THE FIGURE IN THE GREY CLOAK
On descending next morning to the drawing-room, I found Angelo there
before me, the idol of a crowd of æsthetic young ladies who adored art
(and especially the artist) without understanding much about either. He
was exhibiting to their admiring gaze the contents of his portfolio and
unless my eyesight deceived me, it was the identical portfolio he had
displayed to me on that memorable wedding morning.
It had been my intention to question the artist on that singular
utterance of his when he first parted from Daphne: "You are nearer to
him now than you have been for months;" but as I saw that he purposely
ignored me, I imitated his example, and ignored him.
I was curious to see how he would receive Daphne on this
occasion--their first meeting after her refusal of him; but he
manifested no signs of embarrassment when she appeared, and
acknowledged her presence with an air so grave and stately that none,
seeing him, would ever have guessed that he had at one time made
passionate love to her.
Daphne was confused and blushed a little, and was not sorry, I think,
when, at the sound of the breakfast-bell, I relieved her of his
presence by escorting her to the table, taking care to put as many
feet of mahogany as I could between her and the artist, who had for
his partner the lively Florrie.
During breakfast the conversation turned on the mysterious apparition
of the preceding night, and Daphne was twitted by the ladies for her
fright; but the Baronet, noticing how agitated she became and how
distasteful the subject was to her, came to her aid, and, declaring
that he would not allow her to be teased, diverted the conversation to
another channel.
"When do you expect to finish your picture?" he said, turning to Angelo.
"Within a few days: perhaps a few hours."
Perhaps a few hours! Such an answer implied that it was within the
range of probability for the completion of his picture to take place
on Christmas Day--that is, on the very anniversary of the day on which
he had finished his last masterpiece. This coincidence of dates was
certainly remarkable, and my uncle could not help reverting to it.
"Christmas is a favorite time with you," he remarked. "Your last great
work, if I remember rightly, received its final touch on Christmas Day."
"Yes," replied the artist, "because both pictures represent death
scenes; and the brilliant sunshine and blue skies of summer-time are
too joyous to allow me to think of anything sad. I am like that poet
who could never write good verse unless he was in an elegant and
tastefully-appointed study. Similarly, I find the gloom and darkness
of your English Christmas a more appropriate time than any other to
portray my conceptions of death."
"Egad! there's something in that," said the doctor with a nod of
approval. He seemed to have taken a great fancy for Angelo. "The
weather has a wonderful effect on the mental faculties."
"The want of a suitable model has delayed your work, I think you said,"
said the Baronet to Angelo. "Did you procure in London what you wanted?"
"Yes; I have--found a--a--" he seemed to hesitate as to the choice of a
word--"a lovely figure. The very ideal of what an artist's model should
be."
"What is the subject of your picture?" inquired Florrie.
"I am going to call it 'Modesta, the Christian Martyr.' It represents
a scene in the Coliseum. A Christian maiden is breathing her last on
the sands of the arena. A Libyan lion stands proudly over her, with one
claw fixed in her breast."
"What a ghastly subject!" said Florrie.
"Ghastly? Yes; yet such things _have_ been, and 'tis well to recall
them," replied the artist gravely. "You must judge my picture by the
end it is meant to accomplish, which is not mere vulgar sensationalism.
It is intended as a contribution to religion--an aid to morality; for
it is my object to show the character of ancient paganism, and from the
contemplation of the sweet girl-martyr men will derive nobler ideas of
the great battle which their ancestral Christianity had to fight."
His eyes sparkled and his cheek glowed with the fire of enthusiasm.
"Angelo posing as an exponent of morality is a new character," I
murmured to my uncle, who sat beside me.
The artist was now in his element. A multitude of questions relative
to his new work were addressed to him from all sides. Nobody was
more attentive to his words than the doctor, or more curiously
interrogative. I marvelled to see him taking such an interest in
Angelo's painting.
