Ain't she about?"
"No. I told you she was ill. She complained of headache after you left
yesterday, and went up to her own room. I have not seen her since."
Mr. Parmalee began to whistle a negro melody, and still went
industriously on with his work.
"I don't think nothing of that," he remarked, after a prolonged pause.
"Fine ladies all have headaches. Knowed heaps of 'em to home--all had
it. You have yourself sometimes, I guess."
"No," said Sybilla; "I'm not a fine lady. I have no time to sham
headaches, and I have no secrets to let loose. I am only a fine lady's
companion, and all the world is free to know my history."
And then Miss Silver looked at Mr. Parmalee, and Mr. Parmalee looked at
Miss Silver, with the air of two accomplished duelists waiting for the
word.
"He's as sharp as a razor," thought the lady, "and as shy as a
partridge. Half measures won't do with him. I must fight him on his
own ground."
"By jingo! she's as keen as a catamount!" thought the gentleman, in a
burst of admiration. "She'll be a credit to the man that marries her.
What a pity she don't belong down to Maine. She's a sight too cute for
a born Britisher."
There was a long pause. Miss Silver and Mr. Parmalee looked each other
full in the eye without winking. All at once the gentleman burst out
laughing.
"Get out!" said Mr. Parmalee. "Go 'long--do! You're too smart for this
world--you are, by gosh! Miss Sybilla Silver."
"Almost smart enough for a Yankee, Mr. Parmalee, and wonderfully good at
guessing."
"Yes? And what have you guessed this time?"
"That you have Lady Kingsland's secret; that that portrait--the last of
the five--is the clew. That you hold the baronet's bride in the hollow
of your hand!"
She spoke the last words close to his ear, in a fierce, sibilant
whisper. The American actually recoiled.
"Go 'long!" repeated Mr. Parmalee. "Don't you go whistling in a
fellow's ear like that, Miss S.; it tickles. Got any more to say?"
"Only this: that you had better make a friend of me, Mr. Parmalee."
"And if I don't, Miss S.? If I prefer to do as we do in euchre, 'go it
alone'--what then?"
"Then!" cried Sybilla, with a blaze of her black eyes, "I'll take the
game out of your hands. I'll foil you with your own weapons. I never
failed yet. I'll not fail now. I'm a match for a dozen such as you!"
"I believe, in my soul, you are!" exclaimed the artist, in a burst of
admiring enthusiasm. "You're the real grit, and no mistake. I do
admire spunky girls--I do, by jingo! I always thought if I married and
fetched a Mrs. George Washington Parmalee down to Maine, she'd have to
be something more than common. And you're not common, Miss S.--not by a
long chalk! I never met your match in my life."
"No?" said Sybilla, "not even 'down to Maine?'"
"No, by George! and we raise the smartest kind of girls there. Now,
Miss Silver, supposing we go partners in this here concern, would you be
willing to go partners with a fellow for life? I never thought to marry
an English woman, but I'll marry you to-morrow, if you'll have me. What
d'ye say? Is it a go?"
"You don't mean it, Mr. Parmalee?" as soon as she could speak.
"I do!" said Mr. Parmalee, with emphasis. "Laugh, if you like. It's
kind of sudden, I suppose, but I've had a hankering after you this some
time. You're a right smart kind of girl, and jest my style, and I like
you tip-top. The way you can roll up them black eyes of yours at a
fellow is a caution to rattlesnakes. Say, is it a go?"
Sybilla turned away. Her dark cheeks reddened. There was a moment's
hesitation, then she turned back and extended her hand.
"You are not very romantic, Mr. Parmalee. You don't ask me for my love,
or any of that sentimental nonsense," with a laugh. "And you really
mean it--you really mean to make Lady Kingsland's poor companion your
wife?"
"Never meant anything more in my life. It is a go, then?"
"I will marry you, Mr. Parmalee, if you desire it."
"And you won't go back on a fellow?" asked Mr. Parmalee, suspiciously.
"You're not fooling me just to get at this secret, are you?"
Sybilla drew away her hand with an offended air.
"Think better of me, Mr. Parmalee! I may be shrewd enough to guess at
your secret without being base enough to tell a deliberate lie to know
it. I could find it out by easier means."
"I don't know about that," said the artist, coolly. "It ain't likely
Lady Kingsland would tell you, and you couldn't get it out of me, you
know, if you was twice as clever, unless I chose. But I want you to
help me. A man always gets along better in these little underhand
matters when he's got a woman going partners with him. I want to see my
lady. I want to send her a note all unbeknown to the baronet."
"I'll deliver it," said Sybilla, "and if she chooses to see you, I will
manage that Sir Everard will not intrude."
"She'll see me fast enough. I thought she'd want to see me herself
before this, but it appears she's inclined to hold out; so I'll drop her
a hint in writing. If the mountain won't come to what's-his-name--you
know what I mean, Miss Silver. I suppose I may call you Sybilla now?"
"Oh, undoubtedly, Mr. Parmalee! But for the present don't you
think--just to keep people's tongues quiet, you know--had we not better
keep this little private compact to ourselves? I don't want the
gossiping servants of the house to gossip in the kitchen about you and
me."
"Just as you please. I don't care a darn for their gossiping, though.
And now about that little note. I want to see my lady before I explain
things to you, you know."
"And why? You don't intend to tell her I am to be taken into your
confidence, I suppose?"
"Not much!" said Mr. Parmalee, emphatically. "Never you mind, Sybilla.
Before you become Mrs. P., you'll know it all safe enough. I'll write
it at once."
He took a stumpy lead-pencil from his pocket, tore a leaf out of his
pocket-book, and wrote these words:
MY LADY,--You knew the picture, and I know your secret. Should like to
see you, if convenient, soon. That person is in London waiting to hear
from me.
Your most obedient,
G. W. PARMALEE.
The photographer handed the scrawl to Sybilla.
"Read it."
"Well?" she said, taking it all in at a glance.
"Give her this. She'll see me before I leave this house, or I'm much
mistaken. She's a very proud lady, this baronet's bride; but for all
that she'll obey G. W. Parmalee's orders, or he'll know the reason why."