On the afternoon of the 24th of December Sir Jehoshaphat drove home to
Sneyd Castle from the principal of the three Dain manufactories, and
found Lady Dain superintending the work of packing up trunks. He and
she were to quit the castle that afternoon in order to spend Christmas
on the other side of the Five Towns, under the roof of their eldest
son, John, who had a new house, a new wife, and a new baby (male). John
was a domineering person, and, being rather proud of his house and all
that was his, he had obstinately decided to have his own Christmas at
his own hearth. Grandpapa and Grandmamma, drawn by the irresistible
attraction of that novelty, a grandson (though Mrs John HAD declined to
have the little thing named Jehoshaphat), had yielded to John's
solicitations, and the family gathering, for the first time in history,
was not to occur round Sir Jee's mahogany.
Sir Jee, very characteristically, said nothing to Lady Dain
immediately. He allowed her to proceed with the packing of the trunks,
and then tea was served, and as the time was approaching for the
carriage to come round to take them to the station, at last he suddenly
remarked--
'I shan't be able to go with you to John's this afternoon.'
'Oh, Jee!' she exclaimed. 'Really, you are tiresome. Why couldn't you
tell me before?'
'I will come over tomorrow morning--perhaps in time for church,' he
proceeded, ignoring her demand for an explanation.
He always did ignore her demand for an explanation. Indeed, she only
asked for explanations in a mechanical and perfunctory manner--she had
long since ceased to expect them. Sir Jee had been born like
that--devious, mysterious, incalculable. And Lady Dain accepted him as
he was. She was somewhat surprised, therefore, when he went on--
'I have some minutes of committee meetings that I really must go
carefully through and send off tonight, and you know as well as I do
that there'll be no chance of doing that at John's. I've telegraphed to
John.'
He was obviously nervous and self-conscious.
'There's no food in the house,' sighed Lady Dain. 'And the servants are
all going away except Callear, and HE can't cook your dinner tonight. I
think I'd better stay myself and look after you.'
'You'll do no such thing,' said Sir Jee, decisively. 'As for my dinner,
anything will do for that. The servants have been promised their
holiday, to start from this evening, and they must have it. I can
manage.'
Here spoke the philanthropist with his unshakable sense of justice.
So Lady Dain departed, anxious and worried, having previously arranged
something cold for Sir Jee in the dining-room, and instructed Callear
about boiling the water for Sir Jee's tea on Christmas morning. Callear
was the under-coachman and a useful odd man. He it was who would drive
Sir Jee to the station on Christmas morning, and then guard the castle
and the stables thereof during the absence of the family and the other
servants. Callear slept over the stables.
And after Sir Jee had consumed his cold repast in the dining-room the
other servants went, and Sir Jee was alone in the castle, facing the
portrait.
He had managed the affair fairly well, he thought. Indeed, he had a
talent for chicane, and none knew it better than himself. It would have
been dangerous if the servants had been left in the castle. They might
have suffered from insomnia, and heard William Smith, and interfered
with the operations of William Smith. On the other hand, Sir Jee had no
intention whatever of leaving the castle uninhabited to the mercies of
William Smith. He felt that he himself must be on the spot to see that
everything went right and that nothing went wrong. Thus, the
previously-arranged scheme for the servants' holiday fitted perfectly
into his plans, and all that he had had to do was to refuse to leave
the castle till the morrow. It was ideal.
Nevertheless, he was a little afraid of what he had done, and of what
he was going to permit William Smith to do. It was certainly
dangerous--certainly rather a wild scheme. However, the die was cast.
And within twelve hours he would be relieved of the intolerable incubus
of the portrait.
And when he thought of the humiliations which that portrait had caused
him; when he remembered the remarks of his sons concerning it,
especially John's remarks; when he recalled phrases about it in London
newspapers, he squirmed, and told himself that no scheme for getting
rid of it could be too wild and perilous. And, after all, the burglary
dodge was the only dodge, absolutely the only conceivable practical
method of disposing of the portrait--except burning down the castle.
And surely it was preferable to a conflagration, to arson! Moreover, in
case of fire at the castle some blundering fool would be sure to cry;
'The portrait! The portrait must be saved!' And the portrait would be
saved.
He gazed at the repulsive, hateful thing. In the centre of the lower
part of the massive gold frame was the legend: 'Presented to Sir
Jehoshaphat Dain, Knight, as a mark of public esteem and gratitude,'
etc. He wondered if William Smith would steal the frame. It was to be
hoped that he would not steal the frame. In fact, William Smith would
find it very difficult to steal that frame unless he had an accomplice
or so.
'This is the last time I shall see YOU!' said Sir Jee to the portrait.
Then he unfastened the catch of one of the windows in the dining-room
(as per contract with William Smith), turned out the electric light,
and went to bed in the deserted castle.
He went to bed, but not to sleep. It was no part of Sir Jee's programme
to sleep. He intended to listen, and he did listen.
And about two o'clock, precisely the hour which William Smith had
indicated, he fancied he heard muffled and discreet noises. Then he was
sure that he heard them. William Smith had kept his word. Then the
noises ceased for a period, and then they recommenced. Sir Jee
restrained his curiosity as long as he could, and when he could
restrain it no more he rose and silently opened his bedroom window and
put his head out into the nipping night air of Christmas. And by good
fortune he saw the vast oblong of the picture, carefully enveloped in
sheets, being passed by a couple of dark figures through the
dining-room window to the garden outside. William Smith had a
colleague, then, and he was taking the frame as well as the canvas. Sir
Jee watched the men disappear down the avenue, and they did not
reappear. Sir Jee returned to bed.
Yes, he felt himself equal to facing it out with his family and
friends. He felt himself equal to pretending that he had no knowledge
of the burglary.
Having slept a few hours, he got up early and, half-dressed, descended
to the dining-room just to see what sort of a mess William Smith had
made.
The canvas of the portrait lay flat on the hearthrug, with the
following words written on it in chalk: 'This is no use to me.' It was
the massive gold frame that had gone.
Further, as was later discovered, all the silver had gone. Not a spoon
was left in the castle.