"It was Italy," explained the artist, "that furnished me with the blue
sky of my picture. I spent months there experimenting on canvas till I
had caught the lovely transparent azure of the Italian atmosphere. The
amphitheatre I painted sitting on the arena of the Coliseum itself,
picturing to my mental eye the place as it existed in the palmy days
of the Empire. From Rome I transferred my canvas to Paris. They have a
magnificent African lion there in the Jardin d'Acclimatation. I took a
photograph of him. It was a difficult matter for the keepers to compel
him to assume the pose I wanted, but it was managed at last; and,
working from the photograph, I got the image of the lion fixed on the
canvas. Since my arrival at the Abbey here I have been filling in the
minor details and working at the figure of the girl-martyr, which I am
hoping will prove the crowning-piece of the whole picture."
"Well," said the genial Baronet, when breakfast was over, "what is to
be the programme for to-day? I would propose a ride over the moors, but
I fear the weather is scarcely propitious."
"Oh, we can't ride out to-day," said Florrie. "We all solemnly promised
the Vicar yesterday that we would help him to decorate the church with
flowers and holly this morning."
"And he says that he must keep you to your promise," smiled a
clerical-looking young man, the Rev. Cyprian Fontalwater, curate of
Silverdale, who, having come with that very message from the Vicar,
had been compelled by the hospitable Sir Hugh to stay to breakfast.
"Our Dissenting brethren"--he called them brethren, but he didn't mean
it--"are beautifying and adorning their--er--meeting house, and we must
not be outdone by them in floral decorations any more than we are in
the--ahem!--spiritual portion of the service."
He coughed slightly, as if apologising for bringing this last point
before the notice of the company.
The conversation now took an ecclesiastical turn under Florrie's lead,
and we were soon discussing such topics as the decorations, Christmas
carols, and the anthem to be sung at the service in the morning.
"Well," said the Baronet, giving the signal for rising, "suppose before
setting off for the church you spend an hour in the picture-gallery,
and view my latest addition to it."
Expressions of delighted assent arose.
"When I tell you that the addition I allude to is the great masterpiece
of Mr. Vasari," he added with a gracious wave of his hand towards the
artist, "the masterpiece that set all Paris talking last summer, we
shall require no other reason for visiting the gallery at once."
Remembering Angelo's curious dealings with regard to his famous work
of art, I thought to see him betray some little confusion when it
was mentioned by the Baronet. He manifested no such embarrassment,
however, but gravely bowed his acknowledgments; and Sir Hugh led the
way from the breakfast-table. The artist and curate each offered an arm
to escort Florrie. Preference was given to Art, and Ecclesiasticism
retired confounded.
"I shall put myself under your guidance," said Florrie, taking Angelo's
arm. "You must be my cicerone, and point out the beauties of the
picture for me. I haven't seen it yet, you know."
"The beauties? You do me too much honour. Say the defects, rather."
"Very well, the defects, then," said the irrepressible Florrie. "I
daresay that sounds uncomplimentary, but it isn't meant to be so. I'm
no connoisseur, and what you artists consider defects I may consider
beauties, and what you know to be beauties I may think defects. I
never go into an art-gallery and become enraptured with some sweet
interesting painting without being told by some frowning critic that it
is a very mediocre performance, worth nothing at all. But if I come to
some ugly daub, whose perspective is all at fault and whose figures are
so comically drawn that I feel tempted to laugh, I am told that I must
reverence and adore because it is a Cimabue or a Fra Angelico. I am
deficient in taste, I suppose. What is the title of your picture, Mr.
Vasari?"
"I have entitled it 'The Fall of Cæsar,'" replied the artist, a little
confounded, I thought, at the idea that there should be any one in
existence ignorant of the title of his famous work.
"'The Fall of Cæsar?' Oh, how interesting. What did he fall from?" she
asked with an assumed ignorance. She uttered this rather loudly; and
then, dropping her voice, she whispered in Daphne's ear: "Now hear
Mr. Fontalwater give us a lecture. He's sure to. Mad on history. Read
nothing else from his cradle upwards."
And sure enough the Reverend Cyprian, on hearing her question, at once
proceeded to satisfy her curiosity.
