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THE WEIRD PICTURE
[Illustration]
THE WEIRD PICTURE
By
JOHN R. CARLING
Author of "The Shadow of the Czar,"
"The Viking's Skull," etc.
_Illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo_
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1905
_Copyright, 1905_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
Published May, 1905.
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE RED STAIN 1
II THE VEILED LADY 16
III THE WEDDING MORNING 32
IV WAITING! 45
V THE ARTIST PAINTS A NOTABLE PICTURE 58
VI THE MAN AT THE CONFESSIONAL 75
VII WHAT THE "STANDARD" SAID OF THE PICTURE 99
VIII HIGH MASS AND WHAT HAPPENED AT IT 114
IX THE ARTIST FAILS TO SECURE A MODEL 128
X GHOST OR MORTAL? 143
XI MORE OF THE PICTURE 164
XII THE FIGURE IN THE GREY CLOAK 186
XIII WHAT THE ARTIST'S PORTFOLIO REVEALED 207
XIV THE MYSTERIES OF THE STUDIO 231
XV THE DÉNOUEMENT! 251
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Before my uncle could prevent her she had
snatched the letter from him" _Frontispiece_
"The figure turned to meet, but not to greet me.
It was my brother's face I saw" _Page_ 10
"'I opened my eyes, and there was a black thing
bending over me'" " 183
"His head sunk forward on his breast and his
crooked fingers clawing at the air" " 259
The Weird Picture
CHAPTER I
THE RED STAIN
"BELGRAVE SQUARE, _November 28th_.
"DEAR FRANK,--Surely you are not going to spend a third
Christmas at Heidelberg! We want you with us in good old England.
My marriage with Daphne is fixed for Christmas Day, and I shall
not regard the ceremony as valid unless you are my best man. So
come--_come_--COME! No time to say more. You can guess
how busy I am. Write or wire by return.-- Yours,
"GEORGE."
Such was the letter received by me, Frank Willard, student in Odenwald
College, Heidelberg, on the first day of the last month of the year.
The writer of the letter was my brother, a captain in the--something.
I take a pride in not remembering the number of the regiment, for I am
a man of peace and hate war and all connected therewith, excepting, of
course, my soldier-brother, though my affection for him had somewhat
waned of late years, for a reason that will soon appear.
The letter was accompanied by a portrait of George, an exquisite little
painting in oils, representing him in full-dress uniform. A glance at
the mirror showed how much I suffered by comparison. He looked every
inch a hero. I looked--well, no matter. In the lottery of love the
prizes are not always drawn by the handsome. The Daphne referred to was
our cousin, a maiden with raven hair, dark blue eyes, and a face as
lovely as a Naiad's.
Her father, Gerald Leslie, was a wealthy city merchant, who, after
the death of our parents, became the guardian of George and myself,
bestowing on us a warmth of affection and a wealth of pocket-money that
made the transference to his roof seem rather desirable than otherwise,
my own father having been of a somewhat cold and undemonstrative
temperament. However, _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_.
My first impulse on reading the above letter was to pen a refusal to
the invitation.
"What!" it may be said. "Refuse to be present at your brother's
wedding? Refuse to return home to old England at Christmas-tide?--a
season dear to every Englishman from its sacred and festive
associations. 'Breathes there the man with soul so dead,' etc."
Exactly. My soul _was_ dead, both to the joys of Christmas and of
Daphne's wedding. Four words will explain the reason: I myself loved
Daphne. And I had told her so, only to find that she had given her
heart to my brother George.
I am not going to fill this chapter with the ravings of disappointed
love. Suffice it to say that in my despair I left England, determined
to see Daphne no more, and betook myself to the university of
Heidelberg with the hope of finding oblivion in study.
Greek choruses, strophes, antistrophes, and epodes, are, however, all
very well in their way, but they are a sorry substitute for love. At
any rate, they did not make me forget Daphne. Her sweet face continued
to haunt me, and, in the despairing and romantic mood of a Manfred,
I spent many a night on the mountains around Heidelberg, watching the
stars rise, and brooding over my unrequited love.
Thus my brother's letter was far from being a source of pleasure to
me, though it was kindly meant on his part (for he was ignorant, so
I subsequently learned, of my own love for Daphne). His invitation,
translated into the language of my thoughts simply meant, "Come and be
more unhappy than you are!"
