THE DIMLY-PAINTED FACE
At last we stopped at a lodge. I heard someone cry "Gate," a creaking
noise, and then we bowled smoothly up a long avenue thick-set with
trees.
We stopped before a huge portico. Oh, that portico set with pillars. I
almost sobbed. Was it to here that I had been riding with the falcon on
my wrist? Look at the dull grey stone, the fluted pillars, the great
oak door. Then the oaken door opened wide, a rush of lamplight filled
the portico, and I saw an old butler with white hair waiting for me. As
I entered the great hall set round with armour and galleries, the old
butler bowed before me--he looked scared.
I did not notice him. How could I notice anything? An ordinary woman
might have shrieked aloud, but I--I neither shrieked nor swooned.
I remember trying to take my gloves off, then I gave up the attempt,
and followed a maid-servant up the broad staircase I knew so well,
along the passage I knew so well, into a bedroom that had once been
mine. I suppose you will think I am telling lies. Well, you can think
so if you like, but people don't tell lies just for fun when they have
a churchyard cough like mine, spitting blood every now and then, and
knowing that every spot of blood is a seal on their death-warrant.
I took off my bonnet and travelling cloak, looked at myself in the
cheval glass, and then came down stairs.
Supper was laid for me in the dining-room; _this_ room I did not know,
not a bit. Perhaps, after all, thought I, the whole thing is a mistake,
a fancy. If I had been here before I ought to recognise the dining-room
of all rooms. Then a thought struck me, and I asked the maid servant
who was waiting--
"Has this room always formed part of the house; I mean, has it always
been used as a dining-room?"
"Oh no, ma'am, it was built by Mr Arthur."
"Added on to the house?"
"Yes, ma'am."
That sounded queer, didn't it?
"How long ago was it built?"
"About sixty years I believe, ma'am."
Sixty years, oh, I was riding with that falcon on my wrist ages before
that. Do you know that the fact of my _not_ recognising this room
impressed me more than the fact of my having recognised all the other
things?
After supper I was sitting at the table thinking, when I heard someone
softly entering the room behind me. I turned and saw the butler with
white hair; he held a book in his hand.
"Please, ma'am, Mr Wilder asked me to give you this."
"Mr Wilder?"
"Yes, ma'am, he wrote from London."
"Thanks."
I took the book; it was bound in red morocco, and on the cover was
written in gold letters the word "Pictures." Pictures, a book of
pictures, just as if I were a little girl wanting amusement! Then I
opened it and saw that it was only a catalogue of pictures.
Here were the dining-room pictures.
"Gerard Dow, Portrait of himself. Poussin, Nymphs bathing, &c., &c."
Here was the gallery.
"Wilder, Wilder," nothing but Wilders.
"Sir Geoffry Wilder, justice of appeal, in his robes." Stay. Here was
something round which a red pencil mark had been drawn, "Portrait of
Gerald Wilder and Beatrice Sinclair, No. 112."
Beatrice Sinclair--that was _I_. I felt trembling with excitement,
all the strangeness of the last three days had got into a focus. This
picture of which the name was drawn round with red was what Wilder had
sent me down to see. I was going to see my own portrait, of that I felt
certain. But stay, there was something more to be read.
"Gerald Wilder slew Beatrice Sinclair in a fit of passion. Why, it was
never discovered. They were engaged to be married. He destroyed himself
with the poisoned wine which he had given to her, drinking it from the
same cup."
This was written in Wilder's scraggy hand-writing.
"Ha!" thought I, "so Gerald Wilder slew me in some past life; well,
I don't bear him any grudge, he must have been a horribly wicked man
though, for all that. Now, I'll ring for the butler to show me this
picture."
I rang, and the old fellow came.
"Get a lamp, please. I wish to look at the picture gallery."
"The picture gallery, ma'am."
"Yes."
"It's very dark, ma'am, at this hour. Hadn't you better wait till
morning?"
"No, I wish to go now."
"Very well, ma'am."
He shuffled out, and returned in a minute or so with a lamp. Then I
followed him.
As he opened the oak door of the picture gallery the lamp light rushed
in before us, and I saw two long walls covered with the stern faces of
the dead and gone Wilders; dim and faint they all looked in the faint
light, just like ghosts. We walked down the centre of the gallery. I
was looking for my face amongst all these strangers, but I could not
find it.
I touched the old man on the arm, "Which is the picture of Beatrice
Sinclair?" He made no reply, but the lamp in his hand shook with a
noise like the chattering of teeth. Then he walked to a picture set in
a black ebony frame.
"This is it," he said, "see."
I noticed that he did not say ma'am, but I did not notice it much, I
was so engaged with the face of this Beatrice.
At first I felt pleased, then disappointed. She was very pretty, but
not in the _least_ like _me_. Then, as I looked, I could scarcely
believe my eyes. A dimly-painted face began to grow out of the
background--a man's face, with long flowing hair; his eyes were turned
towards Beatrice, they seemed also turned towards me. It was myself.
This man's portrait was _my_ portrait, the face larger and more
masculine, but the same.
Then the old butler dropped the lamp, and it smashed to pieces on the
floor. I thought I could hear him weeping in the darkness, but I am not
sure. I felt I was in the room with a ghost, and I remember catching
the old man's arm, and his leading me towards the light glimmering in
from the hall.