"Caius Julius Cæsar, Miss Wyville, was stabbed by conspirators in the
Senate House at Rome, and fell at the base of Pompey's statue covered
with twenty-three wounds. According to Plutarch the conspirators were
Marcus Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cassius, Casca----"
"My goodness, Mr. Fontalwater, what a memory you have!" cried Florrie,
cutting him short with a look of mock admiration. "You surely don't
expect me to remember all those names? You are worse than my old
governess. Have you introduced all those classical fogies into your
picture, Mr. Vasari?"
"No, Miss Wyville; my picture contains but two figures--Cæsar lying
dead at the foot of Pompey's statue. I have represented this statue
pointing downward with its lance, figuratively intimating thereby the
fate that befalls a too lofty ambition. Personal vanity has induced
me to represent Pompey with my own features, a proceeding for which I
can quote a notable precedent--the immortal Haydon, who, in his famous
picture, 'Curtius leaping into the Gulf,' gave to the Roman hero his
own countenance--a fact mournfully prophetic of his own sad downward
destiny."
"And so," replied Florrie, "in the figure of Pompey you represent
yourself as triumphing over the dead. Fie, Mr. Vasari!"
"I am pointing a moral, you see."
"What a curious idea to introduce one's own face into a picture! I
should not like to offend you: you would paint some wicked historical
woman, and then give her my features. But tell me, have you given to
your Cæsar the face of a friend? Come, don't deny it; I am sure you
have. Whose features served as a model? Oh, do tell us!"
"You are mistaken," he replied. "I did, indeed, procure an ancient
bust of Cæsar, but finally I abandoned sculptured fact for my own
imagination, and endeavoured to paint ambition's ideal face."
"I am quite dying to see it," said Florrie. "Is it true what they say,
Mr. Vasari, that your way of painting is a secret?"
"Quite true. I am not aware that my method is employed by the artists
of to-day. Yet my method is no new thing; it is simply the revival of
an idea buried in the dust of ages."
"And are you not going to reveal it?"
"And raise a crowd of imitators? Pardon me--no. None shall rob me of
my laurels. If it were possible to patent my idea, I should have no
hesitation in disclosing it. But the secret shall not die with me. At
my death I will leave papers showing how my effects were wrought."
I attributed all this to the vanity of the artist, not knowing how much
truth there was in his boasted secret.
The doctor nodded approval, as if he understood all that the artist
meant. He had been walking close to Angelo all the way from the
breakfast-table, listening to his utterances as though they were so
many gems of wisdom that deserved to be treasured in the memory.
By this time we had entered the gallery, a magnificent hall--long,
broad, and lofty. On one side only was the light admitted, and that
through high and deep embrasured casements. The spaces between the
windows were adorned with the family portraits all arranged in
chronological order, beginning with a fearfully weird daub of Richard
III.'s time, and ending with a splendid portrait of Sir Hugh.
The wall facing the windows was covered with pictures of a general
character, and was penetrated at regular intervals by deep alcoves
containing suits of mail and mounted knights armed _cap-à-pie_,
illustrating various periods of English history; for the Wyvilles had
been an ancient family long ere they received from the hand of Mary
Stuart's son the patent of baronetcy.
We proceeded leisurely down the gallery, I listening, in shame be
it written, with very little interest to the Baronet's genealogical
discourse, because all my thoughts were running on Angelo's painting.
"I understood," said my uncle, turning to the artist, "that your great
picture had gone to Spain, and never expected to meet it in the Abbey
here."
"What gave you that idea?" inquired Angelo with a smile of amusement.
"Yourself, I believe. Don't you remember telling us at Rivoli that you
had sold your picture to a Spanish nobleman?"
"I certainly do _not_ remember saying so," replied the artist with a
decided emphasis on the negative adverb, and speaking in the tone of
one who was quite sure of the truth of his statement.
"Oh, yes, you did," I returned quietly. "De Argandarez was the name of
the nobleman--an old hidalgo of Aragon, you know."
"I think I remember it, too," said Daphne timidly.
"We are three to one, you see," remarked my uncle.
"Far be it from me," said Angelo, "to differ from Miss Leslie, but I
certainly have no recollection of ever saying any such thing. I was
guilty of falsehood if I did. How could I have said so, when Sir Hugh
was the only one who offered to purchase?"
This argument was of course unanswerable. The doctor offered us the
tribute of a pitying smile, as if to say, "This is how a man of genius
is liable to be misinterpreted."