Deep down in my heart I had cherished the belief that something
unforeseen would happen to break off George's engagement. The sands of
that hope were now fast running out. The 25th of the month would remove
Daphne from me forever.
For several days I fought with my despair, but at last I resolved to be
present at the wedding.
"I may as well play the stoic," I muttered, "and accept the inevitable.
Perhaps the fact of seeing Daphne actually married to another will cure
me of this folly."
Curiosity, also, to see how Daphne would behave on the occasion was an
additional motive for going; and, poor fool that I was, I thought of
the trembling handclasp, the blush, and the sweet glance that a woman
seldom fails to bestow on the man who has once expressed his love for
her.
Christmas Eve, midnight, found me on board the packet-boat steaming out
of Calais Harbour. The sea was singularly smooth, and there was in the
air that which gave promise of a heavy fall of snow ere long. Wrapped
in my cloak, I leaned over the side of the vessel, listening to the
silver carillon of the church-bells pealing forth from every steeple
and belfry in the town the glad tidings that the sweet and solemn
morn of the Nativity had dawned. Faintly and more faintly the chimes
sounded over the wide expanse of glimmering sea, till they were finally
lost in the distance.
At first my thoughts were gloomy. To play the stoic is never a very
pleasant task. Yet I was not totally abandoned to despair. A ray of
hope played over my mind, and, as the distance that separated me from
Daphne diminished, this hope gradually became stronger and stronger.
_Nil desperandum_ should be my motto. The wedding had not taken place
yet; weddings have been broken off at the very altar: why should not
hers be? Foolish though it may seem, I began to nurse the pleasing
idea that Fate might yet transfer Daphne to my arms. As if my wish
had become a certainty, I trod the deck of the Channel steamer with
exultant step, refusing to go below, although the wintry flakes were
falling now in steady earnest. Such is the power of hope over the human
mind; or is it something more than a poetic fiction that coming events
cast their shadows before?
I was roused at length from dreamland by the sight of Dover Harbour
looming through the snow-dotted gloom of night.
At the pier-head a lantern shone, and among the persons assembled
beneath its light a soldierly-looking figure in a long grey coat was
visible. It was my brother George. His presence on the pier seemed, in
my excited state of mind, a confirmation of the daring hope I had begun
to entertain.
"The dear fellow!" I murmured. "He has come down expressly to meet me,
and to resign Daphne to me."
As our vessel drew alongside the pier I waved my hand to him, but at
this greeting he instantly vanished. This was certainly a surprise. Why
did he not await my landing?
I was the first to quit the steamer, and, emerging from the inspection
of the Revenue officials, I looked eagerly around for my brother. He
was not to be seen on any part of the pier.
Was I mistaken as to the identity? The figure, the face, the very
carriage--all seemed to be his. Stay! Was this an ocular illusion! Had
my mind been dwelling so earnestly on my brother as to stamp on the
retina of my eye an image that had no corresponding objective reality
outside myself? Would this account for the peculiar manner in which the
figure had vanished?
I would soon put this theory to the test. If George had come by train
from London, the servants at the station would surely retain some
remembrance of him. If others had seen the figure in the grey cloak,
it would be a proof that my sense of sight had not deceived me. I
entered the station and sought knowledge from the first porter I met,
a tired-looking youth, with a sprig of holly stuck in his buttonhole,
who gaped vacantly at my questions till the glitter of a silver coin
imparted a certain degree of briskness to his faculties.
"A military-looking gent, sir? Yes, there was one on the platform a few
minutes ago."
"Describe him," said I bluntly, as my fellow passengers from the boat
began to crowd into the station. "What was he like?"
I was desirous of drawing a description of the "military-looking gent"
from the porter's unassisted memory rather than of suggesting personal
details, to which, in his half-sleepy state and in his desire to get
rid of me, he would doubtless subscribe assent.
"Well, sir, he wasn't very tall--at least, not for a soldier; but then
Bonaparte wasn't----"
"Oh, hang Bonaparte! Go on," I said snappishly, for I was cold,
hungry, and tired--conditions that do not tend to improve one's temper.
