The large drawing-room was vacant. The blinds had been drawn to shut out
the glare, and a soft coolness filled the room. In the dim light of
half-opened shutters the massive furniture loomed large and dark, and
from the wall huge paintings looked down mistily. Gilt frames gleamed
vaguely in the cool gloom. Above the fireplace hung a large canvas, and
out of its depths sombre, waiting eyes looked down upon the vacant room.
The door opened. An old woman had entered. She held in her hand a stout
cane. She walked stiffly across to the window and threw back a shutter.
The window opened into the soft greenness of a Munich garden. She stood
for a minute looking into it. Then she came over to the fireplace and
looked up to the pictured face. Her head nodded slowly.
"It must be," she muttered, "it must be. No one else could have done it.
But four hundred years!"--she sighed softly. "Who can tell?"
Her glance wandered with a dissatisfied air to the other canvases. "I
would give them all--all of them--twice over--to know--" She spoke under
her breath as she hobbled stiffly to a huge chair.
The door swung softly back and forth behind a young girl who had
entered. She came in lightly, looking down at a packet of papers in her
hand.
The old woman started forward.
"What have ye found?" she demanded. She was leaning on the stout cane.
She peered out of her cavernous eyes.
The girl crossed to the window and seated herself in the green light.
Shadows of a climbing vine fell on her hair and shoulders as she bent
over the papers in her hand. She opened one of them and ran her eye over
it before she spoke.
"They were in the north room," she said slowly. "In the big
_escritoire_--that big, clumsy one--I've looked there before, but I
never found them. I've been trying all day to make them out."
"What are they?" demanded the old woman.
"Papers, grandmamma," returned the girl absently; "letters and a sort of
journal." Her eyes were on the closely written page.
"Read it," said the old woman sharply.
"I can't read it, grandmamma." She shook back the soft curls with a
little sigh. "It's queer and old, and funny--some of the words. And the
writing is blurred and yellow. Look." She held up the open sheet.
The keen old eyes darted at it. "Work on it," she said brusquely.
"I have, grandmamma."
"Well--what did ye find?"
"It's a man--Will--Willi"--she turned to the bottom of the last
page--"Willibald! That's it." She laughed softly. "Willibald Pirkheimer.
Who was he?" she asked.
"One of your ancestors." The old mouth waited grimly.
"One of mamma's?"
"Your father's."
"He must have been a nice man," said the girl slowly. "But some of it is
rather--queer."
The old woman leaned forward with a quick gesture. She straightened
herself. "Nonsense!" she muttered. "Read it," she said aloud.
"This is written to Albrecht Duerer," said the girl, studying it, "in
Italy."
The old woman reached out a knotted hand. "Give it to me," she said.
The girl came across and laid it in her hand. The knotted fingers
smoothed it. The old eyes were on the picture above the mantel. "Will it
tell?" she muttered.
"There are others, grandmamma." The girl held up the packet in her hand.
"What have ye made out?" The old hand closed upon them.
"He was Duerer's friend," said the girl. "There are letters to him--five
or six. And he tells about a picture--in the journal--a picture Albrecht
Duerer gave to him." She glanced down at the wrinkled, working face. "It
was unsigned, grandmamma--and it was the head of the Saviour."
The old woman's throat moved loosely. Her hands grasped the stout cane.
With a half sigh, she rose to her feet and tottered across the room.
"Fool--fool--" she muttered, looking up to the mystical, waiting face.
"To leave no mark--no sign--but that!" She shook the yellow papers in
her hand.
A question shot into the old eyes. She held out the papers.
"What was it dated, Marie?--that place in the journal--look and see."
The girl took the papers and moved again to the window. She opened one
and smoothed it thoughtfully, running her eye along the page. She shook
her head slowly. "There is no date, grandmamma," she said. "But it must
be after Duerer's death. He speaks of Frau Duerer"--a smile shaded her
lips--"he doesn't like her very well, I think. When did Duerer die,
grandmamma?" She looked up from the paper.
"April 6, 1528," said the old woman promptly.
The girl's eyes grew round and misty. "Four hundred years ago--almost,"
she murmured softly. She looked down, a little awed, at the paper in her
hand.
"It is very old," she said.
The old woman nodded sharply. Her eyes were on the papers. "Take good
care of them," she croaked; "they may tell it to us yet."
She straightened her bent figure and glanced toward the door.
A wooden butler was bowing himself to the floor. "The Herr Professor
Doctor Polonius Holtzenschuer," he announced grandly.
A dapper young man with trim mustaches and spotless boots advanced into
the room.
The girl by the window swayed a breath. The clear color had mounted in
her cheek.