We had now reached the middle of the hall, when a sudden exclamation
broke from Sir Hugh, and on looking up I saw that worthy Baronet
staring at a certain extent of oak panelling in the wall that faced the
windows. There was nothing remarkable about this extent of panelling:
it held no pictures, that was all; but the Baronet's words soon showed
us what was wrong.
"Why, how's this?" he cried in a voice that was almost a shout. "The
picture's gone!"
"The picture? What picture?" cried Angelo, dropping Florrie's arm in
his excitement, and hurrying to the side of the Baronet.
"Why yours! 'The Fall of Cæsar.'"
"Are you sure?" cried Angelo breathlessly.
"Quite. And it was hanging here last night, I will swear."
There was a deep and painful silence, followed by the usual
commonplaces evoked by a surprise.
"Where can it have gone?" cried Angelo, his voice expressing the
deepest concern. "Sir Hugh, I trust nothing has happened to that
picture. Though yours in point of law, I still regard it to some extent
as mine. I would never have parted with it, if I had thought it would
be destroyed. My picture! my picture! Some one must have stolen it."
He sank down on a seat, and lifted his hand to his brow with a
bewildered air, as if scarcely realising the situation.
"This is the work of an enemy," he murmured.
If his words were true, the enemy was certainly one who knew how
to strike home. No mortification--not even Daphne's refusal of his
love--could have been more bitter to the artist than the knowledge
that his adored masterpiece was in the hands of an enemy capable of
destroying it.
"Let all the servants be sent for," cried the Baronet. "What does all
this mean? First it is a book that vanishes, then a picture."
"And next--_a lady_," murmured a voice.
It was the doctor who spoke, but his tones were so low that they
reached no ear but mine. I stared at him, wondering what he meant.
"A book? What book?" cried Florrie.
The Baronet described the missing volume, relating the circumstances
under which he came to lose it. The guests shook their heads. They
could give no account of its disappearance.
All the servants, young and old, male and female, now came trooping
into the hall, with wonder depicted on their faces at being thus
strangely summoned.
"Now, Fruin," said the Baronet, addressing the butler, whose duty it
was to see that the gallery was locked at night, "let me ask you if
the fastenings of these windows," and he pointed to the long line of
casements, "were all as secure when you examined them this morning as
they were when you left them last night?"
The butler murmured an affirmative reply.
"You locked the doors at both ends of the gallery?"
"I did, Sir Hugh."
The Baronet turned to his housekeeper.
"There was nothing, I suppose, Mrs. Goldwin, in any part of the house
this morning to lead you to suspect that the Abbey had been entered
during the night?"
The good dame asserted that there had been nothing to lead her to that
suspicion.
"Very well, then," continued the Baronet, scanning the faces of the
assembled servants with a keen eye; "let me ask if any of you can
account for the disappearance of a picture--a very valuable picture. It
was hanging on this part of the wall last night. It is not here now,
you see."
The servants began to interchange significant glances, and I knew
that in their own minds they were connecting the disappearance of the
picture with the ghostly figure supposed to haunt the gallery.
"The thing couldn't go without hands, you know," resumed Sir Hugh;
"and as you are certain that no burglars entered the place last night,
it follows that the picture must have been removed by some one in the
Abbey. Can any of you tell me what has become of it?"
"It always was an uncanny picture," remarked a little housemaid. "When
I was dusting it the other day the figure stared at me with its dead
eyes. I am sure they moved once."
"Uncanny! How dare you?" exclaimed Angelo so fiercely that the poor
little maid shrank behind the others in dismay. "Your dislike of it
exposes you to suspicion. You, or some of your fellow servants here,
from an absurd fear, have destroyed it. Produce the picture, you gaping
pack of menials! My picture! my picture!"
And he sank down again on the seat, the very image of despair.
"What Mr. Vasari says is perfectly correct," said the Baronet.
"Suspicion rests on you all till the picture be produced. There is a
silly story going the round among you that a ghost is seen in this
hall at night. I need not tell you I do not believe it; but even if it
were so, what has that to do with the picture's disappearing? A ghost,
according to your own theory, you know, is nothing but air: now a being
that is simply air cannot carry off a heavy picture, any more than the
sunbeams shining through that casement can lift this chair. No; human
hands have been at work here, that's quite clear."