"He was wearing a long grey cloak and had a travelling-bag with him,
marked with the letters "G.W." I noticed the bag particularly, because
it came open as he was stepping from the carriage. My! didn't he shut
it sharp! quick as lightning, as if he didn't want any one to see what
was inside. I offered to carry it for him, and he told me----"
"What?"
"To go to the devil!"
"You didn't go, I see," said I, attempting to be facetious. "Well, go
on. What about the man's face?"
"Face? He looked rather white and excited; perhaps because he was in a
passion with the carriage-door; it didn't open easily. He had a dark
scar on his temple, and----"
"Left or right temple?"
"Left."
George had a dark scar on his left temple, the relic of a fall from a
cliff at Upsala. His initials too were "G.W." Good! The figure on the
pier was not an illusion, then. The porter's words convinced me that
the man he had seen was my brother.
"How long is it since he was here?" I inquired.
"How long?" repeated the official, jerking his head backwards to get a
glimpse of the Station clock. "Only ten minutes since. He came down by
the express from Charing Cross. It was a few minutes late owing to the
snow."
"Do you know if he had a return ticket?"
"That I can't say."
"What's the next train to London?"
"One just on the move now, sir. The next in two hours' time. Better
travel by this one. The next is sure to be a slow one, this snowstorm
is so heavy. Going by this one, sir?" he continued, swinging open a
carriage-door as he saw my hesitation. "Only a minute to spare."
"I--I don't know yet. Hold my portmanteau for a moment."
I quickly ran the whole length of the departing train, but the grey
coat was not in any of the carriages. This train was the one I should
have travelled by, its departure being timed for the arrival of the
Continental boat; but I now resolved to delay my journey till the next,
in order to travel in company with my brother, for George must return
by the latter train, otherwise he would be barely in time to meet
the wedding-party in the Church at half-past nine. I returned to the
porter, who was surveying me with a curiosity, the reason of which soon
became evident, and said:
"I shall travel by the next train. Take charge of my portmanteau until
then."
"Right you are, guv'nor! What's he done? Forgery? Murder? He looks
quite capable of it."
"Done? Who?" I said, astounded at this sudden familiarity.
"Why, the military cove!" returned the youth. "It's no go; I can see
you're a 'tec with half an eye."
I suppose the half-eye that had discovered so much was his right
one, for he proceeded to diminish it by screwing it up into a wink
expressive of the penetration of its owner.
"The gentleman whom you think capable of forgery and murder is my
brother, Captain Willard, of the--the never you mind; and if you give
me any of your insolence, I'll report you to the authorities," I said,
wrathfully.
The porter, who had evidently been drinking, was a little taken aback,
to judge by his ejaculation of "Oh lor!" and as I walked off with my
grandest air, I heard him mutter:
"His brother! yes, and like him, too! The one sends me to the devil,
and the other threatens to report me to the station-master. Oh, they're
brothers, sure enough! By your leave, there!"
A multitude of questions came surging over my mind. What was George
doing at Dover only a few hours before his wedding? Obviously his
purpose was not to meet me, since he had avoided me. Why? Could it be
that for some strange reason he was deserting Daphne on her bridal
morning?--a thought that caused my pulses to throb quickly. Was it
shame, or guilt, that had kept him from facing me? Oh, if I could but
find him, and learn the truth from his lips!
"On the platform ten minutes ago."
Absurd as the idea may seem, I resolved to walk the streets of Dover
during the next two hours, on the chance of meeting him.
The weather was of the character that popular fancy rather than
historic fact has ascribed to the Yuletides of bygone days under the
name of "an old-fashioned Christmas." The snow was lying several inches
deep in the streets, deadening the sound of my footfalls. The big
flakes, still falling, blinded my vision with their whirling eddies.
Not a soul was to be seen out of doors. Not a sound was to be heard
save the sea splashing faintly against the harbour walls. The town lay
draped in white, a city of the dead. Not knowing in what direction to
proceed, I walked on as chance directed, without seeing the person I
was in quest of. Presently, as I was turning a corner, a figure, white
as a ghost from head to foot, came into sight, startling me for the
moment. It was a constable, and I questioned him.
"I saw a man in a grey cloak go by just three minutes ago."
"Carrying bag marked 'G.W.'?"