The old woman waited, immovable. Her hands were clasped above the stout
cane and her bead-like eyes surveyed the advancing figure.
At two yards' distance it paused. The heels came together with a swift
click. He bowed in military salute.
The old woman achieved a stiff courtesy and waited. The dim eyes peered
at him shrewdly.
"I have the honor to pay my respects to the Baroness von Herkomer," said
the young man, with deep politeness.
The baroness assented gruffly. She seated herself on a large divan,
facing the picture, and motioned with her knotted hand to the seat
beside her.
The young man accepted it deferentially. His eyes were on a bowed head,
framed in shadows and leaves across the room.
"I trust Fraeulein Marie is well?" he said promptly.
"Marie----"
The girl started vaguely.
"Come and greet the Herr Doctor Holtzenschuer."
She rose lightly from her place and came across the room. A soft curl,
blown by the wind, drifted across her flushes as she came.
The young man sprang to his feet. His heels clicked again as he bent low
before her.
She descended in a shy courtesy and glanced inquiringly at her
grandmother.
The old woman nodded curtly. "Go on with your papers," she said.
The girl turned again to the green window. Her head bowed itself above
the papers.
The young man's eyes followed them. He turned to the old woman beside
him. "Is it something about--the picture?" he asked.
She nodded sharply. "Private papers of Willibald Pirkheimer," she said,
"ancestor of the von Herkomers--sixteenth century. He was a friend of
Duerer's." Her lips closed crisply on the words.
He looked at her, a smile under the trim mustaches. "You hope they will
furnish a clew?" he asked tolerantly.
She made no reply. Her wrinkled face was raised to the picture.
"You have one Duerer." He motioned toward a small canvas. "Is it not
enough?"
Her eyes turned to it and flashed in disdain. "The Sodom and Gomorrah!"
She spoke scornfully. "Not so much as a copy!"
"It is signed."
She glanced at it again. There was shrewd intolerance in the old eyes.
"Do you think I cannot tell?" she said grimly. "I know the work of
Albrecht Duerer, length and breadth, line for line. You say he painted
that!" She pointed a swift finger at the picture across the room. "Have
ye looked at Lot's legs?" Her laugh cackled softly.
The young man smiled under his mustaches.
The baroness had turned again to the picture over the fireplace. "But
_that_--" she murmured softly. "It is signed in every line--in the eyes,
in the painting of the hair, in the sweep from brow to chin. It will yet
be found," she said under her breath. "It shall be found."
He looked at her, smiling. Then he raised his eyes politely to the
picture. A slow look formed behind the smile. He half started, gazing
intently at the deep, painted canvas. His glance strayed for a second to
the green window, and back again to the picture.
The old baroness roused herself with a sigh. She turned toward him.
"Your dissertation has brought you honor, they tell me," she said,
looking at him critically.
He acknowledged the remark with a bow. "It is nothing," he replied
indifferently. "Only a step toward molecules and atoms."
The baroness smiled grimly. "I don't understand chemical jargon." Her
tone was dry. "I understand you are going to be famous."
The young man bowed again absently. He glanced casually at the picture
above the fireplace. "What would you give to know"--he nodded toward
it--"that it is a genuine Duerer?"
The shrewd eyes darted at him.
The clean-cut face was compact and expressionless.
"Give! I would give"--her eye swept the apartment with its wealth of
canvas and gilt and tapestry--"I would give all, everything in the
room"--she raised a knotted hand toward the picture--"to know that
Albrecht Duerer's monogram belongs there." The pointing finger trembled a
little.
He looked at it reflectively. Then his glance travelled about the great
room. "Everything in this room," he said slowly. "That means--" He
paused, glancing toward the window.
The young girl had left her seat. The papers had dropped to the floor.
She was leaning from the casement to pick a white rose that swayed and
nodded, out of reach.
He waited a breath. Her fingers closed on it and she sank back in her
chair, smiling, the rose against her cheek.
The eyes watching her glowed softly. "Everything in this room--" He
spoke very low. "The one with the rose?"
The old face turned to him with a look. The heavy jaw dropped and forgot
to close. The keen eyes scanned his face. The jaws came together with a
snap. She nodded to him shrewdly.
The young man rose to his feet. The cynical smile had left his face. It
was intent and earnest. He looked up for a moment to the picture, and
then down at the wrinkled, eager face.
"To-morrow, at this time, you shall know," he said gravely.
The old eyes followed him, half in doubt, half in hope. They pierced the
heavy door as it swung shut behind him.
The stiff, dapper figure had crossed the hall. The outer door clanged.
Against the green window, within, the soft curls and gentle, questioning
eyes of the Fraeulein Marie waited. As the door clanged, a rose was laid
lightly to her lips and dropped softly into the greenness below.