There was silence for a time, and then Fruin, stepping forward and
clearing his throat, said:
"Sir Hugh, I ought to have spoken before, perhaps, but knowing how much
you hate ghost stories, I didn't like to speak."
"Well, speak now," said the Baronet impatiently--"that is," he added,
"if your story is a fresh one, and not a mere repetition of last
night's nonsense."
"My bedroom, as you know, Sir Hugh, is over one end of the gallery."
It was with this very sentence that Fruin had begun his story of the
previous night. Evidently it was a stereotyped formula with him when
recounting his ghostly experiences, not to be abandoned any more than
the orthodox "Once upon a time" of the fairy stories.
"This morning about three o'clock I fancied I heard a noise as if some
one were walking up and down here; I got up and looked out of the
window, and I could see a light shining through the casements below
on to the lawn. This light kept appearing and disappearing, as if the
person in the gallery were walking to and fro with a lamp. I put on my
things and came downstairs----"
"Didn't you wake some of the others?" interrupted the Baronet.
"No, Sir Hugh."
"Why not?"
"Because I knew none of them would come. It isn't the first time nor
yet the second that we've heard queer sounds coming from this hall at
night, and once when I did try to persuade the others to come down with
me to find out what the matter was, not one of them would leave their
beds, so I didn't try last night."
"Cowards! Why did you not come to me, Fruin?"
"Or to me?" groaned Angelo.
"It would have taken me some minutes to reach your room, Sir Hugh, and
by that time the thing might have gone, and a pretty fool I should have
looked at having called you up for nothing. Well, as I was saying, I
crept downstairs and stood outside that door. I had the keys in my
hand, but I don't mind confessing I was afraid to enter. A man, a
burglar, anything in human shape I'll face, but this on the other side
of the door was a different matter. I listened and heard steps moving
softly to and fro----"
"Was there more than one person, do you think?"
"I can't say, Sir Hugh. I thought at first there was only one;
afterwards I thought there were two."
"What made you think there were two?"
"I am coming to it, Sir Hugh. As I was saying, I listened, and could
hear footsteps. After a time they ceased, and there came sounds as if
two persons were whispering together, but it may only have been one
person talking to himself. Then there was a long silence, and at last
there came a cry--such a cry! My blood ran cold to hear it. I dropped
on one knee, and peered through the keyhole, a thing which, strangely
enough, I hadn't thought of doing before, and there--and there----"
Here the butler paused as if conscious that his next item was a little
too extravagant for belief.
"Well, go on. You saw----?"
"Mr. Vasari's picture was hanging in its usual place there," pointing
to the black panel, "but," and the speaker dropped his voice to an awed
whisper, "lying on the floor was a figure--the moonlight was shining
clear upon it--a figure in a long cloak, a grey cloak. I jumped to my
feet at once. 'Good God! there's a murder been done!' I thought. I
forgot my fright in the desire to see if I could give the poor fellow
any help. I unlocked the door, flung it open, and--" He paused once
more. "The picture was still there, but the figure was gone. I came a
little way into the gallery, but I could see nobody. Then all my fright
returned. 'It must have been a ghost,' I thought. I dared not stay any
longer, and I bolted off to bed as quick as my legs could carry me. For
a long time I lay awake, but I heard nothing more."
I offered a chair to Daphne, for she seemed on the point of fainting.
The mention of a figure in a grey cloak had revived all the memories of
that night by the haunted well.
Strange as Fruin's story was, it was told in a way that made it
impossible to dismiss it with a sneer. Sir Hugh seemed to feel this;
seemed, too, to be angry with himself for feeling it. He looked in
silence at his guests, whose faces reflected his own uneasiness. The
empty space on the wall was a disquieting fact.
