TALE TOLD BY THE PORTRAITS
“If you will give me leave, maister, I’ll go roond and speak to Mistress
Bolton, t’ hoosekeeper, and get her to coom and open t’ great door,”
said Jonah Kirby, as he got down from his seat and struck into a flagged
walk that led to the rear of the house.
“Le! Le! don’t look so down-hearted, dear boy! Remember, come what may,
my daughter shall never be the wife of Angus Anglesea! Come, come, cheer
up, lad!” said Abel Force, clapping his young companion on the back.
But Le’s only answer was a profound sigh.
“I think the best and shortest way out of our difficulty will be to go
back to America, have that man prosecuted for bigamy and robbery, and
sent to the State prison, and then have him divorced, if, indeed, he has
any claim whatever on Odalite. And I don’t see why you don’t take that
way,” said Wynnette.
“Because, my dearest dear,” answered her father, “to prosecute the man
would be to bring our darling Odalite’s name into too much publicity.
And, as for divorce, the very word is an offense to right-minded
people.”
“It is better than——”
But whatever Wynnette was about to say was cut short by the loud, harsh
turning of a key, and the noisy opening of the great door of Anglewood
Manor House.
Jonah Kirby appeared, accompanied by altogether the very largest woman
our travelers had ever seen in their lives, even at a traveling circus.
She appeared to be about forty years old, and was dressed in a very
full, light blue calico skirt, and loose basque of the same, that made
her look even larger than she was. She wore a high-crowned, book-muslin
cap, with a broad, blue ribbon around it. She carried in her hand a
formidable bunch of keys.
“She’s ‘fearfully and wonderfully’ huge, papa. And she will expect a
crown, and, maybe, half a guinea, for showing the house,” said Wynnette,
in a low tone.
By this time Jonah Kirby had come down the steps and up to the side of
the carriage.
“Mrs. Bolton, maister, and she’ll show t’ hoose with pleasure. She
always loikes to oblige t’ gentlefolks, she bed me say.”
“Papa, it must be half a guinea, and don’t you forget!” whispered
Wynnette, as she gave her hand to Kirby and allowed him to help her out
of the carriage.
Mr. Force and Le followed, and they all walked up the steps, to be met
by the enormous woman in blue, with many courtesies.
She led them at once into a vast stone hall, whose walls were hung with
ancient armor, battle-axes, crossbows, lances and other insignia of war;
and with horns, bugles, antlers, weapons and trophies of the chase, and
whose tessellated floor was covered with the skins of wild animals. From
the center of this hall a magnificent flight of stairs ascended, in
large, spiral circles, to the stained glass skylight in the roof.
There were handsome doors of solid oak on either side.
Mrs. Bolton paused in the middle of the hall and said:
“The doors on the right lead into the justice room, and the long dining
room; those on the left into the ballroom, which is the largest room,
three times told, in the house. There is nothing on this floor very
interesting except the antique furniture and the curiously carved
woodwork of the chimney pieces and doors.”
She spoke like a guide book, but presently added:
“Some gentlefolks, if they have a heap of time, like to look through
them, but many prefer the picture gallery and the library, and the
drawing rooms, which are all on the floor above and all very handsome.”
“We will go upstairs first, if you please; later, if we have time, we
will see the rooms down here,” said Abel Force.
The housekeeper led the way upstairs to the next landing, where they
came out upon the hall, whose walls were hung with antique tapestry, and
whose oaken floor was covered here and there with Persian rugs.
On every side handsome mahogany double doors led into apartments. Before
every door lay a rich Persian rug.
Mrs. Bolton opened a door on the left.
“The picture gallery, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, using her
formula, though there was but one lady present.
They entered a long, lofty room lighted from the roof. The walls were
hung with many pictures, so dark and dim with age that even the good
light failed to make their meanings intelligible to the spectators. Yet
these were considered the most valuable in the whole collection, and the
housekeeper, with great pride, gave the history of each, in something
like this style:
“Martyrdom of St. Stephen, ladies and gentlemen—painted by Leonardo da
Vinci, in the year of our Lord 1480, purchased at Milan in 1700 for five
thousand guineas, by Ralph d’Anglesea of Anglewood. A very rare picture,
no copy of it being in existence.”
Our party looked up and saw in a heavy, gilded frame, about five feet
square, a very dark, murky canvas, with a small smirch in the
middle—nothing more.
This was only a sample of a score of other priceless paintings,
invisible as to forms and unintelligible as to meanings, which the
housekeeper introduced to the visitors with much pride in the showing.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the family portraits,” said Mrs.
Bolton, passing under a lofty archway adorned by the Anglesea arms, and
leading the visitors into another compartment of the same gallery.
“Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a portrait of Kenneth d’Anglesea, year
800; very old.”
Our party looked at it and thought it was “very old”—a long brown smudge
crowned with an oval yellow smudge, all in a very dark ground, and
supposed to represent a human form—no more.
“And here, ladies and gentlemen, is Ethus d’Anglesea, year 950—also
old.”
Again the visitors agreed with the housekeeper. The figure was old and
almost invisible.