"Carrying _a_ bag, sir," he replied, with marked emphasis on what the
grammarians were wont to call the indefinite article. "I didn't notice
any letters on it. If you hurry you'll catch him up. He went that
way," pointing with his hand. "Is anything the matter? Can I be of
assistance?"
"I don't understand you," I returned sharply, wondering whether he,
too, like the railway-porter, thought that my brother was a fugitive
from justice.
"No offence, sir, but your friend seems to need looking after. He is
either mad or dying. His eyes burned like live coals, and his face was
as white as this snow here. I called out 'A rough night, sir!' but he
glided on, looking neither to right nor left, and taking no notice of
me."
These words increased my misgivings. I thanked the constable and,
declining his proffered services, rushed on in the direction indicated
by him. A line of footprints in the snow served to guide me, and
following their course, I presently found myself in a street whose
semi-detached villas were fronted with quiet unpretentious gardens
separated from the pavement by stone balustrades.
There he was! Half-way down the street, standing beneath the light
of a gas-lamp, was a cloaked man apparently taking a survey of a
house facing the lamp, while shaking the snow from himself. I hurried
forward to greet him, my feet making no sound on the soft snow.
"George!" I cried eagerly and breathlessly when within a few paces of
him. "George!"
The figure turned to meet, but not to greet me. It was my brother's
face I saw, but so haggard and disfigured by lines of pain as to be
scarcely recognisable. His eyes frightened me as they gleamed in the
lamplight; so glassy, so unnatural was their stare.
[Illustration]
With dread at my heart I tried to clasp his hand, but he waved me
back with a gesture suggestive of surprise, despair, terror, shame,
grief--any or all of these might have prompted the singular motion of
his arm. If I had come upon him in the very act of murder, he could
not have shown greater agitation. The fingers of his left hand relaxed
their grip, and the valise they were holding dropped silently upon the
snow. His action said more plainly than words: "Go back! go back! There
is that happening of which you must know nothing."
To my mind there could be but one cause of his emotion, a cause as
awful to me as to him, and it burst from my lips in a hoarse cry.
"Good heavens, George! Surely--surely Daphne isn't dead?"
There was no reply. The laxity of his limbs and his reclining attitude
against the iron column showed that he had scarcely strength to stand.
Then a sudden gust of wind blew aside both his cloak and his coat,
exposing his white vest to view. And there upon that vest, plain to
be seen, was a red stain large and round! For one moment only was it
visible in the fitful light of the gas-lamp; the next, the folds of his
cloak enveloping him again, concealed it from view.
"What is the matter? Why don't you speak?" I cried, and overcoming the
vague terror that had possessed me, I stepped forward.
But before I could touch him, he gave a swift glance around, apparently
seeking some way of escape, and suddenly snatching up the valise, he
darted through the gate-way opposite him. Hurrying up the garden-path,
he ascended a flight of steps, and while I was still gazing after him
in amazement, he disappeared within the portico that gave entrance to
the house.
Here was a strange affair. George, on his wedding-morn in a town far
distant from his bride, trying to avoid me, his brother, after having
invited me to be his best man! A second explanation of his conduct
occurred to me and found its way to my tongue.
"He is mad!" and I hesitated to follow. It is not an infrequent thing
for the insane to think their dearest friends their foes. And this
thought begot another, more fearful still to me;
To be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
His wild air and the red stain on his breast might well be testimony
to some tragedy; in a fit of insane jealousy he had killed Daphne!
Paralyzed by the idea I leaned, as he had leaned before me, against the
lamp-post, with the words, "Daphne dead!" ringing in my ears.
I broke from the spell of terror imposed on me by my own fancy, and
prepared to follow my brother. Putting aside the fears for my own
safety with the thought that in case of an attack my cries would
summon the inmates of the neighbouring houses to my aid, I cautiously
groped my way to the dark portico, not without a dread that his wild
figure might spring out upon me; but, on mounting the snowy steps I
discovered that the portico was empty, and the front door of the house
securely shut.
I had heard no noise of knocking--no sound of the opening or closing of
a door; and yet, if George had not passed the threshold, where was he?
This was the second time the figure had eluded me. Was it after all an
apparition?