"Your story," he said, "does not explain in the least how the picture
comes to be missing." Turning to the other servants, he continued:
"The picture has been removed by some one within the Abbey, and not
by any outsider: of that I am certain. If any of you has taken it,
he had better confess at once, and I will overlook the offence, or
rather I will inflict no other punishment than that of dismissal from
my service. I will give the guilty party, whoever he may be, an hour
to consider the matter. If at the end of that time no confession be
forthcoming, I will make a thorough search of the Abbey from end to
end and from roof to basement, for I am certain the picture must be
concealed somewhere within it. And I promise you whoever shall be
found to have taken it shall not be leniently dealt with. What's the
matter with that girl?"
This last question was occasioned by the singular conduct of the
little housemaid before mentioned who had so evoked Angelo's wrath.
She was staring at the artist, and had been staring at him ever since
his outburst, as though there were some strange attraction in his
face. Several times she had seemed on the point of speaking, but had
hesitated as if from fear. At the Baronet's question, however, her
emotion at last bubbled over and took the shape of words. She pointed
to the artist with her forefinger, and cried, as defiant of grammar as
the monks of Rheims when they beheld the kleptomaniac jackdaw:
"That's him! that's him!"
Her arm dropped from a horizontal to a vertical position on receiving a
smart tap from the housekeeper's hand.
"How dare you point in that rude fashion? Have you no manners? What do
you mean?"
"That's the face!" cried the girl--"the face in the picture!"
"Oh, that's what you mean, is it?" said the Baronet. "Yes, yes; we know
that." And turning to the artist, he explained the housemaid's words by
saying: "She recognises you to be the Pompey of the picture."
"And there's the other face," cried the girl, pointing at me.
This observation startled me. Surely the artist had not adopted my
features as the model for the face of his Cæsar?
"Don't be stupid, girl!" said Sir Hugh impatiently. "The other face is
no more like Mr. Willard's than--yes, it is, though, now I come to look
deeply at you," he continued, regarding me a moment. "There is a faint
resemblance--not much. The girl has a quick eye. How she stares at you,
Angelo! Upon my word," he said with a grim smile, "I believe she thinks
you have stepped out of the canvas. Don't stare so at Mr. Vasari, girl.
You must be out of your mind!"
"Then what's he laughing for, and staring at me with his wicked
eyes--frightening me so?"
"Jane," said the housekeeper, administering as mild a shaking as the
dignity of her position and the presence of her guests would allow,
"how dare you make an exhibition of yourself in this manner? I'll send
you home to your mother this very day! How dare you? You shall not stay
here another hour!"
"It's his fault!" cried the girl, rendered desperate by fright. "He
keeps staring at me and smiling wickedly. I won't be looked at like
that!"
Her manner almost led one to believe that Angelo had been casting the
"evil eye" upon her, and that the operation hurt. All looks were turned
towards him; but whatever peculiarity his eyes may have displayed had
quite vanished now: they manifested only their usual quiet dreamy
expression.
"The girl is as mad," he said with a scornful air, "as your curiosity
of a butler, who takes the caterwauling of a tom-cat for the cry of a
banshee."
He had quite recovered from his outburst of excitement, and seemed by
far the calmest person present.
"Egad, you're right!" replied the Baronet. "They both seem anxious to
qualify themselves for Bedlam."
The doctor said nothing, but rubbed his hands with the air of a man who
has arrived at a satisfactory solution of some problem that has been
puzzling him.
Well, the picture was gone, nor could it be seen in any part of the
gallery. The ladies expressed a wish to retire, and, headed by the
whispering servants, we all withdrew.
I was the last to leave, lingering awhile to explore the recesses
of the hall in the vain hope of lighting on the missing picture. On
gaining the drawing-room I found Daphne alone waiting for me. The rest
of the company had retired to dress for their expedition to the church.
"Oh, Frank, I feel so frightened!" she said, referring to the incident
of the missing picture, and laying both her hands on my arm.
"And I am not very easy in my mind," returned I. "Silverdale seems more
mysterious than Rivoli."
"What can it all mean? There was some one in my room last night; and
now the butler declares that he has seen a figure in a grey cloak in
the gallery. Can it"--and her voice sank to a whisper of awe--"have
anything to do with--with George?"
This was the first time she had mentioned his name to me since our
leaving Rivoli. While pronouncing it she gave a shiver of terror, and
I saw clearly that of all persons on earth, the one whom she was least
desirous of meeting was--George!