And so she went through a dozen or more of these earlier family
portraits, and came down at last to later periods, to crusaders in the
reign of Richard the Lion-hearted, by gradations down to courtiers in
the reign of Elizabeth, to cavaliers in the reigns of the unfortunate
Stuarts, to gallants in the reigns of the Georges, and finally down to
the ladies and gentlemen of the reign of Queen Victoria.
“Here, sir, is an excellent portrait of our present master, Col. Angus
Anglesea, and of his late lamented lady,” said the housekeeper, pausing
before two full length portraits that hung side by side, like companion
pictures, at the end of the gallery.
Our travelers paused before the pictures and gazed at them in silence
for some moments.
The portrait of Col. Anglesea was a very striking likeness. All our
party recognized it at once as such.
But how was this? Here was the form, face and complexion, perfect to a
curve of figure, perfect to a shade of color; yet the expression was
different. For whereas the expression of Anglesea’s face, as our friends
had known it, was either joyous, morose, or defiant, the character of
this face was grave, thoughtful and benevolent. Yet it was certainly the
portrait of Angus Anglesea.
Wynnette perceived the perplexity on the brows of her companions and
whispered:
“A two-faced, double-dealing as well as double-dyed, villain, papa! A
sanctimonious hypocrite at home and a brawling ruffian abroad!”
“I should scarcely take this to be the face of a hypocrite, my dear, or
of any other than of a good, wise and brave man; yet—yet it is all very
strange.”
Then they looked at the portrait of Lady Mary Anglesea, at which they
had only glanced before.
It was the counterfeit presentment of a lady whose beauty, or rather the
special character of whose beauty, at once riveted attention.
It was that of a tall, well-formed though rather delicate woman, with
sweet, pale, oval face, tender, serious brown eyes, and soft, rippling
brown hair that strayed in little, careless ringlets about her forehead
and temples, adding to the exquisite sweetness and pathos of the whole
presence.
“What a beautiful, beautiful creature! What lovely, lovely eyes!”
breathed Wynnette, gazing at the picture.
“Yes, young lady,” said the housekeeper, “and as good and wise as she
was beautiful. And when the lovely eyes closed on this world, be sure
they opened in heaven. And when the beautiful form was laid in the tomb
all the light seemed to have gone out of this world for us! It nearly
killed the master. And no wonder—no wonder!” said Mrs. Bolton, drawing a
large pocket handkerchief, that would have answered for a small
tablecloth, from her pocket and wiping her eyes.
Again Abel Force and Leonidas looked at each other.
“Ah, yes! They were a handsome pair!” said the housekeeper, with a sigh
that raised her mighty bosom as the wind raises the ocean—“a very
handsome pair, and the parting of ’em has been nigh the death of the
colonel,” she added, as she replaced her handkerchief in her pocket.
“And yet I have heard that he married again while he was abroad,” Mr.
Force could not refrain from saying.
“He!” exclaimed Mrs. Bolton, in a tone of indignant astonishment.
“Yes; there is no law against a widower marrying, is there?” replied
Abel Force, quietly.
“He! he marry again! Oh, sir, you are mistaken! He was more likely to
die than to marry! Whoever told you so, sir—begging your pardon—told a
most haynious falsehood!”
“I really hope he never did marry again.”
“He never did, sir, and he never will. He is true to her memory, and he
lives only for their son, who is at Eton. Now, sir, shall I show you the
library and the drawing rooms?”
Mr. Force bowed, and with his party followed the housekeeper from the
picture gallery to the hall and through that to the drawing rooms, into
which they only looked, for the apartment was fitted up in modern style
and all the furniture shrouded in brown holland.
The library was more interesting, and contained many rare black-letter
tomes, into which Abel Force would have liked to look, had time allowed.
The sun was setting and it was growing dusk in this grand and gloomy
mansion.
“We must go now, I think, my dear,” said Mr. Force, in a low voice, to
his daughter.
Wynnette drew him quite away from the group into the light of the great
oriel window of the library and whispered:
“Not a crown, nor a half sov., but a guinea, papa! a whole guinea for
all those thundering bouncers—I mean those romances she has told us
about the jolly old smoke-dried window shades and fire screens hung up
in frames for pictures of the ancestors, and called Kenneths and Ethuses
and things! Why, papa, those couldn’t have been portraits! There were no
painters in Britain at the time those are said to have lived. And then
about the Leonardo da Vinci picture! If he ever painted that it would be
in one of the great art galleries of the world! Not in a private
collection! Give her a guinea, papa! She can’t afford to lie so much for
less!”
“My dear, the woman only repeats what she has heard,” said Mr. Force.
They rejoined Le and the housekeeper.
Mr. Force thanked the good woman for her attention and left a generous
remuneration in her hand.
She courtesied and then saw them downstairs.
In the hall below she pointed out the full suits of armor worn by this
or that knight in such or such a battle; and the antlers of the stag
killed by this or that huntsman, in such or such a chase.
“Would your honor now like to look into the ballroom, or the long dining
room, or justice room?”
“No, thank you; it is getting late. We have to return to Angleton,”
replied Mr. Force.
And then each of the party, in turn, again thanked the housekeeper for
the pleasure she had given them and took leave of her.