The improbability of seeing my brother in such a place and at such
an hour, his obstinate silence to my appeals, his weird aspect, the
mysterious manner in which he had vanished, seemed to favour this
hypothesis. Was this his wraith sent to apprise me of his death? The
next moment I was smiling at the idea. A being that is merely a figment
of the brain cannot be credited with the power of making footprints
in snow, yet deep footprints there were leading up the steps, and
terminating at the threshold of the door; footprints newly-formed,
whose shape and size assured me were not my own.
I drew back to take a survey of the house in which George had evidently
taken refuge. A brief inspection of the dwelling failed to afford
any clue as to the character of the occupants. The blinds were drawn
at every window, and, as might be expected at so early an hour, no
light was anywhere visible. I knocked at the door once, twice, thrice.
There was no reply. Then, seizing the knocker with a vigorous grasp, I
executed a cannonade with it, loud enough to rouse not the inmates of
that house only, but those of the whole street. At length my summons
met with recognition from within. The door slowly opened. Fully
expecting to meet my brother, his eyes aglow with passion, I drew back
with arms upraised to protect myself from his rush, but nothing more
terrible met my gaze than a venerable old man with silver hair, who
shivered visibly as the cold wind drifted the snow into the passage.
The lamp that he carried in his left hand, while he shielded it from
the draught with his right, shone full on his face, which had such an
air of quiet dignity that I felt quite ashamed of myself for having
knocked so loudly. The disorder of his dress told me that he had but
just risen from his bed.
The contrast between his grave demeanour and my excited bearing would
have amused the spectator, had any been present. It struck me as a
reversal of positions. I had expected to see a madman; he certainly
took me for one, standing there as I did, breathless and silent in the
wild snowy night, with my arms extended in front of me.
Too surprised to speak, I looked along the length of the passage as far
as the kitchen, and then glanced up the staircase, but could not see
George, nor any trace of him.
"Well, sir, may I ask why you rouse me thus in the dead of night?"
My eager impatience gave me no time for apology.
"I want my brother," I cried brusquely. "He came in here, I think."
"Your brother!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of surprise, that, if
not genuine, was certainly well feigned. "Young man, you have been too
long at the taverns this morning. There is no one in this house but
myself."
It was difficult to refuse belief to this statement, for the old man
had so grave and reverend an air that he might have stood for an image
of Truth--of Truth in these later days, I mean, when, as is well known,
he has become a little old and antiquated.
"You are mistaken," I replied, after listening vainly for some sound to
proceed from within that might disprove his words. "Some one entered
here only a minute or two ago, unknown, it may be, to you. These
footprints are not mine."
But on looking downwards I found that a snow-wreath had drifted over
the pavement, effectually covering the footsteps of myself as well as
those of the refugee.
The old man smiled at my perplexity--a smile that was annoying, for it
implied that he regarded me as a sad wine-bibber.
"Who is your brother?"
"Captain George Willard, of the--the----"
And then I stopped. I could perhaps have given him the titles of
Cæsar's ancient legions, but of the name of my brother's modern
regiment I was totally ignorant.
"I really don't know the name of the regiment." The old man smiled
again, as well he might. "He's in India now--that is to say, he is when
he's there, you know," I stammered, conscious that I was blundering
terribly.
"Captain Willard? I have never heard the name before. He is not here.
You have mistaken the house."
"Would you allow me to search the place?" I asked. "It is a bold
request for a stranger to make, especially at this unearthly hour, and
nothing but the certainty that my brother has concealed himself within
induces me to make it. You see, he's a madman, and might do you harm."
I thought this last would move him, but it only made matters worse. "I
am certain I saw him enter this house. I am willing to pay you for your
trouble if--if----"
I paused diffidently, for his reverend air did not harmonise well
with the taking of a bribe. The old man's voice now assumed a tone of
asperity. He was evidently getting tired of shivering half-dressed in
the cold night air, and no wonder.
"I shall certainly _not_ allow you to search the house. Your brother
is not here. This door was double-locked when I went to bed. You heard
me unlock it. How could he enter without the key. I must bid you
good-night, for I see it's no use arguing with you in your present
state of mind."
And, without more ado, the door was closed and locked, and I could hear
the footsteps of the old man receding along the passage and ascending
the stairs.