"There is a tide in the affairs of men," etc. I resolved without delay
to take advantage of the tide, that seemed to have turned full in my
favour.
"No, no," I said. "You mustn't let that stupid fellow's ghost story
trouble you. He's a fool! All butlers are," I added, with a hasty
generalisation; "they're always so old, you see."
"Then what can it all mean?" repeated she. "We seem to be leading
haunted lives. I have become so nervous of late. I look in the glass
every morning to see whether my hair is turning grey. I live in daily
dread of--I don't know what, and at night I am as afraid of the dark as
a little child."
She was trembling like a leaf. She looked so pretty and interesting
in her grief that I could not resist the temptation of placing my arm
sympathisingly around her waist. She did not resent the action. On the
contrary, the new light that sprang up in her eyes could only be caused
by one feeling.
Now I had not intended to make love to Daphne for some weeks to come,
but the present occasion was too tempting to be thrown away. As Angelo
himself had very justly remarked on a similar occasion, "Who can forge
chains for love, and say, 'To-day thou shalt be dumb; to-morrow thou
shalt speak?'"
"Daphne," said I, "I am going to let you into a secret."
"A secret?" she repeated.
"Yes; you have always taken me into your confidences"--this was
scarcely true, but it served to pave the way for what was to
follow--"so I am going to take you into mine."
I paused to admire the look of mystification in her bright eyes.
"What will you think," I continued, speaking very slowly and
deliberately, "when I say that I have fallen in love with one of the
ladies here at the Abbey?"
"Are you in earnest?" she asked, trembling all over, and gently
endeavouring to free herself from my embrace.
"So much so," I replied gravely, "that I am going to propose to her
this very day."
Daphne's tongue seemed frozen.
"Well," I said, "aren't you going to wish me success?"
"Tell me her name. Who is she?" she gasped.
"I have her portrait here--somewhere--in a locket--that I'm going to
give her as a Christmas gift," I replied with apparent unconcern,
fumbling in my pockets for it; and while I was doing so Daphne
contrived to withdraw from my embrace.
I drew forth the locket and handed it to her. It contained, instead of
a portrait, a tiny mirror, whose convexity of surface diminished the
objects reflected by it.
"You have made a mistake," she replied coldly, returning the locket.
"There is no portrait here; nothing but a little mirror."
"No; I do not mistake. If you look again you will see the face of her I
love."
She gazed at me for a few seconds before my meaning became clear, and
then gave a little cry:
"Oh, Frank!"
And Eros and Anteros at last kissed each other.
I was alone in the drawing-room, the happiest mortal beneath the
roof of Silverdale. Daphne had gone off to change her dress. She was
going to help the guests in their work of decorating the church with
holly and other Christmas emblems. As the party were to lunch at the
Vicarage, they would be absent a considerable part of the day.
My language implied that I was not going to form one of this party.
Such was the case. With many expressions of regret for my seeming want
of gallantry on this day of all others, I had claimed indulgence of
Daphne to remain behind at the Abbey on the fictitious plea that Sir
Hugh was desirous of consulting my uncle and myself together with some
speculator from London, on the formation of a company for the purpose
of working a vein of lead recently discovered on the Silverdale estate.
The truth was that the Baronet had determined to avail himself of the
absence of his guests to make a thorough search for the lost picture,
and I was desirous of helping him.
It was not without a mental struggle that I consented to forego the
pleasure of Daphne's companionship for several hours, but my anxiety to
penetrate the mystery surrounding the missing picture was so great that
it overcame the fascination even of love.
The sound of approaching voices told me that the doctor and the Baronet
were entering the drawing-room.
"And so," remarked the latter, "you have made up your mind to go to the
church?"
"Yes," replied the doctor, drawing on a pair of gloves; "though not
from any particular wish to aid in the decorating."
"No?"
"No! A very different motive takes me there. Your young friend, the
artist Vasari, is going."
"Yes?"
"I have taken a deep interest in him."
"Ah! how is that?"
"He is a psychological study."
And with these words the doctor walked away, flourishing his cane in a
mysterious manner.